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Fruits on Sticks, or the Gay in Gayla


At eight o’clock on a Saturday night I found myself dressed in a tuxedo sitting in my living room, wondering if my escort to the annual LGBT Center Gala was ever going to arrive. I guess the waiting game is what I should have expected after inviting a drag queen to be my date, but that wasn’t easing my stomach as I dreamed of the delicious appetizers and an open bar the invitation had promised. The moments ticked by, and like a crease in my Dior tuxedo pants I was starting to settle in, cozying up to my boyfriend on the couch and reliving the events of the previous nights.

As I formulated my plans for the weekend, I noticed a buzz from my friends about a show taking place on Friday night. A certain Miss Jer Ber Jones was coming to town, and though everyone seemed to be excited about it, no one would specifically tell me why. It was, “Jer Ber is coming! Jer Ber is coming!” But who was she? No one seemed to be able to answer that question. I didn’t want to schlep out fifteen bucks to see some concert I didn’t know anything about, so I decided to do what seemed to be the natural choice and simply attend the after party.

Babies on Fire, as the after party was named, was held at everyone’s favorite raucous party location, and everyone was sure to be there to fill me in on the details of the show. The music was popping while every artist and club kid in town was dancing. The show had been hot, but what was hotter was the THE Lady Tigra, of 80s pop duo Tigra and Bunny fame, who was on her way to shake her shit. She was knee-deep in comeback, and like all bygone divas was reaching out to the crowd that could most appreciate her niche; the gay circuit. She looked effortless in her towering wig and psychedelic mini-dress, and told stories to me and friends about the 80s scene, and how good it was to be back.

As I went through these memories I was shaken back to earth by Miss Ambrosia Salad, my escort for the evening who had finally arrived and left me breathless in a Mr. David creation. She was an hour late, but worth the wait. We arrived at the Gala to find a crowd pleasing favorite, the open bar, stacked 30 deep with homos of all ages and persuasions. We jumped right in and then, with martinis in hand, started scavenging for tapas and trannies. What we found was a room full of our favorite performers in their street drag, obviously finished with numbers that many of them described as “their best performances in years!”

On the banquet tables around the room we found appetizers aplenty, but not of the gourmet variety we had been assured. The oyster bar and duck confit we had so anticipated turned out to be finger sandwiches, finger sandwiches, and finger sandwiches. Delicious, perhaps, if you are expecting a variety of cold cuts and carbs, but my date said it best when exclaiming, “I’m PISSED!”

We did a handful of fruit-loops, chatting with friends, working the middle, watching middle aged lesbian couples dance to house remixes to the tune of “I’m Coming Out", and before long headed to the safe refuge of Sparky’s diner, where we devoured a meal we so desperately needed after the gala’s upsetting fare. I choose to believe that we simply must have missed the good grub due to our tardiness, and am happy that the fundraiser made a great organization thousands of dollars! I also reaffirmed my old adage; food-on-stick parties will never been a substitute for dinner. Never!

The next day, surprisingly sans hangover, I headed to the NakedSword Knock-outs photo shoot. The online VOD provider had assembled 8 of the hottest guys in the industry today to pose together, despite their separate studio affiliations. They mingled, seamlessly transitioning between who had been doubly-penetrated and what they had studied in college. It was not the most exciting day for me, but the porn stars where so elated to see carbs at craft services, it was hard to resist the sloughed off high-spirits. They humped each other and then posed as sexy boxer’s, all the while proving that porn stars are really about as riveting in person as you could imagine.

At the end of the day I sat my tired dogs down and thought about all the merriment of another week in San Francisco, and how lucky we are to have such a live and diverse community of LGBTs. There was always something going on, and even more shit to talk about it! Like the drag promoter who forced me to schlep her cupcakes, the DJ who shattered a MUNI train’s front window, or the socialite columnist who had to leave the gala early due to a rumored Restylane overindulge. Now, you know I know all these freaks and weirdos, but I can’t embarrass them in ink. My word is my moniker, and I never break a pinky swear.