During Pride 2007 I was invited to a socialite’s pool party. The host handed me a card with all the details, telling me to bring cute friends — cute (guy) friends. This certainly sounded like it could be my kind of event.
I’d always secretly wanted to rub elbows with the gay scene’s wealthier jetsetters. Being a high school ugly duckling and then working in a low-paying career field left me craving the “finer things” in life. I often looked at my hand-me-down furniture with embarrassment.
I rounded up a couple attractive comrades and we headed to the party, where we discovered one glorious house and let ourselves in.
Immediately, I felt out of place. Guests were huddled into small groups, probably sharing amazing conversations, darting their eyes over to check us out but quickly looking away. The unfriendly glances and beautiful home decor transformed me into a wallflower.
My friends found the booze, and I waited as they made their drinks. I’d been sober for more than a year now, and it took self-control to not dive into the alcohol. We made our way to the pool — where I witnessed a scene that looked like an Abercrombie ad. Incredibly good-looking men with hard, fit bodies were frolicking in and out of the water. Standing to the side were older men enjoying these poolside views.
I commented to my friend about the party guests’ bizarre disjuncture — he rolled his eyes at me said that the older guys were either sugar daddies or drug dealers. Whether or not it was true, this wasn’t the party I’d expected.
The party offered an even more startling surprise: the guy I once dubbed “Leaping Larry: the hot douche bag” (online at ofcnow.co/Larry). I’d once dated him briefly and fell for him hard — based purely on his stunning good looks. His body looked phenomenal in his swimsuit.
My friend whispered in my ear: “Do you see that guy right there?” He pointed to the older man Larry was talking with. “I know for a fact he’s a drug dealer.” I wondered what other red flags I’d ignored back when I was so fixated on Larry’s body.
Between my sobriety, all the gorgeous young men and the possibility of being in the presence of lots of hard drugs, my anxiety skyrocketed. Just as I desperately needed to relax, my friend found a buddy who was known for having good weed. (I was one of those Coloradans who dismissed marijuana as a “real drug,” and clearly if I ever needed to get a little stoned, it was now.)
The weed lived up to the rumors. After a couple puffs I got high. Then really high. Then high as a kite. My friends stripped down to jump in the pool.
“Aren’t you going to come with us?” one of them asked.
I shook my head. Despite my usual attitude about real bodies, at this moment I felt like I couldn’t take my shirt off unless I had a six pack to show. I wondered how long I’d been hanging around without speaking a word. Were people staring at me? Did Leaping Larry think I was a total loser sitting by myself? My heart began to race. It was official — the really good weed made me paranoid.
Without saying goodbye I got up and left. The walk home felt good, like I’d been trapped under water and finally came up for air. And it gave my very stoned brain a chance to purge its racing thoughts.
I got home and crashed on my couch. I thought about my night and how I finally got the opportunity party with such wealthy, beautiful trendsetters. That life might have its fun points, it wasn’t one I’d ever have really wanted.
My ugly, hand-me-down furniture didn’t look so bad after all.
