In the first circle, scampering around at the outskirts of the dance floor, are the nightlife photographers. “Ooh honey yas,” they say. “Fabulous!” Click, click. “Want to make out?” Click. “Just kidding.” Click. “Here’s my card.” Click, click. “I should photograph you sometime one on one! Yes, I do nudes but they’re surprisingly tasteful.” Click. “Tag me on Instagram. Ta-ta!”

One circle down are the conventional drag queens. They flutter about in flocks, talking smack, smoking crack. Okay, they don’t smoke crack. But they certainly insufflate. Any man unlucky enough to find himself standing at the bar with a wallet full of cash is a possible target. Who has the coke? You’ll wonder. I could have sworn I had some left! A flurry of wigs and a flash of glitter is the last thing you see before you’re penniless, pants-less, and in tears, lying on the floor in the corner of the club, wondering where your life went so wrong. Security!

In the third circle are the party hosts. These are like drag queens, but without all the inconvenience and hassle of drag. The hosts are paid to stand there in everyday clothes and no make-up. And stand there they do. If you’re very lucky you’ll get to take a selfie with one someday. Here’s hoping!

The fourth circle contains the sidekicks, the afterparty people, the lookers-on, the shit-talkers, the haters and the wannabes and all relevant subsidiaries. “Where are we going after this?” they all shriek in unison. They move in pairs, slinking around in the darkest crevices of the club. The most gifted social climbers among them often appear in the Instagram stories of more important people. You’ll see them in the corners of DJ booths, or outside the club smoking cigarettes and gossiping. They give you little hugs and pretend they’re your friends. But the moment you turn your back on these vipers it’s a massacre, darling. Act accordingly, and proceed with care.

In the fifth circle are the bachelorette parties and the bitter queens who hate them. “Did you just touch me?” scream the gays. “How dare you?” “Omigod!” shriek the women. “You are too funny! You look better in that dress than I would! Can I take your picture?” These two factions are mutually constitutive adversaries. They orbit each other forever, like Satan’s ying yang. To remove one group would rend the fabric of the universe in twain. The space time continuum depends on their continual bickering. If you value the structural integrity of the cosmos, henny, you’ll leave them alone.

The sixth circle of queer nightlife hell contains the DJs. Haughty and imperious, these masters and mistresses of the booth control all. They are hubs of vital information. They hold court. They know who’s coming and who’s going. Who’s in and who’s out. They have eyes and ears everywhere. With a flick of the wrist and a bob of the head they curate whole vibes. They do not take requests. They are artists, you see. If you are blessed enough to find favor with a DJ, the kingdom can be yours. But beware. Find yourself on the wrong side of that plexiglass sneeze guard and it’s over. You’re finished. You’d be better off moving to another city entirely. Bon voyage, brave sailor. Better luck in Milwaukee!

Finally, the seventh circle. A vast expanse of ice, stretching limitless in all directions. Upon it stands an audience, bored to tears but transfixed, unable to look away. In the middle of it all, in the throes of an ecstatic interpretive dance, there she is: the “political statement” drag queen. “RESIST!” she howls into her megaphone. “JOIN THE CAUSE! FIGHT THE SYSTEM! OPPRESSION IS BAD!” Naturally she prefers the term performance art to drag, because she’s so much more sophisticated than those other – cough – entertainers. No one has the heart to tell her she has no talent, her make-up skills are lacking, her song choice stinks and she moves like Elmer Fudd playing bocce on a cruise ship caught in a hurricane. The audience applauds and they tip her, smiling politely through their guilt. The record skips back to song’s beginning and the dance recommences again.