Clubs, by Will Stanton

Joining a club sometimes can be a good fit, sometimes not.  DPMC, or Denver Professional Men's Club, is a euphemism.   I suppose that, if the club were located in a more cosmopolitan area with a reputation for having a large gay population, such as San Francisco, the club might have been named “Denver Gay Men's Club.”  Also, to me, “Professional Men's Club” sounds rather presumptuous.  All it really means is that a member is supposed to have enough money to host and cater large gatherings of around one hundred men, has an elegant home large enough to accommodate such a group, and money to hire bartenders.

A few years ago, Dr. Bob persuaded me to join DPMC and sponsored my application.  After all, “Not everyone is suitable for admission.”  This reminds me of the quotation attributed to Groucho Marx, “I wouldn't want to be a member of any group that would have me as a member;” for I do not have a very large, expensive home, and I cannot afford to cater food for a hundred men or to hire professional bartenders.  I did join DPMC, albeit only briefly.  My rationale was that I needed to get out more, meet more people, socialize more, because I had been so isolated living alone and running a home office after the death of my partner.

I generally am open-minded, enjoy people's company, and give people the benefit of the doubt unless proven otherwise.  Eventually, however, I realized that I was not particularly happy in DPMC.  So many of the members seemed so full of themselves.  Everyone stood about, shoulder to shoulder or occupying the various chairs and couches, chatting to their few  selected friends to the exclusion of others.  Most of the members drank, some drank heavily.  There was plenty of catered food, although the heavy drinkers often ignored food or merely nibbled at it.  The gay bartenders were kept very busy and made a lot in tips.  I never have been big on alcohol.  If I ever had a drink, it was only one, and that was for the taste, not to get a buzz or to loosen up.  One egotistic member, known to give private cocaine parties and popular with those who attended, tried to give a recovering cocaine addict some cocaine as a birthday present.  Those factors alone set me apart from most of the members.

I made a point of circulating among everyone, trying to get to know them.  I discovered, however, that the long-established cliques tended to stay together and were little interested in getting to know new members.  Also, although ages ranged from early twenties to, in one case, early eighties, most were at least a generation younger than I and clearly preferred to remain within their own age group.  This certainly was true in one particular case.

Long enough ago when brick-front stores sold CDs and DVDs, as opposed to generally buying on-line, I used to frequent Tower Records.  That large store had a separate room for classical music so that those of us with sensitive ears would not be accosted by the sound of pounding drums and screeching pseudo-singers blaring from the speakers in the main part of the store.  Naturally, I found few, more discerning shoppers in the classical room.  That is where I was surprised to find a boyishly-young shopper sorting through the opera recordings.  We struck up a conversation, and he mentioned that he was studying opera and sang tenor.  We found that we had a lot of interests in common.

I later discovered that this young tenor was a member of DPMC.  I found him chatting with a small group of twenty-somethings.  I greeted him and spoke with him for a moment; however, I quickly felt that I was regarded as an intruder, my being older and not a member of their clique.  It also became apparent that another in that group had taken the young tenor as a partner and preferred not having any strangers talking to him.  So, regardless of having similar musical interests with the tenor, I did not fit in.

I found that the older members of DPMC were more courteous and accepting of newcomers, yet I had little in common with them.  The eighty-two-year-old multi-millionaire, who made his money in Texas hogs, sheep, and most likely some oil, lead an ostentatiously flamboyant life, as evidenced by his owning a pink Rolls Royce, a much younger, former drag queen, and a large home decorated in a style that would have embarrassed Liberace.  Yes, they were kind enough to invite me to their Christmas party, but our interests were so different that we did not make socializing together a regular habit.

The most unusual member whom I met was Jimmy.  (I am leaving out his surname.)  I was puzzled by his arrival at a DPMC party one evening, his appearing to be no more than fourteen-years-old and in the company of a tall man in his mid-forties.  I dismissed the idea that the older man had the indiscretion to bring an underage partner, so I wondered why this man was bringing his son or nephew to an adult party.  Later in the evening, I noticed that Jimmy sat alone, abandoned, ignored, and obviously very sad.  When I witness people feeling hurt or sad, that distresses me.  So, I approached Jimmy to see if I could cheer him up.

During our conversation, Jimmy revealed that he had an off-again / on-again relationship with the tall man, and was living with him.  I sensed that Jimmy felt that he was being used but had no practical idea how to find an alternative life.  I was interested to hear that he loved classical music and owned a grand piano, although it had been placed in storage because the tall man had no room for it, leaving Jimmy without the opportunity to play.  He also enjoyed opera and cooking.  I was able to observe very clearly that he never smiled, that his apparent sense of sadness and loneliness were disturbingly deep-seated.  He surprised me when he mentioned that he was employed.  I also noticed that, contrary to Jimmy appearing to be too young to shave, he sounded much more mature than a mere fourteen.  I said to him, “I don't wish to be too personal in inquiring, but how old are you?”  He stunned me when he replied, “Forty.”  Trying in my mind to reconcile the dramatic difference between his age and his appearance, I quickly concluded that he must be an extremely rare case of Kallmann syndrome, an affliction of the hypothalamus and pituitary gland that, at the very least, prevents puberty.  I then understood Jimmy's sense of alienation and isolation, his being a forty-year-old man who looked fourteen.  He being so different, he did not have a sense of belonging.  

My having been working for many years in behavioral health, I wished that there were some way that  I could help Jimmy and offered to be available to talk with him if he desired.  He seemed thankful and provided me with his full name and phone number.  The next weekend, I phoned Jimmy a few times to see how he was doing and if he needed someone to talk with.  I received no answer, and he did not call me back.

At the next DPMC gathering, Jimmy again appeared.  I spoke with him, saying that I hoped that he was OK.  He puzzled me when he stated that I could have phoned him.  I replied that I had but had received no answer.  About this time, a DPMC member with camera came around, taking pictures for the next newsletter.  The moment Jimmy spotted him, he bolted from his chair and hid behind a large fish tank, refusing to have his picture taken.  The cameraman tried to persuade Jimmy to come out from behind the fish tank and to have his picture taken, but he adamantly refused.  I interpreted Jimmy's action as having been so self-conscious and unhappy with himself that he would not allow his picture to be taken.  I never saw Jimmy after that.  I wonder what became of him.  I hope that he has found happiness.

I did not stay in DPMC much later, either, mostly because I was not impressed with what this club turned out to be, and I did not find people with similar interests who could become friends.  Another contributing factor was that the events coordinator must have thought of himself as a twenty-something, slam-dancing, hot club-guy; and he arranged events to suit himself, despite the fact that most of the members were more mature than that.  He arranged for a Halloween party in a huge warehouse and hired a DJ to play ear-splitting, pounding noise.  Literally, I could not remain in that warehouse, even though I had stuffed paper napkins into my ears and stood in the farthest corner away from the towering speakers.  The decibels must have been about twenty points above the level that causes hearing damage.  I was forced to flee to the parking lot, finally deciding that I might as well leave.  There was no way I could go back inside and be comfortable, let alone protect my hearing.

When I was about to leave, a long limo with a bunch of queens and driven by a Russian émigré came into the parking lot.  It just so happened that my costume was that of a KGB officer, with a KGB general's hat, black-leather coat, trousers, boots, and gloves.  The Russian noticed me immediately, came over, and addressed me in Russian, which, obviously, I did not understand.  He turned and walked away when he realized that I was not Russian and that my apparel was merely a costume.

The events coordinator arranged another gathering at a bar that was built like a concrete box.  Apparently he had hired the same DJ, who played ear-damaging noise.  Several of us fled to the rear of the building and finally left the event early when the bar needed that area to set up for another event.   Later, when I politely inquired of the events coordinator why he arranged extremely loud events, he gave me a very snotty reply.  I increasingly became disillusioned with DPMC.

There was one annual event that was supposed to be very chique, the Christmas black-tie dinner.  Formal tuxes were expected and an extra fee charged.  I did not attend.  Friends, who are no longer members, have told me that they found the event rather artificial and ostentatious.  They, too, became disenchanted with DPMC and quit.

The very last gathering I attended consisted of several cliques that clung to each other and ignored everyone else.  At that point, I finally concluded that DPMC had almost nothing to offer me.  I let my membership lapse and ignored membership-fee notices mailed to me.

Since then, I was introduced to the Story Time group.  Here I have found people who have something worthwhile to say, who have had interesting lives, and who are interested in hearing about other's experiences, thoughts, and feelings.  These members are genuine people who share without pretense and who provide a welcome atmosphere of trust.  These are the people I look forward to seeing each week.

 © 4 March 2015      

About the Author 

  

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.