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532 West 27th Street, that’s where I was headed, to the legendary Sound Factory nightclub.  Walking from Port Authority after taking the last bus from the Nanuet Mall, in Rockland County, to New York City.  There I was on the West Side Highway without a care in the world.  All I know is that I was going to meet a guy that I met on a phone party line for gays.  Yes, I’m that old.  

There would be one stop on my journey.  Before arriving at my final destination, he would take me to The Tunnel, another legendary NYC nightclub on 12th Avenue but whose entrance was on West 27th Street. I stood out like a sore thumb as I wasn’t as stylish as the others waiting in line.  He found me fairly quickly and brought me to the door where we just walked in. I’m loving this; I didn’t have to wait and I didn’t have to pay. Yes, more, please.

We soon found ourselves in an upstairs lounge and he offered me something on a key. “Crystal,” he said it was, and I said, “OK!”  I snorted it,  it burned and a tear came to my eye.  If only I had known all the tears that would be shed because of that drug, I would have said, “No, thank you!”

We ended up at Sound Factory. It was amazing. And I felt that I had arrived, that I found my tribe. This is what I had been looking for my entire shy closeted gay boy existence. A month later I was back and he introduced me to his friends and it seemed like they each had a different drug on them. Just like that, I was popping X, snorting K, doing a hit of Angel Dust, and whatever else they were offered me. All my insecurities were gone.  I was still shy, but could hold a conversation.  I still had scars from eczema, but I didn’t care.  I was black and didn’t seem like anyone on the dance floor cared. 

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