I miss dancing at gay clubs, but I feel like I’ve aged out of the scene. How to do I reconcile this?

Hi Jake,

I’m in my late 40s, and while I don’t party like I used to (thank God), I still miss dancing to electronic music and feeling that collective pulse of gay men moving together. There was something transcendent about it — that mix of bass, sweat, lights, and connection. For a few hours, it felt like we could all be free.

These days, I think about going out clubbing again, but every time I picture it, I imagine being the oldest guy there, surrounded by twenty-somethings with much better bodies, and feeling like some tragic relic trying to relive his youth. I imagine people seeing me and thinking, “How sad… doesn’t he realize it’s over?” There’s just so much ageism in our culture.

Still, every now and then I’ll hear a song that used to play at Twilo or some long-gone after-hours warehouse, and I’ll feel it — that old ache for the experience returns. I do miss a lot about it. For me, going out wasn’t just about hooking up (though grinding on the dance floor was fun too); it was about being alive and connected and sexy and joyous. I miss that feeling deeply.

How about we take this to the next level?

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I feel like I’m missing out on a world I no longer have a place in. Is there a way to reconcile this?

Music Sounds Better with You

Dear Music Sounds Better with You,

I love how clearly you remember what those nights meant — not just the dancing, but the communion. What you’re describing wasn’t simply nightlife; it was an experience. For so many of us, the club was church, therapy, and family reunion rolled into one. We found each other there — sweaty, euphoric, anonymous, and free — and for a moment, the world outside stopped judging. It makes perfect sense that you miss it; you’re mourning a space that once held your aliveness.

But here’s the thing: missing that energy doesn’t mean you’re trying to relive your youth. It means you miss the version of yourself who could surrender fully — who felt part of something larger and unguarded. The tragedy isn’t an older gay man on a dance floor; it’s believing that joy has an expiration date.

What you’re feeling is a kind of grief — not just for youth, but for a time when connection came easily and the night itself felt endless. That longing isn’t pathetic; it’s sacred. It’s reminding you that your capacity for joy and belonging is still intact, even if the spaces that once held it have changed. The tricky part is how easily that grief can morph into shame when filtered through the lens of gay culture.

Yes, ageism is real, especially in gay spaces. We learned early on that visibility and value often come packaged in youth and abs — and that once those fade, so does our perceived worth. But growing into yourself also means deciding what you no longer need to internalize. The younger guys at the club aren’t judging you as harshly as the voice in your head is — and even if some are, that says more about their conditioning than your relevance. When you walk into a space already believing you’re out of place, you’ve handed over your power. The truth is, you have just as much right to that dance floor as anyone — maybe more, because you helped build it.

You haven’t aged out of joy. You’ve aged out of caring what other people think joy should look like. If what you miss is movement, music, and collective energy, follow that — whether it’s a club, an outdoor Pride party, a concert, or even your own living room with friends who understand what that bassline meant to you. The landscape may have changed, but the pulse you’re craving still exists. Reinvention isn’t surrender; it’s evolution. You’re allowed to satisfy that desire — not by pretending to be 25 again, but by showing up as the man who’s lived long enough to know what joy and belonging really mean.

So don’t try to reconcile it — just make room for it. Not by pushing down your ache, but by honoring it. Maybe that longing you feel when you hear an old track isn’t a sign that you’ve aged out, but a reminder that part of you is still beautifully, defiantly alive.

And if you do go back to a club and find yourself the oldest guy there? Congratulations. You’ve survived decades of a world that once tried to shame you for even existing. Your presence is living proof that queer joy doesn’t expire. And who knows — maybe someone younger will notice. And in that moment, you won’t just be reclaiming your joy; you’ll be passing it on.

Ask Jake is Queerty’s advice column by editor and Licensed Marriage & Family Therapist Jake Myers. Got a question? Email jakemyers@queerty.com—or connect more deeply through his LGBTQ+ therapy platform. Check us out on insta!

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