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A Long Awaited Event


It was the hottest week of the year in San Francisco. It was in the high eighties to low nineties -- one day it was rumored to have broken one hundred degrees -- and the folks around town were showing it. When it’s a hot day in San Francisco, people always say that "this is the hottest day on record in history." If it is an unseasonable 70, it’s the hottest it’s ever been. These hot days are to be cherished, though admonished by some, fore the anomalies they are, and thankfully there was plenty of cause to celebrate.

On a balmy Friday, as the work week finally lowered its weary head, I was sitting by the pool at the Phoenix Hotel sipping a gingery cocktail. With my feet in the pool and my head in the clouds, I watched the after work crowd as they enjoyed the light breezes and minty mojitos on the idealic, tropical bastion in the heart of city. I was ready to take on another exciting San Francisco weekend! I took my “four-cocktails later” ass to the Castro to see what the devil was happening.

The Castro buzzed with the life of the weekend, and tenfold as the folks teamed by on the streets, spilling out of every nook and cranny. I hit the Mix, the Dick, and 440 before heading my tired, lousy ass to Dolores Park. While I saw plenty of man-handling, groping and canoodling in the Castro, the dykes in the Park where practically bear wrestling. It seems that hot times were emanate, and what steams up in the park more often than not leads directly to long, steamy, sleepless nights in the bedroom.

It seems in the midst of my drunken stumblings on Friday that I promised a friend from Tahoe that I would host her and her friend on her 21st birthday. I was not happy with this decision on my part, as my hangover left me craving rest. I got plenty of the R&R I needed by the pool at the Paramount that day, thankfully. I was ready to take these gals on one gay-ass adventure, which led us right to my favorite haunt, the Hot Boxx Girls! It turned out to be my best call of the weekend.

Coincidentally, on this eve, it was the one and only Vicki Marlaine’s birthday. The venerable “lady with the liquid spine,” whose vagina is older than me and performance career dates back to the Barbary days, was turning a sweet 74-years old. She looked flawless, and came out at the end of the show in a tight, short, red dress that was enough to make the girls in line around the corner at suite One8One jealous. My lady friends were SPEECHLESS! I was overjoyed and glowed with Pride.

We ventured out into the night after the shows close, and ended up on Haight Street at the now frequent Gemini Disco. Sylvester echoed throughout the bar as patterned lights reflected off the dancefloor, making it come to life with visual magnetism. You couldn’t help but move to the dancefloor, and the bar itself seemed vacant in comparison. The heat, the lights, the sounds; it all seemed sort of Studio 54 meets Brooklynn du riguer. It was the perfect end to a magical first city evening for this lucky 21 year old. She even showed some nasty “hair bitches” how to really work a pair of heels. The next morning, before she left, she took me aside and thanked me. I told her I wished that was how my first night out in the city had been, and it made me fall in love all over again.

So ladies, while I was introducing a girl to a night on the town, who was switching teams to take a girl to a night in the bedroom? Who made out with the bearded lady and was now regretting it, and who was logging off Manhunt to hit the newest hot club in town, M4M. I wish I could tell you, but I was obliged to keep the secrets. We all have our callings. Turns out mine is withholding the juicy tidbits, and wrap them up in a Pinkyswear!