Three generations of beer-swilling men are gathered around a table at San Francisco’s Twin Peaks Tavern gay bar, their heads thrown back as they guffaw. The trio are made up of a pretty, techy-looking twink, a beardy, outdoorsy thirtysomething, and a handsome older gentleman whose smile carries the contentment of someone who has spent decades in a city where he can be himself. It’s a portrait of queer continuity I’m not used to.
My mind briefly wanders to predictable places – ‘Perhaps they’re a throuple?’ But the dynamic doesn’t seem sexual; rather, they come across like family members. Their energy matches the ambiance of the rest of the tiny pub on the Saturday night I stop by, with its warm wood panelling and stained-glass lamps emitting an amber glow.