Before entering Hong Kong for university, I did a lot of research about the city. Among the most critical information I found was a thorough guide to all the LGBTQ+ bars and clubs (referred to as gay bars hereafter). Naturally, I became a regular visitor to some of the attractions on that list shortly after arriving.
However, these days, visiting gay bars gives me the eerie sense that I’m not, in fact, living in the modern and international city of Hong Kong in 2022, but rather in some pre-Stonewall dark ages.
Fight or Flight
Vibranium, the iconic gay bar, is a top choice for the younger generation of the local community when it comes to a nightclub where they can express their queer identities and enjoy some charming K-pop dance moves at the same time. Like any other bar in Hong Kong, it is heavily regulated during this era when the government and its citizens are "fighting the virus together." Naturally, it struggles to comply with operational rules. For a nightclub, it is nearly impossible to ask guests to "wear a mask unless eating or drinking" and "eat or drink only while seated at a table." Even tables themselves are subject to restrictions—no more than eight people per table. Ironically, the definition of "table" is open to interpretation; even a tiny side table, typically suitable for a couple, can now host up to eight guests if booked in advance.
Flexible operations aren’t exclusive to Vibranium. In most cases, authorities turn a blind eye to such practices. The neighborhood of Lan Kwai Fong, Hong Kong's kingdom of alcohol and nightlife, is heavily patrolled by local police yet rarely sees enforcement beyond their presence. Expatriates and locals alike are free to pursue their ultimate intoxicated escapades, albeit under the shadow of the city’s strict COVID policies.
For Vibranium and its guests, however, this laissez-faire attitude doesn’t apply. The police seem to love this gay hideaway so much that raids are frequent, creating an ongoing challenge for the business.
To counter this, they’ve stationed a bartender on the street outside the commercial building, not to tend the bar but to act as a lookout. Whenever the police patrol cars are spotted near Times Square, this 19-year-old immediately notifies the staff via radio. Inside the enclave of queer energy, the DJ lowers the music and displays a warning on an eye-catching red background:
"The police are about to check the license. Please follow the instructions of our staff to take temporary shelter on the 11th floor or ground level."
Credit: @n0tr2001x
The 11th floor, an outdoor terrace, is relatively safe from the $5000 fine. However, to avoid the hassle of packing up and cramming into the terrace while under the influence of alcohol, most weekend dancers opt for the alternative: shaking and sliding down the fire exit, which deposits them directly into the back alley of Causeway Bay. After five minutes of wading through sewage and sweating in the humid shadows of high-rises, the calming ringtones of a WhatsApp group chat invite everyone to return.
The shift of LGBTQ+ venues to an underground existence hints that the community is experiencing worsening hardships in being visible to the broader public. We, the outspoken and dressed-to-kill queers, once fought against deeply-rooted heterosexual norms and spread the message of gender inclusivity by being seen. Now, the best we can do is flee down the stairs.
Exclusive Gay Places
There must be a reason for the increased scrutiny queer spaces are facing—perhaps homophobes infiltrate the venues and report "inappropriate behavior," or maybe it’s plainclothes police blending into the crowd. To minimize operational risks, some queer spaces have adopted a membership or invitation-only system.
In certain gay clubs, bouncers now ensure that anyone stepping through the curtain has a membership or is accompanied by a member. To obtain membership, one must show their Instagram—not just the profile link, but the app itself running live on their phone—for staff review.
This review begins with basic account information—posts, stories, bio, etc.—to verify that the applicant is indeed who they claim to be and not an undercover officer. However, the most clever and revealing step involves examining the Discover page. If someone is truly queer, Meta’s advanced AI should know them as well as—or even better than—they know themselves. The bouncers expect to see a feed full of studs, twinks, or twunks for a cis-male guest, and vice versa. After navigating this scrutiny, one might finally be officially certified as gay by the bar's strict standards. If you’re new to the bar, unwilling to hand over your phone, and without a date or partner to vouch for you, you’ll be dismissed from the queue without a chance to defend yourself.
This internal discrimination was once described by Gayle Rubin as a "sex hierarchy," where some forms of sexual expression are deemed more acceptable than others. For queer people, such hierarchies are nothing new—we rank individuals by their looks, education, income, and, sometimes, subtler details like muscle tone or drug preferences. In gay bars, this segregation extends to one’s level of connection to the local social circle—appearance, social media activity, or preferred dating apps. While these measures aim to prevent harassment, they also exclude a large portion of the community who don’t neatly fit these standards, depriving them of their right to enjoy a safe space.
Crafted Illusion
A study conducted before the pandemic, Notes Towards the Queer Asian City: Singapore and Hong Kong, discusses this contradiction in detail. It suggests that Hong Kong "exemplifies the 'disjunctive logics' whereby legislation, economic and cultural policies, activism, social movements, and the myriad everyday practices of queer subjects do not align neatly but instead contradict or complicate one another." The result is a queer space that embodies both convergence and conflict.
This delicate balance was disrupted when the pandemic and subsequent control policies took hold, leading to a crack in queer spaces and the broader community.
Despite this, Hong Kong strives to maintain its reputation as a "diverse and international" city. Authorities, however, have wrested control of the narrative from those directly representing queer communities, crafting an illusion of harmony. For example, the government promotes its Code of Practice Against Discrimination in Employment on the Ground of Sexual Orientation through advertisements and posters on public transit, yet this code has no legally binding effect on private companies. Meanwhile, figures like Junius Ho argue that protecting diverse sexual orientations and identities violates the National Security Law. In such an environment, legal progress for the LGBTQ+ community seems unlikely.
The media landscape is equally bleak. A decade ago, Denise wrote that "Hong Kong thrives on premature rumors of its death to bring queerness into everyday life," yet queer media today is fading under stricter regulations and "queer cultural appropriation" by mainstream outlets like TVB.
The result is a carefully curated illusion: queer spaces appear protected by the government and preserved by the media, while in reality, the government avoids enacting anti-discrimination laws, and the media perpetuates harmful stereotypes.
Outro
The shift of LGBTQ+ spaces to the underground reflects a worsening hardship for the community, largely unnoticed by the broader public. We, the outspoken and vibrant queers, once challenged heterosexual norms by being visible, yet now we find ourselves proving our identities just to enter a queer space and fleeing down stairs when the police arrive. Before 2020, cultural activism in Hong Kong revolved around the pink economy, gay pride events, and hosting the 2022 Gay Games. Now, we’re simply trying to reclaim our spaces. Worse, the gradual shrinking of these spaces has left much of the community unaware—like the proverbial boiling frog in the rumored experiment.
(We could argue that even in the digital domain, safe spaces for the community are shrinking. Take Apple, for instance: among some 150 LGBTQ+-related apps, 27 are censored in China—second only to Saudi Arabia. This company, which proudly displays rainbow flags and organizes parades in the U.S., actively isolates, silences, and oppresses LGBTQ+ people worldwide as an agent of local governments. This issue alone warrants a separate discussion.)
Hopefully, we will not go gentle into that good night.