Okay, I’m really not sitting here at my desk cruising loonerz.com. Maybe I am. Now I’m not — I’m back behind the wheel of the Tiny Log, after a week of abject neglect, while I somehow survived Pride week. A recap:
Last Thursday I went to the St. James Infirmary’s anniversary party. This clinic that caters to San Francisco sex workers had the best fetish party I’ve ever been to, ever ever ever. It was what I’d wished the SF Fetish Ball had been, what Exotic Erotic only has sweaty latex dreams about becoming. This was the real deal, with fetishes of all stripes on display, hosted by the gorgeous Mistress Morgana, and I made it in time to catch performances by my new favorite cutest-ever burlesque group in the world, The Hot Pink Feathers. Fakir Musafar hoisted a trapeze artist with only his nipples; the eloquent Cleo DuBois did an amazing medical-fetish-themed piercing performance (where the woman ripped out of her pierces, wow!) and so much more. On top of all this, the heat was a record 95 degrees that night, with no breeze — very rare for San Francisco — so you could smell the rubber dresses, my skimpy schoolgirl uniform was way too hot, the cosmos went down way too easily, and everyone was half-naked. In the dark bar, it was an outrageous atmosphere.
Friday was the She-Rotic reading at the Polk St. store, featuring myself, Carol Queen, Cara Bruce and Felice Newman. The place was packed, the atmosphere casual, and the readings blisteringly hot! Cara Bruce, a longtime friend and a woman who I adore, lust after and respect highly, read my favorite piece of the night, a short story about a stripper who gets face-fucked by a businesswoman on her lunch hour. Cara can really cook ’em up… Out in the audience was Joe Gallant, telling us where we could all go and anally fist a porn starlet at shows starting 5, 7, 9, and 11pm, and also where to find anal fisting videos in New York city — ah, Joe.
Saturday was the holiday here in SF known as Pink Saturday, and the City was crowded with tourists of every orientation, all here to celebrate Pride. I did a book signing in the Castro, overflowing with happy people, dirty dancing beefcakes wearing pink G-strings in shop windows and it was sunny and warm. At the signing I was lucky to be seated with Matt (Matilda) Bernstein Sycamore, editor of Tricks and Treats, a collection of writings from sex workers (all kinds — prostitutes, porn stars, more) on their most poignant trick experience. I LOVE this book, it’s gritty, real, dirty, arousing and extremely educational — and I got him to sign a copy for me. Plus, in his frilly pink panties and with his very handsome face, I just had to flirt a little… Hey, flirting with gay men is fun!
Sunday, the pride parade was an absolutely incredible experience. Last year was a lot of fun, but this year was like a Fellini film. Good Vibrations partnered with the Extra Action Marching Band, sort of like Freddy vs. Jason (where a whole bunch of college kids get caught in the middle and no one will die). The band looked amazing, with their explicitly dressed flag team, two fully-costumed pony girls as stanchion (SIC?) bearers, kinky cheerleader pep squad, and the sexy, sexy band. Good Vibes mostly dressed as GV cheerleaders, but of course no one told me about this plan, but I could care less because I had a sexy fetish Supergirl outfit — and we had SF Drag King Rusty Hips with us, who, if you remember "Blue Steel" from Zoolander, you will understand. We started late, I found out later due to a phoned-in bomb threat along the parade route and an attack on a city supervisor, but rocked Market Street hard — especially when the band played Black Sabbath covers, those dykes in the crowd went wild!!! Right at the parade’s end they forced the band to stop playing, threatening a $5000 fine, and they stopped, but not until we rounded a corner a few blocks away. By that time I was the only GV person with the band, leading them to a nearby bar where I had planned some post-parade snacks and drinks. They walked slowly, playing a beautiful, moody dirge, like a funeral procession or an Eastern European song of sadness, all the way down the shady alley. The area around the parade route is one of the roughest neighborhoods in SF — in the dot-com era it was flashy SOMA for just a few seconds, but it’s always been the real home of hundreds of homeless junkies, the largest collection of crack whores, and always is the filthiest neighborhood in SF, fraught with violence, laced throughout with despair and poverty. It’s been this way since I was a kid, and since I work in GV’s SOMA offices a couple days a week, I see stabbings, whores and tricks and junkies sleeping with needles hanging out of their arms on a weekly basis. It was down one of these alleyways that the band played on with their eerie dirge, bringing the denizens of SOMA — shopping carts, talking to themselves, waiting for tricks — out to watch as we passed by.
At the bar it was a huge, fun party. Eating, drinking, dancing — even spanking. (I got to spank a drummer — with his own drumstick — fun!) At some point, one of the band members smoking outside saw a rival marching band going by a few blocks away, likely on their way home after the parade, and chased after them. They came over to the bar and challenged Extra Action to a Drumline-style play-off! Turns out it was the UC Davis Cal Aggie Marching Band, and I remember that at last year’s Pride parade Extra Action paused in front of them as we went by on the way to the parade and played a song at them, almost challengingly — was it time to even the score? It was — right there outside the bar, in the alley intersections! The squeaky-clean and extra peppy Cal Aggies played their swingin’-est tunes, trading songs with EA, each band choosing a more complex, tighter song to throw back at the other band. Cal didn’t have any nearly-naked flag girls dancing routines and spreading their legs on the ground, or sexy flag boys doing lap dances on nearby parked cars, but they were incredibly tight, fluid and very skilled. They couldn’t come in the bar (not old enough?), but I brought them out a case of sodas!< It seemed like everyone had a good time, which made me happy I arranged the band marching with GV, and arranged the party afterward -- and I paid the tab for it, too, ouch, it cost a lot. I'm not at all rich, (in fact I lived on the streets as a kid/teen) but I feel strongly that you only live once, and as I've seen this year (way too dearly), you can go at any time, no? And what an experience of a lifetime -- I wouldn't trade the credit card bill for anything. Too bad when I got to work today one woman called me over to her desk to really let into me about how she was unhappy with the way "some members" of the band behaved at the party, that someone stole her drink tickets, they were bad tippers, etc. Which was all utter bullshit, and I told her that (here I go, in another fight at work again with one of the thankfully few overly-critical negative staffers of GV). I bought all the beer -- it was all free for anyone in the bar, tickets or no. I stayed after with several members of the band to help clean the bar, and spoke openly with the staff about tipping, no problems. Obviously her complaints were false, and I also saw her chatting amiably with several members of the band that day. Perhaps this woman was upset about something else -- not enough attention, she wished the party was her idea, she doesn't understand how people behave at bars, whatever. It really smarts to go to all this work, fully know and witness that Extra Action truly poured their hearts and souls into this performance, and get shit for it. Well, most of us had the time of our lives. The next day my brain was cooked -- there was no way I could work on my next two books (call for submissions on one of them here), deadlines approaching fast. I saw 28 Days Later, the scariest movie I've ever seen -- I can't recommend it highly enough.
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