Strange how no one had to tell me where to look. I followed the crowd by some instinct and found myself in the hallway leading to the bathrooms. And there was the guy. Of course he was the guy, surrounded by a small entourage, happy to see everyone who approached, big hug, backslap, no actual conversation. It was quieter over by the bathrooms. Good place to open shop. Looks like you’re just waiting your turn.

I’d seen the same guy at our club. One of the bouncers pointed him out as “sort of our friend. Like, don’t bounce him. He takes care of us.”

I waited my turn, and when I got to him, I leaned in and asked how much for a pill. He wrapped me in a hug and said, “Girl, don’t be all business. We’re friends.” I’d clearly been dismissed as he took money from the next guy and they were now hugging.

I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong. I’d never tried ecstasy. I really fucking wanted to try ecstasy. But it looked like I never would if I couldn’t figure out how to get a pill. Who fucks up buying drugs? Goddamnit.

I found the twinks back by the bar. Told them I’d struck out, or told one, who shouted it at the next twink, who shouted it at our bartender, each cracking up at my failure to procure free drugs. I thought. Finally one of them said, “Honey, check your pocket.”

The guy had given me two, so I shared. Someone handed me a Gatorade—Nation wasn’t even pretending they didn’t cater to the ecstasy crowd. I swallowed the pill. And nothing happened.

   I asked, “How long is this supposed to take?” I had to yell the question twice before anyone understood.

“?’Bout twenty minutes. Here.” Someone handed me a lit Newport, said, “Menthol helps.” I thought, this was how I wanted people to be—everyone helpful and sharing what they had. Anything you need to enjoy yourself.

He was five minutes short on the estimate. I ran through the crowd to the bathrooms. Two guys were fucking in the stall next to me and there was no door. I didn’t want to puke. I didn’t want to lose my pill. Then I looked at the shit-and-puke-covered toilet and lost it. As soon as the vomit left my throat, the ecstasy hit me. The toilet was a fucking masterpiece—the color scheme, the juxtaposition of my wet, red Gatorade vomit splattered over the dried blackened shit, over a layer of what must have been the remains of chopped salad. The shocking blue water in the bowl. My puke slowly swirling around a used-condom jellyfish. The Family believes you can puke out an evil spirit. My evil spirit belonged up the street in the Smithsonian.

I chugged my Gatorade and was handed another by a benevolent spirit in a gold latex unitard. Then I bumped my way through the sea of glitter-breasted gays and moved with the surging crowd out onto the dance floor. Our light tech found me. He was spinning glow sticks in his hands, and the light trails were the first miracle I’d ever seen. I finally understood the light show and the smoke. I wished I had glow sticks, but that seemed like a lot of work. I was happy everyone else seemed willing to do the spinning thing for me. And they did. All I had to do was smile at someone with glow sticks and they’d put on a little show just for me, send me right out into space.

   We were in this together, all of us. The DJ was our leader, and he took us to a new world, a world full of love and hope, and we felt everything and everything felt like love. This is what people join cults to feel. I’d prayed and waited and prayed with the Family, and the feeling never came—not this calm, not this unbridled joy. Shirtless guys walked up to me and smiled and our eyes met and we knew we had found the same god and we hugged and then danced and then danced away to meet more of our kind.

I’d found the Holy Spirit. I thought about calling my stepdad and telling him. I wanted to tell him I’d finally gotten rid of my demon. I laughed and someone hugged me in this space wherein a man could hug me and take nothing away. I knew then what love meant.

I felt someone dancing behind me. Close. Her arms were around me and I turned and she smiled so I put my arms around her. Then she took my hand and led me up the stairs to a couch on the balcony overlooking the dance floor. She straddled me and rubbed my shoulders and kissed me like she knew how, like this was how we’d always kissed. She was wearing a skirt and her panties were wet and she started grinding her crotch on my forearm because that’s what you do when you love someone. The sex, if you could call it that, fell short of mind-blowing. She whispered thanks and disappeared. I realized I was sitting in something wet. I needed to find someone I knew before the pill wore off. I needed to wash my arm. But more than anything, I needed to be back on the dance floor with my people.

   Nothing else mattered, only love and my family, those in the room who felt the music and knew God. And I thought, Oh.

Boys on the Side

The first time I went to a gay bar was the night I turned twenty-one. The bar was in Florence, South Carolina, a forty-five-minute drive from Shaw Air Force Base, where I was just stationed. It took a while to find a gay bar. This was 1998. Couldn’t google “gay bars.” Google was still in beta back then. Couldn’t ask around unless I was absolutely sure of who I was asking. I was pretty sure about the nose-pierced waiter with the shag cut at a house party when he stood on the coffee table and announced to a room full of airmen that if they didn’t change the music from Creed to Destiny’s Child, he was going to start breaking shit. Then he apologized for standing on the coffee table. He gave all right directions considering how drunk he was.