Drugs and Dancing Made My Life Better
They taught me an important lesson: I am my own dance party. I am my own drug.
It all started when my best friend, who I’ll call Bill, began dating this charming fellow, who I’ll call Rodrigo.
Rodrigo came across like sentient FOMO, a man-beast who exuded fun, sex, and childlike excitement about where the night could take us — which was scary, but intriguing. At first, I was skeptical of the relationship; I didn’t want my friend getting caught up with the wrong crowd.
Because, well… drugs are always a slippery slope to cartel kidnappings, shooting up in a Porta Potty next to an IHOP at 4 a.m., and drinking aborted baby blood in the middle of a traffic jam on the 405, right?
Not really. Rodrigo introduced us to a whole new world, a new fantastic point of view. Shining! Shimmering! Splendid!
Before meeting Rodrigo, our de facto Nightlife Genie in a GBL bottle, Bill and I were more like Nature Gays. We’d camp and hike and grill steaks to show our gayness and pride. We’d rather go to the gym than a drag show, rather surf than have a boozy brunch in West Hollywood.
We were no strangers to going out, of course. We’d have the occasional drink along the gayest-of-gay WeHo strip or hit the little gay bars in…
