District of Columbia
Recovery at the Triangle Club
Coming together as a group to fight a common addiction
On Sunday, between the Dupont Italian Kitchen, where the tables are filled with the boozy brunches of the kickball gays, and Mikko, where a young couple is celebrating their anniversary with some Champagne, the door to a row-house opens, and all at once, a crowd pours forth onto the stairs. Only the stairs keep on filling. These folks aren’t leaving. They’ve only left the building to come to the stairs, just to chat. It’s as though 100 people all decided to go for a smoke out front, all at the same time. But if you ask them why they’re there, you’ll get only the vaguest of answers. “We’re just coming from a meeting,” one will say. “It’s a clubhouse,” says another.
There are good reasons for this vagueness. The Triangle Club is a center for queer folk to attend recovery meetings: Overeaters Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Crystal Meth Anonymous, Sexual Compulsives Anonymous. It’s part of the very mission of these groups to protect the privacy of their members. But these groups also want those in the queer community who need the support to know that they’re there. And so the folks at the Triangle Club were kind enough to welcome the Blade into their space for a few meetings, to see how things worked and shed some light on what they’re all about.
The Club had its kickoff meeting in 1988, during the AIDS crisis. Churches weren’t particularly enthusiastic about hosting gay recovery meetings in their back rooms. And so the Club sought to provide a safe place for those meetings to take place. At the time of the club’s founding, it was estimated that gays and lesbians were twice as likely to report problems with alcohol abuse than heterosexuals. One would hope that things might have changed in the intervening years. But according to a government report released this summer, that figure has barely improved. (The government report did not collect any statistics on transgender people.)
Of course there is no single reason queer people develop problems with drugs and alcohol. But one in particular struck me, especially as a reason I heard coming from a lot of the younger folk at the Triangle Club. “I thought meth was a prerequisite for going out,” said one. “I thought that’s what you did.” Another said, “I drank to find community. And then I drank to numb myself when I didn’t find it in the gay community.” Again and again, I heard stories about turning to drugs and alcohol as a way of finding connection, and as a way of coping with the failure to find connection.
And so while I heard a lot of gratitude for the role the meetings at the Triangle Club played in people’s recovery, I also heard a lot of gratitude for the community of the Triangle Club itself. It wasn’t just that the Club helped people turn away from an unhealthy way of solving their problems. It’s that it gave them what they were really looking for in the first place: a community they could call their own.
Improbably, as I left a meeting of Crystal Meth Anonymous, I found myself wishing to be an addict in recovery. To have a place to share things that would go unsaid among friends and family, let alone therapists. To take part, week after week, in one another’s mission for a more fulfilling life. To be present for the absolute raucousness, as when one gentleman described living on meth as “wearing a fur coat into a swimming pool,” and then “turning the wave-machine on.” To hear the applause that only someone four days sober could receive. But what kind of destructive, life-threatening wish was I making? I couldn’t possibly be serious.
Many of us in the queer community are exhausted by drinking, if not drugging, our way into it. That exhaustion might not rise to the level of addiction, but this has the perverse consequence of not driving us to seek alternative forms of belonging. One of the men I interviewed kept talking of the “sober community,” and my ears perked up. Perhaps there was a broader community of folks, of which those in recovery were only a part, that wasn’t centered around substance use.
“The sober community absolutely extends beyond the Triangle Club,” he told me. “There are a bunch of other gay meetings that go on.” This wasn’t exactly what I hoped to hear. What a sorry state we’re in, I couldn’t help but feel that to be part of the sober community was to be in recovery. As though the community of substance use were so mandatory that it had to drive you to your own personal edge in order for you to find community in sobriety.
The Triangle Club should not be overly romanticized, and they’d be the first to tell you. People talked of trying to find fellowship at the club in the past, and not necessarily succeeding. Being one of two Black people in the room, only for the other to drop out of the program. Or of the demands of service, dragging yourself out late Friday night to chair a meeting, or sponsoring someone for the first time and being scared that you aren’t the right one to advise them. But I think it’s a testament to the space that these things could be said in the space. The meetings aren’t a place of mandatory optimism, but honest experience. And what good is a meeting for sharing honest experience if you can’t share your negative experiences too?
I had hoped, as part of this feature, to attend a meeting of Sexual Compulsives Anonymous. The two meetings I appealed to were kind enough to hold a vote on whether they would open their doors—but in the end they opted to remain private. One gentleman from the meetings volunteered to share a little of what these meetings were all about. Recovery meetings in general depend on coming together as a group to fight a common addiction. But “S” meetings, as the gentleman described them, can’t take “coming together” lightly, nor a “common addiction” lightly.
To begin with, sexual addiction is not as straightforwardly defined as addiction to drugs or alcohol. What sobriety is for one person is not what sobriety is for another. One person might be trying to curtail a masturbation habit. But for others? “That simply isn’t an option,” the gentleman said. And unlike recovery meetings for substances, which can ban substances from the room, the same can’t as easily be said for “S” meetings. We’re sexual beings, and so inevitably, to bring yourself into a room is to bring sexuality along with it. The recovery meetings at the Triangle Club usually end with the group joining hands to say the serenity prayer. But this can’t be a given at “S” meetings, where joining hands might be violating someone’s boundary.
With the pandemic waning, most recovery meetings have slowly started to transition away from video format back to in-person. But “S” meetings have been more reluctant to do so, and most have stuck with a hybrid format. One veteran of Al-Anon voiced his relief at coming back to the rooms. “You can’t hug a square!” I suspect that’s the very reason “S” meetings have been slow to return.
Part of my disappointment in not attending the “S” meetings was how central they seemed to be to a queer recovery organization. Substance abuse might disproportionately affect the queer community, but it is the addicts who are queer, not the addictions. If the addiction is to love or sex, however, the addiction itself is inextricably queer. Aren’t the “S” meetings the heart, in a sense, of the Triangle Club? But a conversation with a gentleman from Alcoholics Anonymous had me rethinking this. “[Accepting you’re an alcoholic,] it’s similar to coming out as gay,” he said. “There are people out there who view it as a moral failing, but it’s just part of who I am.”
The experience of coming out is so central to being queer. How could coming out as an addict have nothing whatsoever to do with it? The same story of a newfound, authentic life was as common to the folks at the Triangle Club as it would be to anyone who comes out as queer.
(CJ Higgins is a postdoctoral fellow with the Alexander Grass Humanities Institute at Johns Hopkins University.)
District of Columbia
SMYAL receives $25,000 award for ‘courageous acts’
D.C. group provides support services for LGBTQ youth
The D.C.-based organization SMYAL, which provides services for LGBTQ youth in the D.C. metro area, including housing for homeless LGBTQ youth, announced on June 30 that it received a $25,000 award for its “courageous acts” in support of the community it serves.
The award was a monetary grant from The Courage Project, which describes itself as a “national initiative investing in acts of courage and compassion that strengthens our communities and democracy.”
A statement on its website says it was launched in May 2025 and is funded and backed by leading national foundations in the U.S.
“At SMYAL, we are deeply grateful to receive support from The Courage Project and are inspired by their bold investment in LGBTQ+ youth at such a critical moment,” SMYAL CEO Erin Whelan said in a statement. “For queer and trans young people, simply showing up as themselves each day requires immense courage, and that courage is strengthened when organizations like The Courage Project stand behind them loudly, proudly, and without hesitation,” Whelan said.
In its statement announcing the award SMYAL says The Courage Project will recognize SMYAL and other awardees and their work on July 3 at the Washington National Cathedral as part of a special interfaith service marking the U.S. 250th anniversary.
“The Courage Project is a bold initiative honoring everyday acts of bravery – the quiet, often unseen acts of heroism that reflect the best of the American spirit and strengthen democracy at the community level,” the project states on its website.
District of Columbia
Longtime Blade staffer Stephen Rutgers steps down after 14 years
Plans to focus on running Crush Dance Bar, other ventures
Longtime Washington Blade employee Stephen Rutgers announced he is stepping down after 14 years to focus on other ventures, including his part ownership of the popular Crush Dance Bar.
Rutgers was hired by the Blade in 2012 to help plan Pride festivities and over the years was promoted to director of sales and marketing. In addition to his broad set of responsibilities, Rutgers planned the annual Pride on the Pier celebration at the Wharf, which has exploded in popularity over the seven years since its launch.
“Watching Pride on the Pier grow from a new community event into one of D.C.’s signature Pride celebrations has been incredibly rewarding,” Rutgers said. “Expanding Pride on the Pier into a two-day festival for WorldPride in 2025 was definitely a career highlight. Seeing thousands of people come together to celebrate our community while supporting the Blade’s mission is something I’ll always be proud of.”
Rutgers described his biggest challenge as navigating the changing media landscape.
“More than ever, we’ve had to remind our community that local journalism matters and that it needs their support,” he said.
He added that he’s most proud of helping to ensure the Washington Blade is positioned to thrive for the next 50 years.
“I was fortunate to be part of the Blade during its 50th anniversary — a milestone that reflects its incredible history and impact,” Rutgers said. “The Blade has been an important voice for the LGBTQ community for more than five decades, and knowing I played a small part in helping its future is most important to me.”
Blade Publisher Brian Pitts praised Rutgers for juggling multiple responsibilities.
“We wish Stephen all the best,” Pitts said. “For the past 14 years, Stephen has been a vital part of the Blade, handling many things — marketing and advertising, sponsorships, and Blade signature events. We will all miss him.”
Blade Editor Kevin Naff thanked Rutgers for his years of service to the community.
“After 14 years, it’s hard to imagine the Blade without Stephen and his boundless energy and creativity,” Naff said. “He’s one of the hardest working and most dedicated people I’ve ever known and he will be missed. But change is the only constant and I know Stephen will move on successfully to new challenges and the Blade will expand on Stephen’s important work.”
As for what’s next for Rutgers, he said he plans to focus on Crush as well as his real estate business.
“I’ve always been someone who likes to stay busy,” Rutgers said. “For the past 12 years, I’ve balanced my work at the Blade and in real estate. Two years ago when I opened Crush, I never realized just how much time and energy it would take. The passing of my father earlier this year also gave me a new perspective. It reminded me that life is short and that it’s important to make time for the people and experiences that matter most. Stepping away from the Blade will allow me to focus on those ventures while also creating more balance in my life. After 14 incredible years, it feels like the right time for a new chapter.”
Naff said that for now Rutgers’s responsibilities will be divided between existing staff along with several new freelance contractors.
“The Washington Blade plays a unique role in our community’s fight for equality,” Rutgers said. “It’s the only LGBTQ news organization with White House credentials, giving it direct access to the people and institutions shaping policies that affect our community. The Blade continues to hold elected officials accountable, report on the issues that matter most to LGBTQ people, and tell the stories that often go uncovered by mainstream media.
“The Blade has been my family for most of my adult life. For 14 years, it has been part of my daily routine, so it’s going to feel very strange waking up and not logging on each morning.”
District of Columbia
Nearly 6,000 turn out for Pride Night Out at the Nationals
Gay Men’s Chorus sings National Anthem
“Just shy of” 6,000 people purchased tickets for the Wednesday, June 24, 21st annual Pride Night Out at the Washington Nationals baseball stadium, which the Nationals said is the longest running LGBTQ Pride event in Major League Baseball, according to a Nationals spokesperson.
The event was organized with the Nationals by Team D.C., the local LGBTQ sports group that organizes similar Pride Nights for other professional D.C. area sports teams.
“It was a good time had by all as the Nationals celebrated the LGBTQ+ community during the Nationals 21st Pride Night Out, presented by Team D.C.” the Nationals said in a statement.
Nationals spokesperson Erica George said the overall game attendance was 27,200.
Similar to recent past years, the Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington sung the National Anthem at the start of the game, drawing loud cheers from people throughout the stadium.
The Nationals lost the game to the Philadelphia Phillies by a score of 5-4. Although most of the LGBTQ attendees of the event, held in the right-field mezzanine section of the stadium, were cheering for the Nationals, a sizeable number also cheered for the Phillies.
Miguel Ayala, one of Team D.C.’s lead organizers, said he noticed fans displaying Pride flags and recognized LGBTQ people in all parts of the stadium, indicating significantly more LGBTQ people and their supporters attended the game beyond the close to 6,000 or more who purchased the specific Pride Night Out tickets.
“It was a great excitement last night,” he told the Washington Blade on the day following the event. “I saw a lot of big crowds of our people, I saw everybody I can think of in the community. And it was really great to see the turnout.”
Also, like in previous years, Team D.C. along with the Nationals helped to organize a pre-game show on the large concourse platform area next to the stadium seating area involving a drag show led by local drag performer Shi-Queeta Lee.
“During pregame ceremonies, the Nationals Pride employee resource group was recognized on the field,” the statement released by the Nationals says. “Dr. Demetre Daskalakis, a physician and public health leader who has had a profound impact on the LGBTQ+ community and those living with or vulnerable to HIV, threw out the ceremonial first pitch as the guest of Team D.C.,” the statement says.
It adds that Team D.C.’s scholarship recipient Spencer Doll made the ceremonial call to “Play Ball.”
As if all that were not enough, a Nationals employee who entertains during the Nationals pre-game shows on the field dressed as a giant eagle named “Screech” wearing an eagle’s head mask appeared in the seating area where the Pride Night Out crowd was seated and mingled with the LGBTQ fans, many of whom posed for photos with Screech.
PHOTOS: Crush Dance Bar
In Trump’s divided America, Michael Weinstein’s AHF responds
When a church fears the rainbow
Under-the-radar Delaware beach towns smart buyers are targeting
‘My Favorite Sociopath’ debuts at Shepherdstown’s CATF
Democratic Socialists of America are not automatically Democrats
D.C. queer faith leaders commit to exist, resist, persist
Queen Camilla meets with JK Rowling
Ethereal ‘Camp’ a moody allegory for queer shame
