For this week’s column, I wrote about three moments in sex in San Francisco. However, some editor with sticky fingers decided that the word “dick” (in the text, not a subtitle) was way too exciting, and edited my piece to say “d-” in several quoted, plot-important instances. Which means nothing to anyone, especially anyone reading blogs or other major online papers. Dick is a noun for “penis” (circa 1990) and nothing more. I’ve got a taste here, but if you want, read the unedited final section after the jump: It makes more sense, and reads better. Snip from City Stories: Three Moments in San Francisco’s Sex Life:
Update: THEY FIXED MAH DICK!!!! WOOOO!!!!!!
Update 2: I noticed that a few of the more humorless SF Gate commenters on the piece seemed to think that these stories were somehow embellished or made up. They are totally true. Next week’s true tale of sex in SF goes even further, so there. :)
One: Talk Dirty To Me, MUNI Version
Westfield Mall exceeded my expectations. Not for the fact that we seem to now have a real, Hot Topic-boasting mall smack in the middle of The City, but for the restaurants in the bottom. The food court is a high tech maze of yummy gourmet smells and buzzing electronic coasters, of tourists and families snarfing up grilled salmon on skewers, and a few homies eating sushi for good measure. It’s a far cry from the urbanity of the old men playing chess in the sun above ground at the cable car turnaround, next to the tall white kid with the banjo who sounds like Tom Waits and all the lingering pickpockets; it is our mall.
There were a few hot days last week, and on one of them I convinced Hacker Boy to untether his laptop and flirt over some faux pho at Out The Door. After lunch, we slipped from the mall’s coolness into the sweaty swamp of the white-tiled Powell Street Station to catch the K back to my place. It was a late lunch, and the trains were crowded.
A seat opened and I sat, looking up into the tall boy’s green eyes. The ride was quiet, jerky, packed. Feeling frisky, I gestured towards HB, and mouthed a request. A private, explicit request.
“What?”
I repeated the gestures — okay, not really gestures, but American Sign Language. I mouthed my question clearly.
“What?”
Once more, with feeling, I signed and plainly mouthed, “Do you want to f-?” A huge grin spread across his face, followed by a “Yes!” (I don’t know why, but the pho-disiac always works on those nerdy, all-black-wearing hacker types.)
Link.
* * * * * * *
Three: Polk Street Dick*
It is almost a scientific fact that you can live in San Francisco and never leave your neighborhood. Just as true and empirically proven, you can live in the same neighborhood as your closest friend, and see them once a year — when you make an effort. It’s not the hills, obstructing views and dropping calls. It’s not that we can’t see well in the fog. And it’s not that MUNI sucks. Even though it does. It’s just the way things go.
By that token, we as a population go through individual phases of trying to see friends and get out of the ‘hood; all this is what had me heading toward Lush Lounge on a Monday night. There are a few bars that sit high on the local’s list for tongue-tripping, mind-bendingly delicious mixed cocktails, and so when my old friend Dani wanted to catch up, I figured Lush was likely still a good bet. On the corner of Polk, not far from the Mitchell Brothers’ O’Farrell Theatre, it combined a warm, poshy cocktail atmosphere with that icepick-cold Lower Polk seediness. Since Dani and I used to work together in the Upper Haight, and drink after work at Club Deluxe, Lush fit the bill.
Dani came in the bar like bullet out of a gun, pointed right at me. “You won’t believe what just happened to me!” She didn’t wait for go and said, “So I’m driving over here, looking for a parking place. My window was down because it’s warm, and when I came to a stoplight a hooker came up to my window!”
This was no surprise to me — Dani is a woman, but a chiseled, butch African-American genderqueer of a woman. Her cheekbones are razor sharp, her smile framed with dimples that’ll cut you just as deep, and her close-cropped hair has always gotten her a double-take (usually in the right ways). But Dani seemed a little over-excited about being mistaken for a guy looking for company; I wondered if she was upset about the gender confusion from a (likely) high street worker.
Dani breathlessly pushed the story out, continuing, “She came up and asked if I wanted to party. I said no, oh shit, I can’t remember what I said because it was kind of flattering, but I said something like I don’t think I have what you want. She said she’d suck my dick, she’d give me a real deal! And then she practically dove in my car window head first into my lap! She was groping at my crotch and yelling, ‘Where’s that dick!? Gimme that dick! I’ll find that dick! C’mon, show me where that dick is!'” Dani gulped my cocktail and went on, “This woman’s face was in my crotch! I practically pulled her out and hit the gas as soon as she was off the car. It was crazy!”
I told her that story needed to end in a stiff drink, and we ambled to the bar. Only to find that Dani’s wallet, was gone.
* This dick was left alone.
