Twin Peaks

The sun boiled away in a blazing yellow mass as I exited my hotel and clodded out onto sidewalks teeming with the filth of the night. The smells of car exhaust and pungent homeless assailed my nostrils as I made my way to the subway. Past shopping carts crammed with memories broken alcohol bottles mingled with piss and vomit. Black pimps screamed at passing cars and hiphop hoods stood in doorways shivering waiting for The Man. Market Street and Minna is the skid row of the world. Gone are the Benzedrine fueled beat poets of legend replaced by the ever present glow of a crack pipe.
Jump the BART to a station and I head to Castro Street to see what all the fuss is about. Fairies flitter and coo in stylized ballets in leather and denim down sidewalks lined with Victorian buildings and I find a bar that i can relate to - Twin Peaks.

I order a beer and sit staring out the large glass plate windows at the night that is picking up. I look around - old gentlemen of leisure sit and laugh and drink. Very few youngsters. A few quick beers and I am approached by an elderly white man and his young black friend - casual conversation and jokes and laughter that I live in Tijuana.

The black guy - who is named Daniel - invites me to his next destination called 440 Castro. We say our goodbyes and jet over to the next joint - upon entering I notice that it is a goddamn leather bar. Bloated, bearded queens coo and cackle with their hairy ass pansas falling out. I do not enjoy a crowd as such - however the people where quite the friendly sort. So, hell - I let my hair down. Several behemoths flittered at me and was commenting with lascivious grins, "Lookit that cub!" Cub? As in bear cub? Ugh. Thoughts of John Merrick passed in my head, "I am not an animal - I am a human being!"

Even after some shots of whatever, I even loosened up and was quite the witty one. One note: The wait staff is very prompt and courteous - the guys (Though rotund and hairy) were the friendliest queers I have met in many a moon. Almost - almost! - changed my view on American queer joints.

Liquor and booze always is a good combo and as the night progressed so did the advances of Daniel. Tall and thin, he is a handsome man, and I am not just talking through beer goggles. He invited me to some joint called Meat Rack - I thought what a cute name for a bar. It turned out to be sex club.

Okay.

Payed the twink at the door and entered the dim lit halls. Music pounded and 80's porn warbled from monitors. The sounds of gasps and grunts of random broken lust. Daniel sure likes the elderly - cause this place was crawling with wrinkled ashen queens doing their insidious business. Daniel and I - both still drunk were siphoned into a dark recess and again I was acquainted with the black myth. Long hard erection exposed and I kneeled down and did what I do best. Another African American sided up, took out his long and nasty and joined in. I was flopped around, pawed, man handled and liberties taken with my virtue.

Two hours later, I find myself alone in a 24hr coffee shop hung over and ass sore staring out the plate glass at the trolley cars rumbling by. An old bum, blackened gray by the dirt of the Metropolis staggers by on the opposite side of the street - he slouches and stumbles staggering on, blackened hand, shiny over the dirt leaves a grimy trail on the office windows...