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The One with the Really Scary Week

Blog Post #2 — June 10, 2019

After my face-to-face meeting with mortality on May 29, learning I have Large Granular Lymphocytic Leukemia, I started to think even more about the future. I don’t want to isolate any longer. I’ve spent way too much time in bed with migraines and assorted ailments. I decided to start church shopping again and to join a couple of gay mens’ social groups.

Now, anyone who knows me probably knows I’m not good at group things. Well, unless I was tweaked on meth back in the height of my addiction. But even then I wasn’t great at them. I was kind of the Monica to a room full of Joeys, making sure everyone had drugs and beverages. But I won’t be going back to those group scenes ever again, Lord willing.

The last time—which was the first time—I tried to participate in a gay social group was in L.A. at a gay singles party. And in typical Lewis fashion, I stood in a corner, peeling the label off a beer bottle and putting up the thickest wall possible. Yet, all the while I bemoaned my fate: “Why won’t anyone talk to me? Am I that hideously ugly?” I slunk away to my car telling myself what a loser I was. Sheesh. I’m sick of thinking and speaking these words.

You see, I need local friends. Badly. Sitting alone in my house is not helping anything. But it’s not like friends will just present themselves at my door. Well, unless I want to become a Mormon, a Jehovah’s Witness, or buy a home security package.

So tomorrow night, June 11, 2019, I’m going to walk into a social group gathering at a restaurant in downtown Denver. Unfortunately, there are only maybe three gay guys in the farming town of Brighton where I’m stuck. I mean, currently living. And two of those guys appear to be in a relationship. Hint: I’m not one of them. So I have to travel to be ignored.

But maybe, just maybe, someone will talk to me and I won’t duck out in the first ten minutes. I’m picturing a restaurant full of in-shape, fantastic looking guys… and me. Me with the gut, me with the bottle job hair color, me with the 15-foot-thick fortress around me. So I wonder. What if I just forgot about all that crap and just tried to have a good time? That’s a very tall order for me. If you’re curious how I turned out this way, I have a book for you coming out on September 9, 2019.

It would have been far easier in L.A. when I could have proudly said I was a project manager for Disney. But now? Let’s see, I sell my collectibles and my dead brother’s crap on eBay, help my parents when my stepdad allows it, and not much else. And there’s that self-published book thing. But it’s not a compelling package: my looks, my lack of job, my residing in farm town Brighton. Dammit. It’s me at the sixth grade graduation party at Nancy Smith’s house where I held up a wall and then sat outside waiting for my ride.

After 53 years of this crap, can I try something different? It will take every ounce of guts (and do I ever have guts, rather one big stubborn gut) I can muster to walk in, put on a smile on my face, and try not to stand in a corner. I’m not looking for “the one.” That ship sailed long ago. But friends would be amazing.

Thanks to the site Meetups, I’m trying another gathering on Sunday: a non-drinking gay group, which for Sunday’s outing, will be comprised of mostly dykes attending Pride. And I've never attended Pride in any city ever. So me and a bunch of lesbians at Pride. But they know gay guys, I would think. It’s worth a shot, if only for a humorous blog post.

And perhaps I’ll learn tips for vaginal care and intimate waxing patterns.

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