Secret Agent Fred and I were making the usual rounds of the Castro this afternoon, Peet’s for coffee, the Glass Coffin for drinks, and then pizza acres the street at Marcello’s A sunny, almost hot afternoon with the last of the smoke from the local wildfires still spoiling the air, really, there wasn’t much else to do but hang in the mezzanine of the bar and make sniping remarks about the habitués below, almost all of whom fell into two camps: cheery old dears and bitter old queens. There were just enough cute, young exceptions to the rule to make ogling worthwhile. The soundtrack was, of course, 80’s greatest hits, which is fine with me so, all in all, a lovely afternoon.
We were struck by one young lovely, muscles and hair equally thick, sitting all by his lonesome, adamantly ignoring all the other cute boys in the bar doing their best to sidle up to him. Later, after we had adjourned for pizza across the street we spotted him loitering on the sidewalk and then he dropped in for a slice himself, all the time alone and stuck on his phone. I had initially speculated he was on some Grindr inspired first date and had been stood up, but we saw him in the bar for the better part of an hour and then out and about for longer than that (Castro is actually a small place.) Always by himself, trailed by admiring, lingering glances.
I wanted to demand “Honey, what is your damage?” Those thick muscles and leering looks are not going to last forever. Do you think you’re going to look back fondly on the summer afternoon in San Francisco you spent checking your texts or do you want to remember a four-way with someone who looked like an Italian blacksmith, a muscly leprechaun and some guy whose name you never did catch?
Oh, you’ll be sorry.