San Francisco, gay capital of the world, where a man having an intimate conversation with a man in a bar can mean a lot more than a shared interest in the same baseball team. So the other night, I trooped off with a posse of my new friends from work. In particular there is my friend A, a sophisticated 23 year old male from West Virgina who somehow managed to develop a Euro-trash accent after spending a year abroad in Germany. A was recently been seduced by F, a feisty 29 year old Italian woman, no doubt falling irresistibly to that faux-european accent of the younger A. They were, as they say, an item.
Anyway, we arrive at this nightclub, confusingly called Cafe, which is smack in the middle of the Castro. Cafe is your typical gay bar/pick-up joint/dance club. And we had gone there to meet with some other friends, who, it so happened, were gay. We mingle and dance to the music - ranging from obligatory 80's kitch to some heavier trance beats. It's an intensely packed place in the middle of the dance floor, hot flushed bodies writhing to the beat, and this being a gay bar, any young male may, and probably will, be propositioned. And not even male. When we arrived and found our friends, one of them, a tiny indian girl was doing this dance with two tiny gay men (I presume), which I shall describe compactly as a Double Gyrating Sandwich.
My friend A, is an experience junky, or so he says, and at some point in the night, a striking gay asian man, G, with cutting cheekbones and washed blonde streaks slither from out of the crowd and sidles up to A. A enjoys the attention and excited by the homo-erotic charge starts to dance intimately mano-o-mano with G.
Meanwhile, F is dancing just adjacent pretending that this is not happening.
As hand reaches over hand, caress over caress, movements whirl into an intricate foreplay movement. The motions intensify until A has bent over backwards on the ground, knees bent, back of the head touching the ground, and G is lying prostrate over A in some kind of grinding motion.
At this point, F leaves the dance floor.
They dance some more, and when the novelty of watching A dance with G wears off, I wander off in search of F. She has moved to the opposite side of the dance-floor, dancing with our other friends.
By and by, A returns, wearing a stupid grin on his face and finding F, who does not. F does not look happy, a look of intense approbration marring her normally joyous face. For the next 20 minutes, A turns on the charm, melting the approbation right off her face. In the end all is well, but I could see the barest whisps of doubt behind those feisty Italian eyes.