Related Articles: LGBT, All

Pinky Swear

Say My Name

Hey there! I don't know if you recognize me, but I have had my eye on you. Did I serve you drinks at Daddy's, or maybe a coffee at the Bearbucks? Oh, that's right, I saw you on the MUNI. No wait, you were the one tanning on the manshelf at Dolores Park. Like a sentinel, I set my sights on you and all the filthy little secrets you are trying so desperately to hide. The time you went to the bar with Stephen but left with Mark, I was watching. Whether behind my Ray-Bans or from the dark corners of the bars I am always there, and I’ve got my sights set on you.

Whether on the streets or in the bars, I catch the scandalous soirees of the gay social set without fail. Something new, something different or something downright disreputable is ever-present in my gaze. Eyes fixed and dilated, I seek scoop from across the city as it spreads like a viral plague.

My personal agenda makes me not too dissimilar from MRSA ( the methicillin resistant staphylococcus aureus bacteria superbug), virulent and unrelenting; I prey on my unguarded brethren. Not to say that this whole Staph hoopla is worth its weight in words. Spreading homophobic propaganda in the guise of personal preservation doesn’t really support our group image, and who the fuck believes that a human condition like STAPH could possibly be pinpointed to one sub-group. Last time I checked there were plenty of those filthy disease infested children in the 94114 zip code.

I am not GRID 2.0. Unlike the repudiated literature of MRSA STAPH, you won't see me issuing apologies for offending. I won't be homophobic in my coverage of les gays. To appreciate the camp and camaraderie is to be replete with the Homo spirit of sharing that makes our community incestuously fascinating and multi-faceted.

As I narrow my voyeuristic lens, pray that my focus strays far from your clandestine activities. One slip from a loose lip will land you completely exposed and vulnerable. Topics will remain first-hand and free-running. My presence seems to act like a magnet for scandal. I wish not to explain or defend, but rather solely to exploit.

My close-knit group of friends is always at the top of my interest list. The 100 or so names on my dance card think they are keeping me busy, but in reality they are just helping me chew the cud. This week I had the pleasure of lunching with my friend Kevin Seaman, bear cub socialite and actor of local proportions (starring in the upcoming fascist fantasy “Disney & Deutschland”).

We walked onto Castro Street amid the normal smattering of glances and whispers that are oft abuzz. In this neighborhood you never know who you will see or what to expect. Another typical afternoon in the Castro; last night’s drag queens plaster flyers on the street poles, squinting through caked remnants of their spectacular façade. Saucy old men saunter between the shops with smiles saved for the block between the beloved glass coffin that is Twin Peaks Bar at Market Street and the “Mix at Six” (a.m. that is). All seems in its rightful place, like an old-towne Main Street of splendid repute. However, as nighttime blossoms, these same streets continue to whisper the striking stories that will fill my lines.

I have my eye on you, my tribe. You hold my fascination, challenging me to explain who we are and will become. From my first days in San Francisco I knew I was deeply in love, and promised myself I would become a narrator to your sordid lives. After all this time it is good to know that I can keep my reputation intact, as I never break a pinky swear.

Until we meet again,
W.