It was 1975, on a cold, late-summer evening, down a damp, dimly lit back street, in a cold and dingy gay club, when it dawned on me that I had become a member of a whole new subculture that would go on to shape the rest of my life. The gay scene was a subculture I could have never imagined or been told about.

As I approached the bar, an over-perfumed diva threw shade and a tantrum and launched a vodka and lime at someone who had apparently insulted him. The glass caught my left shoulder and soaked my pristine white shirt. Drying myself with a nearby beer towel, the damage wasn’t as bad as I thought but irritating as image, it turns out, is an important language in gay culture. More of that later. I cast my eye over the small crowd that occupied the 12-meter square dance floor, lit by a row of three red, blue and white spots bouncing light from a sluggish, spinning mirror ball that could have used a good dusting. The club was small, it had a well-stocked bar, sticky carpets, half a dozen bar stools, dated decor and toilets that smelt of cistern blocks but it was the only gay club for miles so beggars couldn’t be choosers. A shag’s a shag and who knows, the next one might be the one who you spend the rest of your life with.

In 1975 most of the scene in small northern towns was well hidden or disguised as a private member’s club, often sited down a back alley or side road and usually without external advertising. If it was the first time you had been, the best strategy was to tune into your gaydar and follow likely, like-minded people; not too close as to unsettle them but close enough to spot the discreet club entrance. You took a deep breath, knocked on the door and hoped to god that your instincts were akin to a gay homing pigeon and that you had not misread the situation and ended up in a swingers bar, a secret meeting of the hell’s angels northern chapter or God forbid, Jehovah’s Witness gathering. The most likely confusion was the Hell’s Angels as quite a few gay men felt the need to dress in leather biker’s gear despite arriving in a battered Ford Fiesta or taxi. I soon learnt that bikers rarely smelt of Brut or Hai Karate.

The crowd was more or less constant, the club was never overfull, except on the occasional Saturday night when they would come from further afield with strange accents and hopefully no sexually transmitted diseases or crabs. It was an era before the onslaught of HIV/AIDS in the UK so we didn’t worry too much. Mostly, the club was comfortable and not too quiet to make you feel awkward or a creep especially if you arrived alone. Fortunately, there was a small group of like-minded friends with whom I shared a house and a lust for exploring our newfound freedoms and fantasies. Most weeks we would be out at least two nights if not more depending on shifts and spare cash.

We would start getting ready earlier in the day, deciding what to wear, who was driving and where to go. Most times there would be an over-indulgence of soft drugs, alcohol and prescription drugs depending on availability. Don’t get me wrong we weren’t druggies in the pure sense of the word but it was the era of recreational drug use and for many of us it was an escape from the drudgery of studying and working. An escape until it wasn’t…for some. Image was important in our minds but we soon learnt through experience it had no bearing on personality. Sometimes the most perfectly turned-out man wasn’t exciting whereas the slightly messy, rougher kind smacked of straightness and therefore became more attractive. Well, that’s what we thought back then. Time taught us well.

We would arrive about ten to ten-thirty, which gave us a chance to park the car and walk to the club before the pubs turned out and testosterone hit the streets. Something to avoid especially if one of your party was overtly camp and mouthy when riled. On arrival you would want there not to be a queue and you would make your way to an anonymous reception usually up or down a creaking flight of stairs where Fat Doris took the money and issued you a ticket, that was until 1990 when they switched to a rubber stamp on the back of your hand. It always paid to have the correct entrance fee as Doris found adding up and giving out the right change increasingly difficult as the years passed.

Fat Doris would be flanked by everybody’s mate Nicky and his sidekick Matt, both as camp as Christmas but dressing in all black and acting imposing hopefully fooling newcomers and trouble causers at least for a few minutes, enough to get them out and if necessary lock the door and call the police. Doris, real name Dennis, had opened the club in the fifties with his now-deceased partner, Alan. Over the years the scene had changed dramatically and Dennis has seen it all. From knitting pattern men from the 40s, 50s, and sixties who met secretly in sympathetic or private spaces to the disco and divas – “we’re gradually dancing out of the closet”, 1970s gays. There was a time when she (he) could dish out the one-liners, put-downs and bitch slaps better and quicker than most but those days were fading fast.

The clientele had broadened over the past decade with an increasing number of lesbians and the occasional transvestite. Transgender males and females were few and far between but there were many eligible young men and a gaggle of young drag queens some of whom looked stunning whilst others needed a spell on the makeup counter and a trip to Tammy Girl or Dolcis to sort out their look. It was the era of the campaign for homosexual equality and a slightly more visible and vocal LGB community. The T’s,Q+ , binary, non-binary, pansexuals, and pronouns came much, much later.

The years had taken their toll on Fat Doris who had lost her enthusiasm around the same time she noticed large bags under her eyes, persistent sciatica and a waning need for attention which worsened with each Gin and Orange which flowed freely throughout the night. By 12.30 pm Doris disappeared into the back office never to be seen again that night even at turfing out time. Nick and Matt would continue to man the door for those arriving late and those going home early.

Once in the club, we’d order pints of lager and the one of us who had lost the toss and nominated to drive would make a measly couple of halves last and supplement the drugs with diet coke and a drag of a joint or a line of speed if lucky.

We would choose our spot in the club, down our drinks, tap our feet and scan the room incessantly.

It was always nice to see a few new faces. The regulars made it feel safe, a bunch of friends who never really talked, yet we knew so much about each other, Gays like to gossip….and judge.

One challenge for many in the 1970s was finding your style. I found that this was usually determined by the kind of guys you like combined with a self-delusional fantasy that we are hotter than we are, mixed with a whole handbag of baggage and histories. Some of the regulars intrigued me, educated me and excited me. The intrigue was not in a sexual way but in a “Good on them” sort of way for displaying with pride, their fashion, their style and their presence. I was envious in a way but I was always held back from adopting a “This is ME stance, take it or leave it”. For many of us, to be true to who we were was very difficult. It was a time when it was difficult if not impossible to admit your sexuality publicly and it was kept a secret from your family. Not for all but for many, and still is.

One character that stood out for who I hold fond memories was Chris, he brought cool to club nights with his modern, light-coloured, baggy suit, shirt and tie, brimmed hat and subtle enhancing makeup. Chris wasn’t camp or effeminate just modern, slick and very much his own person, ahead of fashion. Each week his look would change, his bowie-inspired androgyny sometimes going for a torn t-shirt and frayed denim jeans but somehow he made it look magazine-worthy. Mostly he would be accompanied by a small entourage, maybe two girls and another young man. The girls would be equally stylish and the young man, quietly cool in the shadow of Chris.

Over the months I got to know them better through observation and by chatting up the young man of the group, Danny, and eventually having a few months of fling with him and hanging out with his trendy friends. No matter how I tried I could never reach their fashion standard and it was some time later it was more to do with character and personality than the choice of clothes. Clothes were Chris’ way of dressing the mood or attitude he needed to display. I was never comfortable with being that visible. He preened and in an androgynous sense, he flirted with most who talked to him or quickly got rid of those with whom he saw no common ground. My relationship with Danny ended, the reason long forgotten. Chris and his troop were travelling to newer and trendier clubs in larger cities where they sought inspiration and new challenges. For me? Life continued.

The hardest part of accepting your sexuality in the 1970s was not having role models or a road map. The only openly gays in the public domain were either drag, camp comedians or victims of violence on national TV. Most neighbourhoods had men who would get talked about, maybe ridiculed or intimidated so in the main, staying well and truly in the closet was the easiest stance to take. Times were changing and increasingly many gay men and women opened their closet doors wider as confidence grew. Only legal since 1967 when the Sexual Offences Act was passed, was homosexual acts between consenting men over 21, legal. The legal age remained 21 until 1994 when it was reduced to 18 and then again to 16 in 2001.

No one told you about gay sex, gay relationships, the collusions that enveloped most gay men nor the way to keep your four lives separate, home, work, hetero-social and non hetero-social. There was no internet for porn education just top-shelf magazines in WH Smiths or newsagents. Life was potentially complicated and therefore the opportunity to let go and be yourself was a gift.

Most men you met were in the same position as myself, partially out, mostly in and rocking the closet look and behaviour. Well, the majority of the time, especially amongst family and at work. This complicated the development of a lasting relationship and in part, contributed to the ever-growing number of one-night stands and brief encounters.

Most encounters were brief. Not only did the very fabric of the gay scene; covert behaviours and transient lifestyles, hinder the formation of relationships it also enhanced self-doubt and became, for many, self-sabotaging. You would meet someone with whom you had a connection, have great sex and then wait for the call only to be disappointed when the promise of a second date never materialised. You’d hang fire on phoning them first as a test. Long before instant messaging, the internet or email, the only form of communication was by landline or meeting in a gay venue. On spotting that person on your next visit to the club, your casual “hi, how you doing? You never called”, was met with excuses or “can’t stop, I’m with friends, I’ll call you”. The reasons for such brief dalliances were complex but driven in many cases by not wanting to be seen as gay or worries about friends and family putting two and two together and speculating about your new best friend. Some gave out false telephone numbers as they still lived at home and the fear of a family member answering was enough to force deception. Worrying, overthinking and trying not to come across as needy did nothing for confidence so the best solution was to join the bandwagon and have lots of sex, anonymous, no commitment and give up on the idea of true love.

The gay club scene was addictive with new clubs to explore, and new adventures that took me to strange cities, countries and continents. Gradually over time, the gay scene emerged out of the closet and became much more visible and flamboyant. The Stonewall riots of 1969 triggered a movement that over time, enabled voices to be heard and lifestyles to be fulfilled.

A gradual newfound confidence was developing where gay men and women began to recognise the right to be themselves and lead a fulfilled life. The universities formed gay societies, gay pride marches started small in large cities and gay switchboards and support groups developed in response to the secret struggles many gay men and women encountered as they navigated their coming out. There were hurdles along the way, Thatcher’s Clause 28 being a case in point. The Local Government Act 1988 came into being. Within the Act was Section 28 – a seemingly small addition to the earlier Local Government Act 1986. It prohibited local authorities from ‘promoting homosexuality by teaching or by publishing material’ and from teaching ‘the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship’. If it achieved anything, it made the gay community stronger and increasingly determined to fight oppression.

As the seventies passed the eighties brought about changes. Brief encounters sometimes grew into not-so-brief encounters but rarely matured into long-term relationships. Mobile phones were coming onto the market and email was emerging in some sectors making and keeping connections was marginally easier albeit still fragile lasting relationships were tenuous, to say the least.

It is poignant to remember that homosexuality was classified as a mental illness in the UK until 1973. Many men and women went through forced aversion therapy with some being incarcerated in psychiatric hospitals. When I first started psychiatric nursing in 1975, many still believed homosexuality was an illness. Although female homosexuality was never criminalised, like male homosexuality it was classified as a mental disorder, a sexual deviation. Is it any wonder closet doors remained shut?

As the eighties drew to a close a new threat to the gay community was emerging in the USA. HIV and AIDS had been miss-labelled the Gay Disease. Our lives continued with caution, we lost friends and feared for our safety and the world eventually woke up to the facts but not until well into the 1990s. My career evolved and I became involved in nurse education and HIV disease. The first week of my new role was spent in London where true to form I ventured out to a gay pub and that first week I met my life partner. Thirty-five years later we are still going strong, forever blessed to have met each other and to be the best of friends and lovers.

I often look back on those formative years and think how grateful we should be to the pioneers of gay liberation but I also look forward and see how fragile human rights are around the world. The recent demonisation of the trans community, the vitriol spouted online about gay pride events and the erosion of diversity and inclusion programmes do nothing to instil confidence and stability into the lives of many.

On occasion, non-gay friends and family members have suggested that ‘the gays’ are accepted now and that with the advent of civil partnerships (2005) and gay marriage (2014), we have the equality we have always fought for. Sadly that belief is misguided. Being gay is illegal in over eighty countries around the world and punishable by imprisonment, torture or death. The trans community are having their identities stripped away here in the UK and the USA, there is a growing right-wing movement that spouts a lot of homophobic rhetoric, conversion therapy is still used in many places and many gay men and women, transgender men and women, and those who have non-gender specific pronouns are regularly abused online, in public, at work and disowned by family. Human rights are openly discussed in the context of limiting them. The perception that ‘gays are accepted’ is a fallacy. True equality will only happen when the threat of inequality disappears completely. I could never see a time when the rights of heterosexuals are withdrawn, where heterosexual marriage is banned or when heterosexuals are abused in the street for showing affection. Sadly. Given the current political climate, this is not the case for us in many instances.