Winning the Party

Two years ago, while in my 57th year, I began going out to dance parties again. To my surprise, reentering the gay dance party scene at 56 proved to be, and continues to be, a much more edifying experience than it was in my 20s. 

I give credit for this transformation to decades of seeking with my MFT therapists Karen, Jim, Winston, and Sharon, a Forum-like intensive called The Experience, MKP men’s retreats, meditation retreats, yoga teacher training, coaching training, Tantra training, a personal meditation practice, and drugs. 

Of course, none of that would be possible if I did not have the willingness to look into my heart and unpack the results of the Idaho-Mormon-gay-AIDS trauma I’d internalized. Walking through all that trauma history with a wide array of teachers is why I am able to enjoy the cornucopia of pleasure, self-celebration, and connection I now enjoy everywhere, especially on the dance floor with my brothers. 

Everyone’s life is different. Everyone’s amount of trauma is different. My trauma required lots and lots of work. Some gays, like my husband, who’ve had relatively little trauma, have the ability to find contentment without all those programs.

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Nearly 30 years ago, when I was 28, I went to my first White Party in Palm Springs. It was a big deal back then.

I had resisted going for several reasons. I’d only been sober for two years, it was still more expensive than I could afford, and most of all, and most pertinent to this post, I didn’t think I could compete with all the hotties I saw in pages of Circut Noise Magazine, the magazine covering circuit events pre-internet. It contained pages of evidence that I needed to be something other than who I really was. Someone confident, excruciatingly beautiful, and ready for a photo op with ten equally beautiful men.

You know, guys who were winning the party.  I’d need to reinvent myself to be one of them. 

I felt like I needed permission to be on the dance floor.

“What if you got paid to go?” 

I was prodded by my workout partner, Adam, to join the scene. He had connections with the producers, custom design skills to create our Bad Bunny gear, and a body and cock that demanded attention. He made it possible for me to get paid to go, including a shared hotel room at Motel 6. All I needed to do was work a couple of doors and dance on a box at the military-themed nighttime pool party.

Adam thrived on the scene. He was a huge fan of the spotlight. Any spotlight. He also ran with other spotlight seekers, so I was sure to be surrounded by the top tier of circuit party meat sacks who had also prepared for the dance floor with Olympic-style workouts. We’d have outfits made by Perry, a talented queen who later went on to work for Lady Gaga.

 How could we not win the party? 

At the military party, we climbed our separate camouflaged riggings and had our very own spotlights to shine on each other from across the sea of men and into the crowd itself, which garnered lots of attention. 

I had the body. I had the attention. I had the outfits. I had the validation of knowing I was on a towering box at what was then one of the biggest parties in existence. Guys who seldom gave me attention at Gold’s in Hollywood were looking up at me, smiling. I’d met Boy George. I’d visited one VIP hangout after another at the various parties. 

But when Adam turned his spotlight on me, I felt something unexpected. Something other than joy. I certainly wasn’t happy. I was confused, irritated, and empty.

I felt betrayed by the feelings that came up. This was supposed to make me happy. Wasn’t I dominating the party? Isn’t that what makes a gay happy? Why wasn’t I fucking happy? 

This continued to happen as I attempted to win the party at the Probe (later called Icon), at the Zoo Party in San Diego, and on the small stage on the edge of the dance floor at Fire House (which is now The Chaple at The Abbey). Time after time, I gave my power away to men and boys who were strangers. Attachment to their approval was my primary source of validation and dignity. 

The holy grail of permission granted by dancefloor domination left me empty.

Nearly 30 years later, I learned in my yoga certification training what was causing the problem. It was one of the “5 Kleshas,” all 5 cause suffering. I was experiencing the suffering they predicted is caused by grasping.

It’s important to note that pain is not optional. Sorry.

But the suffering is.

This is how #3 of The Five Kleshas works.  

Attachment/Grasping (Ragga)Grasping = Suffering When I get