If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, it stays with you for the rest of your life. Yet I could not ignore the visions of myself in Los Angeles. They said there was a place called Santa Monica. It called to me.
I have never been drawn to the rugged American West. I prefer Key West, Spain, or Cuba. But I have an innate sense of adventure. This is what drew me to the Pink Pony Club in West Hollywood.
For weeks before the journey, dreams taunted me, insisting that I visit the Pink Pony Club. I knew I could be happy there. I can be happy anywhere there is liquor. I heard this club was a place where boys and girls could both be queens every single day.
I want to be clear: I have never wanted to be a queen. I respect a man’s desire to make himself into whatever he wishes. Anyone who can pull himself up by the bootstraps should be free to do so.
Though the journey itself is important, it is good to work toward an end. I was happy to finish my trek at the doorway of the Pink Pony Club in West Hollywood. When I walked into the club, I said, “God, what have you done?”


