Before streaming and smartphones rewrote the rules, there were places like Circle J Cinema—the kind of adult theater where the lights stayed low, the seats were questionably plush, and the regulars knew exactly which row was “the good one.” Part porno palace, part cruising ground, part unofficial clubhouse for men who wanted anonymity and company in equal measure, Circle J captured an era when queer connection lived in shadows but thrived anyway.
The theater’s reputation blended mischief, mystery, and a strange sort of community: the hum of the projector, the well-worn carpet, the knowing nods, the unspoken codes, the freedom found in the dark when the outside world was far less forgiving. For some, it was a rite of passage; for others, a refuge; for many, a chapter in the kind of queer history that never makes the textbooks but shaped everything that came after.
