1999 feels like thirteen lifetimes ago. I had just landed in Kansas City and didn’t know a soul.

Cue me being a miserable cow of a human — desperately trying to fake joy about my shiny “new start.”

Even worse? My imposter syndrome had imposter syndrome.

And to really round out the emotional bingo card, I was also wrestling with my sexuality. Every time I tried to kick open the closet door, I discovered it had three guilt-shame deadbolts and two hellfire-and-brimstone padlocks.

Other than my day job, my only social outlet was teaching fitness classes. That’s where I met Larry — a fellow instructor who invited me to a pool party at the house he shared with his partner.

I went with zero expectations. Well, except one: the new guy had to bring a 1.75-liter bottle of really, really good tequila.

That’s where I met Larry’s partner Dave Pesch — a seasoned, grizzled, no-nonsense gay guy who was the polar opposite of Larry. He was also the host with the most, wearing a tiny swimsuit that was at least one size smaller than it had any legal right to be.

That day, I met a dozen older gay men who were all hunky, respected, wildly loud, and wildly proud. (I say older … they were probably late 30s/early 40s. Lordt.) They sensed I was scared of my own shadow, so they were kind, gracious, and surprisingly accommodating to my skittishness.

But Dave? He was the ringleader.

I attached myself to him like an unwanted barnacle. With his scruffy beard and squinty, suspicious eyes, he was the human equivalent of a gray wolf — in a Hawaiian-print Speedo.

Dave passed away yesterday, unexpectedly.

Honest to God, if it weren’t for him being such a touchstone and mentor during my “baby gay” phase, I’m not sure I’d have turned out to be such a relatively well-adjusted human.

Dave told me who to befriend, who to avoid, who to flirt with, who not to flirt with, who to trust, and who I never — ever, ever, ever — stood a chance with.

He was Mother Teresa, Dr. Ruth, Paul Lynde, and Sam Elliott all rolled into one.

After my trial summer, I became a full-fledged pool party boy one year later. Those Sunday Fundays were the stuff of lore, and there I was — smack in the middle of it all.

That motley crew kept me sane, sassy, and STD-free for the duration of my 30s.

I’m just one of a long, long list of closeted folks Dave (and his merry men) helped nurture. At times, he believed in me far more than I believed in myself.

Those pool parties will never be replicated. For me, it was a moment frozen in time. And a time for frozen margaritas.

Dave will be missed by many — but especially by those of us lucky enough to have been taken under his wing … and into his pool.