Fifty-two.

I'm not a prude, not yet a circuit gay.

I was twenty-nine when I first tried dissociative anesthetics.

Is this taboo to admit? Mormons are using it on national television via a Hulu docuseries and Williamsburg blocks are plastered with advertisements for its unprescribed therapeutic usage. Moreover, White House chunguses are openly high off of it as they “work.” So, I think my own use is comparatively uncontroversial.

Throughout the life I've lived thus far, I've never been much of a circuit queen. Part of that was, of course, due to my own insecurities: I felt like I didn't have the right physique to attend each Pride season's customary parties, and I was afraid of being present because I was afraid of being seen. It's not just that I had the wrong body—I had the wrong face, the wrong haircut, the wrong clothing, the wrong style, the wrong ethnicity, the wrong look. This also extended to formal events like queer networking series within the city. I wasn't presentable, I wasn't attractive. I wasn't desirable.

Why did I want to be desired? I thought back to my high school years, where I was attracted to other boys who were undoubtedly heterosexual. Since I knew (read: aggressively assumed, so as to preempt any nascent possibility to the contrary, because I wasn't ready to publicly come out) they were straight, I neither acted upon my crushes nor expected them to be reciprocated, preferring instead to wait it out until my attraction to them would diminish and, ultimately, fade into nothingness. In the end, the boys would be far less than a fantasy: just a pretty face, eye candy momentarily dilating my pupils until I looked away. As I began to come into myself, I grew accustomed to flying under the radar.

College, especially in New York City, was a turning point. The night I arrived, now fifteen years ago, I saw two young men holding hands, walking down an East Village avenue as I exited Veselka, a storied local hangout. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, so I made no remark about them to my friends while we made our way south, but that moment changed me. The theoretical progressive future about which I had long read had suddenly accosted me in person, and it was monumentally unspectacular. It was a tiny gesture, insignificant, a fleeting glimpse into two strangers' private lives, but it meant something to me: that which was possible was very, very real.

My first kiss was, ironically, with a straight man, and freshman year gave me the gift of experiencing a briefly requited crush, but inexperience dictated that I remained insecure. I was overly nervous as I interacted with other gay men on campus because I wasn't ready to be perceived. Instead, I projected onto them a confidence that I admired. I wanted to be able to go about life as freely as I imagined they did.

Every year, I attended the annual New York City Pride March, which famously commemorates the June 1969 Stonewall riots in the West Village. For the most part, I was happy to be one of many and fade into the crowd, although there have been times when my friends and I slipped past the metal barricades to join a random delegation in stomping down 5th Avenue. Sometimes, I'd pick up free giveaways like branded tote bags or Chipotle gift cards. Always, I tried to make a point of showing up in person. It was less about my own sexual orientation than it was about adding my body to the number of attendees: the entire point of visibility is to show the world that we more than exist—we are defiantly ourselves.

Back then, I didn't have the cash to spend on the innumerous Pride concerts and parties, which charge up to hundreds of dollars for admission because they’re headlined by the likes of Madonna. I also couldn't fathom pushing my way past thousands upon thousands of people to watch Ariana Grande cover Whitney Houston at Dance on the Pier. Instead, I hung out with my friends in their apartments or ducked into local bars with them to people-watch. It was enough to be in community.

My first boyfriend, bless him, was a reliable lover and showed me what a secure relationship is. Being with him during those early years greatly catalyzed my coming of age, but I was still shy after that relationship came and went. Successive boyfriends built upon his foundation, and I slowly grew into my confidence and sense of self. By the time I met Henry, I had come to know how it felt to make men fall at my feet. I spent one Pride season with him frequenting Hell's Kitchen and its plethora of gay clubs, allowing him to pull me in close for a kiss while the surrounding crowd danced. I had liked him more than I was willing to admit.

Then, Henry and I broke up, and I was suddenly at the world's feet. Anxiety that I hadn't felt for decades returned with a great vengeance.

The worst breakup of my life happened in April. Our anniversary would have been the following May. I spent the next June's Pride season trying to get over him, breaking my own personal taboo on using recreational substances in the hopes that that would accelerate my doing so.

It should be understood that I grew up with D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) programs featuring heavily in my childhood schooling. While I could still count my age on my fingers, I was instructed to watch somber black-and-white video testimonials from wizened elders with cancer(s) or holes in their throat. More than terrifying, it instilled in me my predisposition towards caution. To this day, I still won't smoke or vape.

For the same reasons, I steadfastly avoided marijuana and harder substances. I feared becoming addicted and spiraling out of control. I didn't even have my first drink of alcohol until I was almost twenty (for legal purposes, I will point out that I was in Germany, where the drinking age permissible by law is below twenty-one).

All these safeguards had been put into place by me, for me, with the express intent of preserving my health, but my health had then precipitously cratered following my breakup via its ensuing depression. I lost over one stone because I stopped eating. Absent anti-depression medication, my brain would not, could not produce the happy chemicals that made life seem worth living. I didn't turn to substance abuse, but it is within this context that I allowed myself to make some relatively radical changes.

The first was financial. I had a nest egg saved up for emergencies, and the possibility that I would die from my melancholia was so urgent that I decided to turn on the spigot all the way to its maximum. I blew a month's rent on an Hermès bag and purchased Aesop's hand wash. Beautiful things distracted me from sadness, and I needed to postpone my demise so that I could use them.

The next was communal. I suddenly had an abundance of free time, time that I had previously reserved for Henry, and I didn't know what to do with myself. So, I began to frequent local networking events and activities. I went on a couple of dates and plumbed my would-be suitors for ideas. I was a vampiric leech, taking them up on their offers to play volleyball or catch free film screenings at Lincoln Center just so that I could cosplay at being alive. I no longer cared if I would be perceived. What did I care if nobody found me attractive? I was a walking corpse.

The biggest change was experiential. The onset of Pride season meant another crop of parties would prostrate themselves for my picking, and my newfound singledom, financial freedom, and liberation from insecurity meant that I could participate. No longer did I have any excuse not to.

I bought some eyeliner and went to rooftop venues in Bushwick. I showed up at local queer Asian nights, befriending strangers who I would later realize were prominent micro-celebrities of the adult film world. (One of them, being of half-Cantonese descent, told me he's never been to Asia; I wrote in my journal that night that I hoped he could make it to Hong Kong sometime soon.) I swore that, in my haste as I made my way through the crowds, I'd rushed past ex-boyfriend number three, because I couldn't forget a face that had slept next to mine for three years, but I didn't let myself do a double-take—I was too busy trying to get over his successor. All the while, I let myself move to whatever godawful music the disc jockey put on, relying on my years of figure skater training to swivel my hips. I took expensive car rides back to my apartment at four in the morning.

Me, featuring my trusty Mariah Carey "Heartbreaker" tank top.

Between appointments with my therapists, Pride parties, job interviews, games of volleyball, creative writing classes, and extensive phone calls with my loved ones, I cried and cried and cried. I ran into Henry at some of the finance networking events and my heart stopped—first with despondence because I still wanted to repair our relationship, and second with great indignation because he barely even worked in my industry. I loathed him. I loved him.

That is how I found myself accepting an inducement, shall we call it, during Pride weekend proper at a Brooklyn circuit party. I shattered my substance virginity with great abandon, front row against the barricade of an SG Lewis set. I had been deathly afraid of running into my most consequential ex-boyfriend in the crowd, despite knowing that he doesn't like attending such events, but my friends offered me something for my debilitating anxiety. I decided to accept.

Tranquility set in over me like the softest embrace. So this is what they mean by floating on cloud nine, I narrated in my head. I could feel myself pushing my worries to the side. I didn't have to think about them right then and there; I could postpone them for later. Kylie Minogue's “I Believe in You” came on, and I was so grateful that SG Lewis could read my mind. I did believe in me, I did believe that I would eventually make it through, and I did believe I could let myself have a good time. There was no pressure to be desired by the gay men walling me in—why should I want to be wanted by everyone when I myself don't want everyone? I was only there to let go.

In the years since, I've tried the substance less than a handful of times. It's nice to be, well, anesthetized, but I don't have very many use cases for it because I just don't care anymore. There are better things to do during Pride, during life. Pride is about thriving, after all.

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