Ah, club nights. Loud music, soft lights reflecting off moving bodies, and that constant expectation of fun and connection that makes you feel like anything is possible. I was excited to have my first experience in a gay disco in a long time (let’s make it 15 years?), a place where, in theory, freedom, inclusion and, why not, some interesting encounters are celebrated.
But, as life teaches … sometimes things don’t go as planned.
I enter Flexo in Padua for my first time (during the popular Beardoc night, which I had enjoyed a lot this summer at Pride Village), the bass of electronic music already vibrating under my feet. The space is small, dimly lit, and already crowded. The first thing that strikes me is to recognize some familiar faces, but not because we were friends. They were faces I had met on various dating apps and indeed I was pleased to see them in person.
I thought, naively, that this would make it easier to break the ice, a kind of “hey, we already know each other, or don’t we?” However, as per my friend and companion’s warning, I notice that none of them come up to greet me. There is only a dance of quick glances, of those glances that last a second longer than necessary, but nothing more.
And there, in a moment I found myself thinking, “Do we really need an app to connect? Or have we forgotten how to do it face to face?”
As I make my way through the crowd, I notice something strange: although the nightclub is full, there is an aura of closure that permeates the environment. Guys sitting alone at the bar, circles of friends talking only to each other, each immersed in his or her own world. The whole thing seems so different from the stories I expected: no wild dancing, no spontaneous conversation. It seemed more like a scene to be observed rather than experienced.
So, I decided to take the first step. I advanced toward someone I had seen in more than one photo on those apps. I smiled and introduced myself. He looks at me for a moment, seems almost surprised, but then responds politely. A brief conversation, but one that doesn’t go very far. I immediately wonder, “Am I the problem? Or maybe expectations are too high?”
One of the great lessons of the evening? The difference between who we are behind a screen and who we are live. It’s easy to swipe, scroll between profiles, exchange digital banter and feel connected. But in the real world, we are vulnerable, exposed, without the protection of virtual distance. And when you stand in front of those same people in real life, often, the virtual magic evaporates.
Looking around me, I see a crowd of young people, each lost in their own world, each an arm’s length away from the other, but emotionally not very present. Perhaps the problem is that the talking and waving can be taken as an interest that may not be there? Or perhaps it is just that we are so used to being alone that it is hard for us not to be?
As the evening draws to a close, I find myself smiling. Although it was not the memorable night I had expected, I wondered if perhaps all we need to do is be present, say hello, smile and accept that sometimes, club nights are nothing more than what they are: a collection of loneliness, mixed together under a roof of music and strobe lights.
