Frustration

Because Sometimes I Go There

Anyone who was around at the time is not likely to forget the haunting beat and chilling lyrics that seemed to symbolize a growing fear within the gay community. “Tainted Love,” in fact, was a cover of a song originally recorded in 1965 by Gloria Jones, who was also the girlfriend of Marc Bolan of T. Rex. Still, it is the version by Marc Almond and Soft Cell—featured on their 1981 debut LP Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret—that remains etched in memory.

The album, and the artists themselves, set out to explore what they described as “squalor and sleaze”—a mix of angst and social commentary on the modern world and the uneasy transition into adulthood. As I’ve written many times, growing up was never my cup of tea. Anything that cast a skeptical or disdainful eye on responsibility and adulthood spoke directly to me. I was there for it. It resonated.

Marc Almond was one of those British stars who fascinated the hell out of me. At the time, I was still in the closet—for reasons that, in hindsight, don’t fully hold up. It was 1981. I had already escaped the people who frightened me most when it came to living my truth. I was deep into my new life in Los Angeles—Hollywood, the clubs of Boys Town, what would later become West Hollywood (before its incorporation in 1984). And yet, I was still afraid.

I was working in Marina del Rey at a TGI Fridays—the very job that got me out to Los Angeles in the first place, so I can’t regret it. But the times were what they were: the political climate, the pervasive heteronormativity of the area, and the simple truth that being gay was far less accepted than it is today.

And let me be clear—I know it’s still no picnic. For many people—gay, lesbian, bi, trans, non-binary—the protections remain inadequate, and the politics can still be cruel and hateful. But socially, something has shifted. There is a pride now, a visibility, a power in being queer that feels more accessible. I only wish I could have felt even a fraction of that pride back then, instead of hiding and living a double life throughout the 70s and into the early 80s.

Still, it was my experience. I don’t regret it, nor do I deny it. Every part of that journey has value. Each piece contributed to my evolution, shaping the path that would slowly move me toward authenticity, toward happiness, toward becoming who I truly am.

So why talk about frustration? Why revisit a song that captures stagnation and emotional entrapment? Why do we, as humans, place ourselves in situations that halt our growth—or convince ourselves we must stay in them to preserve something superficial or material?

It’s a good question.

Because oddly enough, when I first heard “Tainted Love” in 1981, my life was anything but stagnant. The closet, perhaps, was the exception—but otherwise, I lived day-to-day, largely carefree. I was 23. Not much rattled me. My life was a party.

I worked in a restaurant with a massive bar raised in the center—my entire world at the time. Being a waiter in red-and-white stripes, covered in “flair,” was a performance. I played the fool, often fueled by something, balancing six plates at a time while putting on a show—part buffoonery, part hustle. I made good money for the early 80s. The problem was, I spent it just as fast—on drugs, alcohol, and the illusion of a life that never quite stabilized.

I had a roommate, David, who had also escaped Arizona and moved out with me. We lived in an apartment in West Los Angeles near Bundy. We were incredibly alike—working together, partying constantly. What still makes me laugh is that we were both in the closet and had absolutely no idea about each other. We didn’t find out until years later. Now, we’re both older, married, and living our lives in different parts of the country.

So what triggers the feeling of frustration for me now?

It brings me back to that era—to “Tainted Love,” to sneaking into gay nightclubs, to Marc Almond, and to the rush—the dopamine hit—of stepping outside what I believed was “safe” or “acceptable.”

But the real frustration didn’t live there. It came later, in cycles—especially during the years clouded by substance use. The deeper frustration shows up when I lose touch with spirituality, when I forget that I have choices, when I stop allowing myself to let go of problems that, more often than not, I’ve created in my own mind.

The real frustration comes when I start to feel ordinary—when I forget the man I’ve worked so hard to become, the one who is anything but.