Back in San Francisco, the first order of business was brunch, of course, cause I’m all gay and stuff. We hooked up with our young friends, collectively known as The Children, at the ever fabulous Foreign Cinema. Drinks and coffee flowed, bacon and omelets were downed, a good time was had by all.
Of course there was a price to pay, isn’t there always? My stomach is reporting in with heartburn of a volcanic level and claims the bacon had uranium in it. Please tell me it is not actually possible to die of indigestion. I feel like if I breathed towards an open flame, we could all go up in a terrible blaze. Dammit.
To take my mind off grease-based misery, some houseboy booty.
Obviously a young man who sensibly avoids brunch overload. Dammit.