San Francisco won the World Series. Whoo. Yay. Considered me as thrilled for the home team as it is possible for a gay man completely uninterested in sports to be.
Celebrations of the win around town turned into the widely expected teeny tiny riots. Dozens arrested, people stabbed or shot, small-ish bonfires hither and yon (and by “yon” I mean the middle of Mission Street.)
Even the Castro, our gay epicenter, was not immune, but much more tastefully. Secret Agent Fred and I were down there about midnight (long story, let’s just leave it at we were down there.) Toilet paper streamers crumpled onto the street everywhere. I’ve been saying for years how the Castro has been dwindling as Gaylandia, but last night, perhaps, just perhaps, gave me pause as we heard someone screaming “Christina!, Christina! Clean up this mess.” And plenty of people apparently got the joke. Maybe there’s life in the old girl yet.
|Before: streamers artfully strewn.
|After: crap in the street.
God love the commenters of mrpeenee, miscreants all.
In two recent posts, I included photos of guys who had intrigued me, but whose identities were lost in the mists of the internet.
Of course, readers of this blog would be the source for all things smut and sure enough, two of our minions came through. And a big thank you to both of them.
umaneo reports the first one is straight porn guy Tommy Gunn. My in-depth investigation reveals that he is an attractively rough looking customer. In the scenes I watched (for archival purposes only,) the young ladies receiving his attentions up the poop chute seemed genuinely discomfited. Oh, yeah baby. Wait, that’s not what I meant to say, I meant, Brute, of course.
almchrl1 then chimed in about the second one “He’s a Russian model, Dj and performance artist.I fergit his name….” Turns out a quick google of those terms reveals he is one Pavel Petel, Besides being a great big humpy hot homo thang, he also has a number of interesting insights into being a great big humpy hot homo thang in Moscow, where his sexual identity is illegal.
His Tumblr site, HERE, is most amusing, you should go look around it. I especially liked the spread of him dressed as a unicorn, with a fat hardon, hanging with a pink gorilla. I can also recommend “King of Twerk,” but then again, I would, wouldn’t I?
Turns out I vacation so I can take naps in beds other than my own. Secret Agent Fred and I took the train down to Los Angeles and I spent almost the entire 11 hour trip asleep. Nothing is as lulling as the rolling rhythm of a train and there’s really nothing else to do, anyway.
The L.A. tain station is gorgeous
We stayed in the Biltmore downtown, where the lobby and other public spaces were also pretty spectacular, with all the original, elaborate details intact,
but our shabby rooms upstairs were like being confined in an old folks home designed by somebody who had seen The Shining once too often, complete with fluorescent lights and dingy yellowing paint. We fled to a tonier hotel I like in West Hollywood, so I could sleep in a nice place and so we could be closer to the gogo boys of Santa Monica Boulevard.
The car rental place stuck us with a white Chevy Impala, the Car of Shame. The poor clerk handling the exchange was trying to be pleasant, he was pretty cute, and acknowledged this was not exactly the Batmobile, but I was overcome by some kind of gay Tourette Syndrome where I couldn’t help blurting out bitchy snark. I am ashamed, but it’s true, we did look like we could be busting hookers in Hollywood. Did I just imagine the valet parkers sniggering as we pulled up? Maybe, but this was L.A. after all, where you are what you roll.
Speaking of muscular semi-naked guys dancing to Madonna, we had a lovely evening out at some bar that I swear is a time warp to 1990.
The strippers were terribly cute and Fred has a way with them, they’re drawn to him like he’s a puppy with a fistful of singles.
Tragically, I now find out we missed the 2013 GoGo Boy Appreciation Day Festival and Competition by a few weeks. Count me in for next year’s. I’ll see you there.
I wish, quite sincerely, that I could more like our blog pal Jon, master of Dolores Delargo Towers and Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle. Gay Pride celebrations are something Jon looks forward to, embraces in their fullness and enjoys completely. He is, even as I write this, cutting a big pink and lavender swath through the middle of London. He is most certainly unlike me already wondering how to go out for coffee tomorrow and avoid Gay Pride entirely. In San Francisco. The center of the gay vortex.
I understand Jon has the right attitude, that the celebration is the result of hard work and real sacrifices by better men and women than me who struggled in the face of oppression. I know the idea of a huge parade and citywide party that lasts for days in honor of sexual deviancy is one which would have amazed and delighted those people. And yet, I don’t want to go. I feel, keenly, that I am ingrate.
Plus, I’m sure this year’s shindig will be unusually full on. A major victory in the Supreme court is reason enough to celebrate and the timing of it seems almost deliberate. The weather is even cooperating, unusually balmy and California-y, after a freak summer rain earlier this week cleaned everything up just in time.
I still don’t want to go. My bad.
I think a problem is having been exposed to Mardi Gras for so long and New Orleans’ brilliant grasp of how to have a good time. That’s what I want here, the sassy lack of inhibitions, carpe fucking diem, that full throated WHEEEEE. Certainly, Gay Pride here tries for that, but somehow misses. Maybe it’s the earnest fussing over not hurting anyone’s feelings that hides behind the curtain of “inclusiveness.” Maybe it’s the corporate sponsorships butting in: “Gay Pride brought to you by Miller Lite, Citibank and Various Other Entities that Would Have Fired Your Gay Ass Fifteen Years Ago if They Knew You were a Cock Sucker.” Although they’d probably have a hard time fitting that on the banner. Maybe I’m just turned into a grumpy old man who dislikes crowds and fajita stands. That’s it, it’s evolution.
So I’m not going. I am an ingrate and a bad person, but here’s what it comes down to:
What we want for Gay Pride:
What we get:
So where can I go for coffee?
So, almost five years ago, R Man and I got married and today, the gubmint finally, as I mentioned over on Cafe Muscato, officially declared our union Not Icky.
The recent Folsom Street Fair, featuring public bondage, gays dressed up like pandas, and my favorite thrift store, Out of the Closet.
Everybody knows I like the porn, right? I have an archivist knowledge of the subject as well as an aficionado’s fondness of it. So when the topic of Resse Rideout, porn person, and his being straight while professionally having sex with other men came up (on some really unfortunate VH1 show,) I was less than impressed. Plenty of guys doing the nasty in gay porn and other rent-type boys insist they are straight. Maybe they really are just interested in easy money, maybe they gots issues. Either way, I don’t particularly care.
What struck me more in this instance was the substantial gap in appearance between the mister and his missus:
Reese, the kind of muscley smoothness and pretty face I’m so darn fond of.
Mme. Rideout, who looks like she would be someone you could turn to if you were interested in finding out the current price of crystal meth.
|Also, as a side note, there was a period when Reese Rideout’s face looked sort of odd. I thought he had had cheap work done, but now seeing his charming wife, I wonder if, instead, it was recreational chemicals.
|Cause he’s not gay. Heavens no.
So tonight we move on from “previous friends” to “previous tricks.” Or “men with whom I previously had some brief and probably furtive sexual liaison.” Maybe I’ll just stick with “trick.”
Lured into the Castro by this afternoon’s lovely, lovely weather (warm in the sun, cool in the shade, 60’s-ish, lalalalala) I ran across not one, but two guys who used to be on my intime list back in the day and, honey, they was looking ROUGH. I might refer to them as the Walking Wounded, but the first was only sort of shambling along and the second was just slumped on the sidewalk. He might have been talking on his Blue Tooth, but since he wasn’t wearing one, it seems more likely he was just having a quiet chat with his demons.
I don’t think either recognized me; the first since he was distracted by dealing with the open door at Walgreens and the second because he was distracted by being crazy. Besides, there are lots of men in this fine, fine country of ours who would only recognize me from the top of my thighs to the bottom of my hips.
And before any of you let loose with some supposed humor about what this says about my taste in mens, let me emphasize these connections were light years ago, when these poor guys were both more functional and solidly cuter. But then again, so was I.
Let me, then, salute all the cute guys who are out there right now. Here’s to ya baby. And even though I have retired from the lists, I encourage the rest of you to celebrate their beauty by squeezing on it as often and as much as you can. Because tempus fugit, baby. Tempus fucking fugit.
|So very much what I was not looking for.
Secret Agent Fred and I celebrated Gay Pride in San Francisco by ignoring the whole thing, waiting until all the boa-clad revelers were down at the giant, messy celebration by City Hall, and then sneaking down into the Castro to have a very late lunch at nice newish joint called Jake’s. It was very tasty and since we ordered off the brunch menu and I was wearing a pink tee shirt, I figured that counted as my personal Gay Pride.
Then we went over to the Fashion Sensation’s house and listened to 80’s dance tunes and told stories and washed chocolate and cheese down with champagne. Wonderful. That’s my idea of The Gay Life.
It’s Gay Pride AGAIN? Already? I can tell because the lovely warm weather we had for the better part of a week has imploded and we are back to the San Francisco norm: chilly and gray and foggy. As a San Franciscan, that’s ok with me (I always feel underdressed without a sweater or two,) but one does feel sorry for the pathetic tourists, foolishly dressed for what they thought was California as they stand around shivering and their bare legs turn blue. I snuggle into my summer suede coat and think “Sorry, suckers,” and hurry past them. Sad, really.
Tourists were very much on my mind this afternoon hanging around my favorite little cafe, Peet’s, trying to read as a table of them loudly debated the correct pronunciation of the local major thoroughfare, Gough Street. There were several brave cracks at it, including the classics “Goh” and “Gow” and “Joff” and one of them even landed, briefly on the correct “Goff,” but was voted down by his fellows. Again, sad, because I’m sure the snotty cab drivers hereabouts will refuse to take you anywhere you can’t pronounce to their satisfaction.
|Possible gays, but pretty much what representative of what you can be sure will be in the decided minority come Pride Day.
Sos anyway, I’m preparing to hunker down and ride out the rainbow colored madness of it all. I have some errands on Friday and after that, it’s me and the cat home all weekend casue I’m already plenty gay enough, thanks.