At Least 15 LGBTQ+ Businesses Have Quietly Disappeared in Texas

EXCLUSIVE

San Antonio’s Turner Hall was constructed more than a century ago as a gathering space to improve its community.

Now home to a gay bar called the Bonham Exchange, the storied building survived the Civil War, both World Wars, the 1921 flood, and the HIV/AIDS epidemic.

Today, like many queer spaces, it’s facing an existential threat.

If you’ll indulge me in a quick history lesson, the Turnverein movement was started by a German teacher who sought to expand gymnastics and physical education through sports associations; the German term, turnen (to practice gymnastics) and verein (club) also meant the place to exercise. In 1848, such sports associations were brought to the United States by the Forty-Eighters — a political group that believed in “unification, constitutional government, and guarantees of human rights.” Soon, they established Texas Turnvereins in Galveston, Houston, New Braunfels, San Antonio, and Comfort.  

Their clubs helped popularize sports in Texas and physical training in schools. San Antonio’s chapter was founded in 1855 near the Alamo. Turner Hall was officially opened in 1892. 

In 1980, Arthur P Veltman — known as “Hap” or “Happy” — bought the building.

In 2026, a years-overdue upgrade to its sprinkler system has become one of its largest challenges. And last month, plans for how to enforce the fire code spiraled into a contentious debate in the San Antonio City Council Chambers that resulted in a complaint against the mayor, a censure, and an 11th-hour agreement that the current owner, Joan Duckworth, has said could slash revenue and potentially put the club out of business. 

The twists and turns of the Bonham Exchange saga may be unique, but not the threat to celebrated queer spaces across the country.  

Texas’ political climate, coupled with post-pandemic economics and Trump-era tariffs, is squeezing nightlife. LGBTQ spaces across the state are disappearing — taking community infrastructure with them.  

In some cases, like with the Bonham, closures or threats of closure have made local news. Others have gone quietly. In a painstaking search for a number, The Barbed Wire found a total of 15 closures since 2020 through news articles, business websites and social media accounts. But even the Gay Barchives — a site dedicated to documenting closed queer spaces throughout the world — could not keep up; only two of the 15 closures we found were listed.

(While some other outlets, like Them, have compiled lists of gay bars that have closed in the last year, no one had previously compiled an accurate total count for Texas.)

“There’s a lot of information out there in the archives about revolutions, and uprising, and activists, and political activity, and legislation. But, the stories of the bars which were the backbone of our community were not really being preserved,” said Art Smith, creator of the Gay Barchives. “I felt that it was important for not only the older people who wanted to remember those spaces, but for the younger people to understand what it was like in the 60s, 70s and 80s.”

Smith created the archives in 2019 after reminiscing with a friend about gay bars they’d gone to in Atlanta. The site has expanded to several social media accounts, including a 27,000-member Facebook group. Aside from his own research, Art has relied on well-connected bar owners and the social media groups to send in information for bars across the world. Almost entirely self-funded, he occasionally gets help from supporters and bar owners and hopes to expand to working with the Stonewall National Museum in Ft. Lauderdale. 

Gay bars have long been deemed safe spaces for the queer community. The history of gathering in solidarity was well established as part of the American queer record after The Stonewall Riot in 1969, and it was only solidified further following the Pulse Nightclub massacre in June 2016.

In the days after 49 people were killed in Orlando, then-President Barack Obama accurately reflected that, for the queer community, spaces like Pulse have “always been a safe haven, a place to sing and dance, and most importantly, to be who you truly are.”

In major metro areas like San Antonio, Houston, and Dallas, the closure of a single gay bar rarely signals the end of queer nightlife. Performers find new bookings. Patrons have options. When one space shuts down, another often takes its place. Take for example the Houston Eagle, which closed abruptly last year. Months later, it reopened as Varsity Bar, a gay sports bar. In San Antonio, Luther’s Cafe is now Ay Qué Chula. 

But queer Texans in suburban and rural areas of the state only find space on certain nights. In certain buildings. Under certain circumstances. 

In rural areas, a single closure can erase the only regular queer gathering space for miles. A Pride organization in Laredo survives on unpaid labor. A drag show in West Texas packs up again, searching for a venue willing to say yes. Taken together, these moments show how uneven survival has become across the state — and who is being asked to carry it.  

Last Call for the Girlies, Gays, and Theys  

For nearly a decade, Artisan Craft Bar operated quietly outside San Antonio’s main gay strip, a distillery and lounge that became a foothold for drag performers, leather groups, queer artists, and first-time bartenders.  

“The gay community is everywhere,” Nicholas Spink, the bar’s owner and master distiller, told The Barbed Wire. “So, there should be gay bars everywhere.” 

Artisan’s location was intentional. Relocating to a spot downtown in 2016 from their original distillery-only location on the northwest side of San Antonio, Spink believed queer spaces should not be confined to a single corridor. For years, on Sunday afternoons, the moody bar transformed into a mini bazaar as tents popped up in the parking lot and patio and vendors sold their goods. Drag queens dipped and flipped as they lip synced their way through patrons lounging on red sofas at brunch.  

But the distance from the city’s concentration of gay bars came with trade-offs. Without bar-hoppers spilling in from neighboring clubs, Artisan depended on intentional programming: drag brunches, bingo nights, comedy shows, leather community events, Pride fundraisers, and queer art markets.  

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Artisan became a bridge, mixing first-time performers with experienced acts rather than separating talent by status. 

But the past year has been a lot tougher. Spink said costs have risen across nearly every part of the business.  

“The economy’s just changed a lot,” said Spink. “A lot of people aren’t drinking.” 

Though Artisan produced its own spirits on-site, Spink said tariffs and supply chain pressures drove costs up. It’s part of a broader contraction in nightlife, but one that has landed especially hard on LGBTQ spaces. 

“I think it’s hitting the LGBTQ+ community really hard, because people don’t have the money,” he said.

As his lease was set to expire in February 2025, Spink said signing another five-year term while losing money wasn’t realistic. Spink chose to close instead, citing costs. Now San Antonio will also have one less gay venue. On the last Sunday in January, battling the cold snap, Artisan closed for good. 

“I’m going out of business,” he said. “Entirely out of business.” 

When asked what’s next, Sprink said, “Good question. I don’t know.” 

He’s certainly not the only Texas owner struggling to maintain LGBTQ+ spaces. 

San Antonio staple Luther’s Café closed in 2022, along with juice bar The Lemon Girls in 2025. Retro Sips & Brews, which replaced The Lemon Girls later the same year, closed too. Both were lesbian-owned and hosted community events.  

In Austin, Sellers Underground closed in 2020, along with Bout Time 2. In 2023 the Coconut Club learned it would be torn down for development; it’s technically still open as of press time, but there’ve been no updates on an official shut down. While Cheer Up Charlie’s is still alive — for now — the owners were mistakenly locked out this month following a late rent payment.

Dallas saw Cedar Springs Tap House and The Urban Cowboy Saloon close in 2023, along with Halo’s ft. Rainbow 2.0 in 2024, and Hamburger Mary’s in 2025.  

In Houston, Guava Lamp closed in 2020, KIKI and Buddy’s closed in 2024 just days after Pride, and the Houston Eagle and Star Sailor closed in 2025.  

All these cities still maintain multiple queer bars and venues. Not everything is gone, but it’s clear that the community has narrowed. The same is happening on college campuses: In the two years since public universities were forced to implement anti-DEI policies, The Barbed Wire found that 12 queer resource centers and programs have closed — along with the layoffs or transfers of at least 100 people.

The Bar That Took a Chance 

For Diamond, a San Antonio-born drag performer and producer, Artisan wasn’t just another booking. It was the place that made her return to drag possible two years ago, and the launch of her local drag entertainment company, AD Productions. 

“Artisan was the first place that ever gave me a chance,” said Diamond. “I walked into bars all over the city, even on the strip, and I got laughed at. I got told no.” 

Diamond pitched shows wherever she could, offering off-nights, early evenings — anything to get her foot in the door. She even tried renting hotel ballrooms and event spaces on her own.  

“This was kind of becoming the time where drag was becoming more into the front lines of political views,” she said. “So, it was hard.” 

Then Spink at Artisan said yes.  

What began as a show with five performers grew to 13, many of whom got their first consistent bookings on Artisan’s stage. Diamond performed a residency twice a week there, and with performances at other venues, was able to meet her expenses. In January though, with Artisan closing, that income disappeared both for her and the performers she was booking at Artisan.  

“I was doing shows with him two days out of the week,” Diamond said. “Economically, that’s going to affect myself; it’s going to affect my girls. It’s going to affect everything in between.” 

Diamond said the closing of bars and venues like Artisan is about an entire ecosystem in the gay community. Her audiences wanted to support drag, but rising costs have reshaped how people spend.  

“They can drink one drink and then they can barely tip the girls,” Diamond said. 

At the same time, venues have scaled back programming. Saturday brunches are cut. Night shows consolidated. Performers are expected to innovate constantly, often for less pay and fewer guarantees. 

“At this stage, people would rather pull the plug than give us another shot,” she said. 

Beyond the money, Diamond told The Barbed Wire  social media hate and doxxing have made it a more dangerous environment. 

“People have a phone, and people have a camera… and then that’s viral and now you have been mislabeled and misunderstood,” Diamond said.  

Still, she stays. 

And, when the Tina Turner song drops, she’s ready to give it to the audience. Old school.  

“Even though the economy’s hard, even though you may not feel a lot of joy in your life,” she said, “please come to a show.” 

Diamond now hosts drag shows at other venues in San Antonio like Ay Que Chula and Paramour at the Phipps. 

Innovation’s a Necessity

About 140 miles southeast of San Antonio, the Mosaic Project of South Texas, a non-profit that operates Pride Corpus Christi, told The Barbed Wire that the footprint of where they feel welcome in town has shrunk. 

The non-profit has no brick-and-mortar location, so it relies on a network of borrowed rooms, churches, galleries, and clinics to host Pride events, mental health groups, and transgender resource distribution. Jonathan Swindle, board chair of Mosaic, said Corpus has fewer than 10 spaces that are LGBTQIA+ owned. Though they are “very few and far between,” the organization has kept track of the number of restroom facilities that are safe spaces for the queer community. In eight years, they’ve counted 228 safe restrooms people can use, at locations both LGBTQ+-owned and not; but that number is dwindling. 

Jonathan said that organizations, businesses, governmental entities, and longtime partners are distancing themselves because of the chilling effect of anti-DEI measures — like January’s presidential executive order and the Education Department’s use of Title VI to target DEI initiatives.  

In 2025, Mosaic canceled their annual movie night after a board member lost their position at a local movie theater. Then, that same year, they ended their Pride Ball fundraiser after the Bay Jewel —– an event center in Corpus —– was sold. The sale also ended drag entertainment for weddings and parties, according to Jonathan. A comedy night was also canceled at a local club due to loss of funding.  

Then, Mosaic lost access to its partnership with the local Coastal Bend AIDS Foundation when it was restructured as the Coastal Bend Wellness Foundation.  

“That’s been very detrimental to how we’ve organized,” said Jonathan. It left the nonprofit to prioritize the most crucial community services, like their transgender resource initiative and mental health support groups.  

The stakes are higher in Corpus Christi because the city has only one long-standing gay bar, The Hidden Door. Jonathan said the organization has already had conversations about what happens if it closes. 

The loss of queer spaces has compounded financial strains for Mosaic. Sponsorship revenue dropped from about $75,000 in 2024 to roughly half — $38,000 — in 2025. Several long-time sponsors, including city entities and health organizations, pulled back or disengaged entirely.  

Costs have also risen. Mosaic faced a $900 tariff on compression garments to flatten chests (called binders) and binding tape they purchase for community members.  

“I paid for it,” Jonathan said. 

To survive, the organization has cut events, pivoted to grant funding, and softened public-facing language. 

“So that we can offer to our long-term partners,” Jonathan said, “ways for them to support programs that don’t have those certain keywords, like DEI, LGBTQIA+.” 

When Queer Joy Has Nowhere to Live 

On the border in Laredo, there are no gay bars left.  

“There was one and it just closed,” said Fabelina “Fabi” Guerra, a board member with the Gateway City Pride Association in Laredo. “I’m not even sure if it lasted the year.” 

Replay Bar & Patio had its grand opening in April 2025, about four blocks and a street over from the Juarez-Lincoln International Bridge 1. It was closed by the end of the year. Nothing replaced it, leaving Gateway City Pride — an entirely volunteer-run organization — back at zero. Pride events, outreach, and programming are organized by a handful of people meeting in living rooms or over Zoom.  

“I am concerned that if we stop doing what we do, there’s not going to be anything else,” Guerra said. 

Gateway City Pride, made up of seven board members, is just five years old. Volunteers are hard to come by, and Guerra said private support rarely translates into public backing.  

“I have a lot of friends and family that accept me,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean they defend and support the cause.”

Along the border, queer life is shaped less by hostility than by a loud community absence. There are no casual places to gather, and if there are events, they’re mostly tied to survival — mental health, HIV awareness, and education.  

“All of that is very important,” Guerra said. “But I would just like to be able to attend something where it’s not tied to that constantly.” 

Guerra wants queer joy without explanation. She wants to experience drag at brunch without having to cross into Mexico or drive hours north to San Antonio. She wants spaces like the ones she saw on a recent trip to Miami with her wife. 

“I literally started to tear up; I was just so happy, seeing people happy. There were straight people there too, very welcoming… It was a beautiful feeling I’ve never felt. And I don’t get that here down on the border,” Guerra said. 

“We have to travel outside the country sometimes to feel accepted and to feel ourselves.” 

The threatening political rhetoric and lack of visible allies has led to organizer burnout and a struggle to keep showing up. Guerra worries about what comes next if leadership steps away.  

Guerra and other board members have discussed finding successors, but “it’s not just something that you have people lining up for.” 

When Visibility Is the Risk

In rural West Texas, queer people don’t disappear into crowds. In fact, hosting drag can feel like a liability.  

“None of us out here can make a living doing it full time,” said Cecilia Ford, a drag performer and organizer near Abilene. “We don’t do it for the money because we understand that in order to create not only art, but safe space, it comes as a sacrifice.” 

Ford was born and raised in Snyder and returned to the region in 2018 to care for family. She grew up in a conservative farming and ranching household and spent decades, she said, living in fear. “Cecilia was born out of a need to further a healing journey for myself and an unwillingness to live in fear anymore.” 

She lives more than an hour from Abilene — a routine commute in rural Texas.  

“Abilene has some really great little groups like Rainbows and Friends game night,” she said, “they meet at a private residence and they play board games or video games and they have outings.” 

Cecilia helped launch a monthly show in 2022, the West Texas Drag Show, at a small venue in Abilene, Homer’s Bar and Music Venue. The owners — a straight couple — opened their doors and encouraged performers to build community until closing due to health issues. “They gave it to us till the very last day.” 

There are no dedicated gay bars in Abilene. No queer coffee shops that consistently host events. Shows rotate through borrowed rooms and short-term goodwill. Performers drive hours, to as far as Dallas or Austin, for pay that barely covers gas. In West Texas, Ford said, most bars already operate on thin margins. 

In September 2025, Abilene Pride faced threats serious enough to draw federal attention after a man from the area posted online threats about shooting up the parade. He admitted he made the posts to FBI agents and pleaded guilty in October. He was formally sentenced in February 2026.  

“I didn’t allow any of my girls to be in drag on my float,” Cecilia added, “because I was scared for their lives.”

‘A Place Where Hope Quietly Takes Hold’

In Lubbock, queer loss doesn’t always look like a closure. 

Tricia Earl, co-founder of OUTwest Lubbock, said the story of queer West Texas is less about what has closed than what has never been permitted to fully exist in public.  

“We are surviving,” Earl wrote, through the organizations “that work in the shadows.” 

For decades, Earl says Lubbock’s queer infrastructure has relied on semi-private spaces rather than nightlife. Groups like PFLAG Lubbock and Queer Sober Lubbock meet in churches. The city’s most visible LGBTQ+ presence is its annual Pride event. 

“If you have little,” Earl asked, “then is there less to lose?” 

Earl said the city’s lone long-running gay bar, Luxor, opened in 1998 and still operates out of the same building. Over time, it has adapted to survive in a nightlife district increasingly dominated by student housing. 

That shift, Earl said, reflects a post-COVID reality in West Texas: Queer space is increasingly built through relationships, not ownership, with drag performers forging temporary alliances with straight venues willing to host. 

Still, Earl rejected the idea of West Texas as a cultural void. 

“Most Texans pass through, windshield-focused and in a hurry,” she wrote. “But those who pull over, who linger long enough to really look, sometimes find themselves staying far longer than they planned. What they discover is not a mirage, but a glimmer of resistance — rooted, stubborn, and enduring — a place where hope quietly takes hold.”