Fulsome Hore

I got to mash my face into the glorious buttcheeks of a supersexy stud in broad daylight on a crowded city sidewalk, so you know the Folsom Street Fair was happening in San Francisco.

The weather reflected the event: hot to start, then friskier by the hour. Just entering this street fair is some sort of zoo story: Pair of cops dot the landscape as far as the eye can see, Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence and other volunteers welcome you (and take your money), then you get to navigate a path through a field of horny amateur photographers who either decide to take your picture or crane their necks looking past you to see if something a little more ‘titty titty, bang bang’ is coming into the picture.

As for the merchandising booths, it seemed quickly apparent to me that someone had cracked the whip concerning who got space and who didn’t.

At least 80% of the booths had leather, BDSM activity, or kink related goods for sale, whereas the tacky jewelry, generic t-shirt, and typical ethnic art displays had mostly been nixed. And for once, the boys seemed capable of bottoming with as much intensity and discipline as the women. I still wish we men demonstrated more creativity as to what’s considered erotic and fabulous. With us guys, it’s harnesses, stuffed pouches, and assless chaps, or vaguely glammed up streetwear. I miss the extremes, the androgenous, the freaks, but it’s 2008 and what’re ya gonna do?

I only get freaky at the entertainment stages, when some band energizes my inner exhibitionist. The Joans did that little trick for me this year. They played at the disco stage on Seventh Street, but they sure seemed like a weird little rock outfit to me, even if a MIss Crawford drag queen was singing “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the DIRT.” I tried to get other people to dance with me, but I wasn’t successful until I pulled on the puppy leash attached to this sweet young guy in a gas mask. Someone with the band told me video of this Folsom Street Fair moment would be on ‘thejoansband’ myspace page practically instantly. I haven’t seen it anywhere yet, but then I can never find what I’m looking for on the web, because I’m, you know, old.

Not that I remember every detail of every Folsom Street Fair I’ve attended, but I can not recall ever seeing two guys flat out fucking in the street before. In the shadow of a van, sure, in the back of a bar, many times, but this particular penetration takes place under the clearest blue sky; the fog hadn’t even rolled in yet. I moved on, since watching isn’t all that fun to me, but I sure felt encouraged that all the cops and cameras in the world couldn’t deter these two young men from fulfilling their fantasy.

Meanwhile, I have seen plenty of gorgeous men, flashy eyes, beaming smiles, broad chests, easy in their masculinity, smelling like sex and looking like sin. This one guy stood out: 6’2”, African-American with light mocha skin, jet black eyes, full but trimmed beard, built like a brick shit house but natural about it, if you know what I mean. I had watched him at one of the booths ealier in the day for a few minutes, sighed, and wondered what it would be like to kiss his big beautiful mouth.

I was getting ready to leave. And there he was, waiting to get into Chaps II, at the very end of the line. Well.

Joining that line seemed like the easist, most casual thing in the world. We said hi, and I couldn’t keep my hands completely off of him. He could not have been nicer or more encouraging, so . . . one thing led to another, and he pulled his pants down and I went down . . . and that’s how the most spectacular buns of the day ended up right in my happy face.

Later, much later, when I got home and finally had a chance to look at the Sunday paper, in the Insight and Book Review section, there was a small column about how awful it was when a reporter had to witness a “couple of kids are vigorously making out” on BART.

Right. Back to reality.

Back to America. Back to the idea that sex belongs in the bedroom between married couples and hell, not just sex, but even passionate teenage affection is offensive to some people, when they’re not in the mood to see it. I guess those kids should have remained quietly miserable like most everyone else on the train.

I just really don’t understand why the writer of this column couldn’t open a book, look out the window, listen to music, shut her eyes, move to another area, or change cars altogether. No, the truth is, I don’t understand why she couldn’t stop to remember one moment in time when she had been like this and taken this opportunity to share in their joy.

But instead of letting a smile cross her lips, she wrote a columm denouncing PDA’s. She has access to space in a widely read American newpaper, and this is her cause, her subject for the week: there’s too much lovin’ during the commute hours.

I guess I will never understand the human race.

Comments

[Aaron]

Your dance with the mask-clad fellow is, indeed, recorded. I'm watching it now...I have to upload it to a computer before I can post it (and mine is too slow). I'll do it from work tomorrow and send you the link.

Thx again for coming out!

Aaron
The Joans

[Greg Wharton]

You so rock, Hore. Aaron or Hore, can you post the web address (here in the comments) of the video so we can all easily find it?

[Aaron]

Soitanly. Here's the YouTube link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGLdnch8DfE

[Jwheeler]

Don't worry about not understanding the human race, Hore. When do, that's the time to worry. Great post!