I’ve Been Clubbing for 30 Years. Apparently, I’m Too Old For That Now.

Some people think I should take up knitting. Fuck that.

Me (left), 22, joining the squad to prepare for the club (Image by author)

It started in Paris, when I was studying at the Sorbonne.

A friend invited me to a gay club called Le Central on the Champs-Élysées.

I’d never been clubbing. My musical background was new wave and hip-hop, and I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

That night changed my life. I discovered gay culture, drag queens, and a beat that would never leave me alone again.

I went to Fabric in London, Fuse in Brussels, Rex Club in Paris, Liquid in Barcelona, underground parties in Kansas City, and festivals and cities where club culture was exploding.

And I never stopped.

I was hooked on the music, the trance you slip into when you’re dancing to a relentless beat, and the community. The feeling that you belonged to something open-minded, inclusive, and bigger than yourself. We knew we were part of something new, and we watched it sweep across the world.

For decades, I felt more than welcome on the dance floor.

Then I turned 45.

And for the first time, someone said it: