Male Lesbians

Oh, Eddie.  What a classic.  Will you marry me?

I do believe I am a female fag (psst: you only get to use that word if you fuck people of the same gender) as Eddie is a male lesbian. I anticipate we spend equal amounts of time on our appearance. We could share makeup, even. But not the blue eyeshadow. I'd never worry about being taller in heels. It would be so glorious.

No Church in the Wild

    On Halloween, and for the week that precedes it, the streets of San Francisco fill with lunatics overjoyed to be free of their nine to five chains and bound by those they wear in the dark. A set of lovely skirted hips passing by sways to camouflage thick obliques consuming the uncurled waistline of an eighteen-year-old boy, but that’s normal for the Stro. Thirteen masked wrestlers in the space of a block and a half.  A cognizable portion of political statements. Body paint on men and women, cheeks and shoulders, asses and bellybuttons, nipples and cocks.  Feathers reaching to kiss upper-story windowsills, pink feathers, gold feathers, peacock feathers, actual peacocks. And, oh, the leather. You smell leather walking through the streets, laced with sweat and liquor and precum.  Some of the men shame New York’s best male models and Vegas’ best gigolos. In fact, it is a gathering of the largest proportion of good-looking, well-kept, in-shape, exposed beefcakes in such a small geographic area available anywhere in the world. But I see as many tits as cocks.  Women let their pussies hang out on days like this.
    This is now one of the City’s most covered parties, thanks to the costumes.  Furries. Soldiers. The obligatory cops (oddly hard to tell which are the real ones). Numerous people in boxes with various graphics, slogans strewn abreast. And boots! My see-through black boots with three-inch heels and laces look average. I look around expecting to see the aquarium-in-platform of I’m Gonna Git You Sucka.  There is no shortage of pimps. Purple pimps, mostly, though most of the cool colors make a pimpsuit appearance.  Eyes jump from the Obama mask on my right to the man’s ass in front of me, jump to the girl’s ass to his right, and catch the couple fucking in a fold of the building as I pass by.  Hundreds of people, every one in costume…or naked.  But that guy is always naked. I’m not yet stumbling into the friend in a cutoff pink tie-dyed and frayed t-shirt and covered by a denim vest that’s leading my way.  I do, however, have Jack Daniels in my Coke Zero bottle.

    Back in the day, this party was legendary even by City standards. Then someone got shot.  So, now Halloween in the Castro in one of the more muted festivals of the Season. One-thousandth of the size of Pride. One-hundredth the risqué of Folsom Street Fair.  The Gays of San Francisco made this, like all the others, into a day where everyone can walk outside and be proud of whatever it is they feel like looking like. And do drugs.

    I don’t want most of what some of these people want. I don’t want to be whipped, those lash marks look painful. I’m not turned on by fat ladies in leather corsets. I’m only tolerating checking out the chubby or deformed naked people because occasionally there’s a really hot naked guy.  And I do appreciate that.
    San Francisco did instinctively what the Internet had to be invented for Middle America to enjoy: the cloaked but exposed lagniappe you can’t whip out at work, whipped out, surrounded by folks who might enjoy it.  And oh, my, is this exposure. Because it feels good to just do what’s in your head.  And all the reasons they give us to forego that enjoyment are bullshit, thus we continue the bacchanalia. I’m thin on comforts at the moment, and looking around at all these people who seem fucking batshit makes me feel better about being crazy myself.  And it feels good to see other people who aren’t afraid of sex.   Can’t wait to see where this one leads.