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Hung Guy Fat Boy
Happy VD fags, sponsored once again by Magnet. It’s been hectic since last we spoke. As every year, when the trees start to flower the tides tend to shift. That fugacious burst of spring, sated with fresh flowers and chilled sunrays, was bound to be washed out by the last harsh storms of San Francisco winter. But while we basqued, shit was hitting fans. All over the city, the frenzy of activity combined with overwhelming desires to get out and about made for some straight-up crazy fags.
Take Example A: Walking up Castro, I was about to enter the Diesel store to say hello to the manager, my friend Rita (she’s fierce, just so you know). Outside the doors, a crazy fight was going down involving some street urchins, a Muscle daddy, and a street musician with a candle. When threats of hot wax to the face started surfacing, I wondered if the filming of “Milk” had been overtaken by some “La Vida Loca” inspired porno shoot…”Bathhouse of Wax,” anyone? To my dismay, the Diesel employees immediately called the cops and all the good makings of hot man-on-man action à la UFC where thwarted.
Believe you me; I thought I had seen my share of violence, until I attended the annual scrap-fest known as the GayVN Awards. The violent trend in the room started to feel palpable when guests found out, upon arrival, that there was a CASH BAR.
A Cash Bar to porn stars is surely more troublesome than MRSA, so you could only imagine where the night was headed. As Lady Bunny pleasantly ripped on everyone and performed that same tired number from the Wig Stock documentary (which is still kind of funny) it seemed, through my wasted perspective, that all was right.
After the show, the much loved (nudge) porn stalwart Michael Lucas started spouting through his abnormally pouty lips about prejudices in the judging. Like he is the Kanye West of the porn industry? Please! I was taken off guard. It could just be that no dinner, six drinks, one Vicodin, and many bottles of Moet and Dom Perignon swayed my perception, but I am almost positive that every time I looked at Lucas the same Restalyne frozen gaze observed the show, no twitch of anger to be seen. Facial paralysis has a way of playing with you when inebriated, I suppose.
There was no rest for my hung-over ass the next day. The bears, who had firmed their furry grip on the city by Sunday afternoon, had all but filled every bar and meeting space from Castro to Soma and beyond. It may seem like a large exploit for 50 guys, but those bears aren’t the daintiest of flowers. (Disclaimer: my current hostility may spur from serving drinks at Bear Underwear Night on Valentine’s Day.) At any rate, they bused those bears around town until every last corner was packed tighter than a Big and Tall going-out-of-business sale. Even the venerable Tiffany couldn’t think about alone time when she pandered to their honey pots on Friday night. May that horrified look on her face live longer than her mall-friendly bygone jams!
So, which chubby club conductor lashed out at my last column, you wonder? And whatever did happen to that dignity, I mean- bag of coke, I mean- nomination that was lost at the GayVN Awards? Could Chi Chi LaRue even walk the next day? I know all of this and more, but I can’t just tell you everything. I never break a pinkyswear.