What started as a casual drink at a queer bar quickly spiraled into a crash course in self-discovery.
Last August, my friends Maia and Anna brought me to Twisted Element, a queer bar in Calgary where glitter clung to the air and drag queens commanded the stage. I hadn’t expected much—as a straight woman, I assumed I’d just be along for the ride—but that night changed how I saw myself and the world around me. Immersed in a space built on unapologetic joy, freedom, and community, I walked out with a perspective I hadn’t even known I was missing.
By second year, I started drifting away from party culture; it just stopped feeling fun. Nights out at Stages or Ale left me irritated more than anything else. The dance floors were packed, someone’s dry hair was always brushing against my shoulders, and the music felt like a TikTok loop set to autoplay: repetitive, impersonal, and curated for those with iPhone face.
On top of that, my anxiety made drinking feel more like a trigger than a release. I’d often leave without saying goodbye, walking home in tears on the phone with my boyfriend, unable to explain why I felt so overwhelmed.
That night at Twisted was powered not by liquid confidence but rather Redbull—and wow, did it give me wings. Not just the dancing-until-2-a.m. kind, but the kind that cracked something open in me and let it fly.
I still remember walking up the steps into the club for the first time—Lady Gaga was blasting, the bouncer greeted us with a smile, and it felt like stepping into a utopia. The air buzzed with joy and good music, a stark contrast to the TSA-level scrutiny and stiff energy that usually comes with a night-out in Kingston.
Our first stop wasn’t the bar but rather the ATM. I was baffled as my friends loaded up on crisp $5 bills. Maia leaned over and said, ‘They’re for the queens,’ and I remember blinking at her, completely confused. What did drag queens need with a stack of fives?
Confused, I slid my nearly maxed-out debit card into the ATM and withdrew a single, precious $20 bill. I held it like it was gold. It felt like being a kid again, walking into 7-Eleven with the $20 I’d saved in my pink piggy bank, the one with the tutu, carefully weighing every candy option until I found exactly what I wanted. This time, though, I wasn’t buying sour keys. I was about to tip royalty.
We made our way to the stage just as the show was starting. Two drag queens took the mic, and I was instantly mesmerized.
They wore some of the most breathtaking dresses I’d ever seen, flowing, sparkling, impossibly elegant, and their hair defied gravity. Under the stage lights, their jewelry shimmered like constellations, commanding every eye in the room.
I wish I remembered the first two queens’ names who kicked off the show by laying out the ground rules—and suddenly, everything started to make sense. I finally understood why I’d needed that $20, and why tipping was part of the experience.
The show opened with a bang. A name I will never forget, Karla Marx, took the stage and immediately owned it. Her studded denim set was jaw-dropping, her crimped hair reached divine heights, and her boots? Easily the tallest I’ve ever seen. I didn’t just admire her—I wanted to be her.
Then, mid-performance, her shirt came off, and suddenly, crystal nipple tassels were flying across the stage like disco fireworks. I had to physically stop myself from handing over my entire $20 on the spot. I knew she’d be back later—but wow, it was unreal.
Next up was Joanie Sabbath, whose BRAT performance completely owned the room. From the moment she stepped on stage, her energy was magnetic—bold, fierce, and unapologetic.
It was a mix of admiration and envy, but mostly awe. Watching her perform with such confidence made me realize how much strength and skill goes into embodying drag—not just the costumes or the makeup, but the sheer physical mastery and bravery behind every move. In that moment, I felt a new level of respect for the performers and a deeper awareness of the complexities behind their art.
With each performance, I found myself more and more captivated by every drag queen on stage. When Karla Marx returned later, I finally handed over my $20—and as if fate had a hand in it, she could’ve chosen anyone in the crowd, but she picked me.
Heart pounding, I slipped the bill right into her bra, feeling like I’d just shared a secret in the most electrifying way.
After the show ended, the night unfolded into a sanctuary where judgment melted away—a space filled with uninhibited dance moves, wild spins in the cage, and a rare, grounding sense of safety that settled deep in my bones.
Everything around me felt alive as the music pulsed perfectly through the air, syncing with my heartbeat. My stomach ached from waves of pure, unfiltered laughter, spilling out without restraint. For the first time in a long time, I felt utterly free to be myself, unshackled from the invisible chains of judgment—from strangers, friends, and most importantly, from my own inner critic. The usual knot of anxiety loosened.
I used to think nightlife wasn’t for me, that it was a space only for those who could really handle it. But that night at Twisted Element completely redefined what a night out could be. Even as just an ally to the queer community, that space became essential for me to discover who I am and to feel truly, unapologetically comfortable in my own skin. For once, I felt safe, happy, and utterly real.
My night at the queer bar wasn’t just a memorable experience, but rather a turning point. It opened my eyes to a world where authenticity is celebrated, where community thrives on acceptance, and where I could shed the layers of self-doubt I carried for so long.
Since then, the lessons of that night continue to ripple through my daily life and every day, I carry a little of that magic with me, and it shapes how I move through the world: with courage, joy, and a deeper sense of belonging.
Tags
Allyship, drag, Drag King, drag queen, Queer
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