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11:53 p.m. - October 03, 2002 And what a gala. Twig, I wish we could have worked together tonight because I needed someone to cling to. If accuracy was what the agency had in mind when they described the gala as a "fundraiser for San Francisco charities" then somebody didn't do his job (namely, George) because tonight's gala was all about AIDS and HIV and leather daddies and drag queens and men in chaps and jock straps and so few women the ones I did see I wasn't sure actually were women. Hard core. Jesus. The two guys I interpreted for made the evening nearly unbearable because they both found my dimple cute and repeatedly asked if they could touch it. One of their best friends/buddies/whatever dressed as a card (the gala's theme was Alice in Wonderland) thought I was cute and didn't leave my side the entire night. They got cheap laughs at making me blush because I didn't know where to look so ended up looking mostly at the ceiling in the War Memorial Opera House (plenty of gilt there). I felt nasty and out of place and learned that when in the company of many gay men, you don't go into the bathroom unless you're looking for a good time. Beautiful people everywhere and now I have a complex. Visceral reaction exposed my nervousness when one of the bare-chested calendar men (I think it was July) in his leather vest put his hands on my chest and said I should unbutton to display my hair and my eyes bugged out of my skull--card-costume guy said honey he's straight and it went downhill from there. Apparently it's a novelty or something. Everywhere, there was stuff to look at. Everywhere, these guys kissed each other on the lips as a casual greeting. I had a ten minute conversation with the Empress of San Francisco, convinced she had a vagina only to find out no, not at all. The emcee, Donna Sachet (why do they invent such silly names?) has a Deaf nephew and brought me wine and said I have a very macho voice (me? huh?). A contingent of calendar men. Nipple rings. Old dumpy men with purple earrings from the 80s, the feather kind. Pretty boys in sparkly shirts. The spanking. I felt poked and prodded and gross and could not wait to leave. There were the usual oohs and aah I wish I could do that, ASL is so beautiful to watch How do you sign __ and I didn't know the sign for drag queen and I tried to disappear into the wall but couldn't escape (the bathroom episode is something I'd rather not think about) and so tried my best to be funny and pleasant when we know I was short, curt, and nearly mute. I lied through my teeth: I have a girlfriend. Louder. I have a girlfriend! Louder. I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND. That strategy didn't dissuade comments and why is it that gay men all talk about sex? I invented an email to give to the card guy. In fairness to him, I have to say he was a nice guy but he gave me the willies the way he clung. He didn't cling; it was more standing right in my face. He repeatedly touched my shoulder and arms. I didn't know what to say other than But. These were, for the most part, masculine, fairly normal looking gay guys who shook hands like men. There were a lot of the skinny guys that look like girls and live the stereotype, but they were in the minority. It was, strangely enough, comforting to see what I'd consider to be regular guys; of course, the leather outfits and other accoutrements distracted from the relief. But all they talked about was sex. And barebacking (that's fucking without rubbers) and the rise in infection rates and t-cell counts (I think I have that right) and more sex. Learned that leather pants are worn to say I'm looking for sex as well as display wares. Learned that only fools swallow. Learned that there are daddies, leather daddies, cubs (apparently that's me), twinks (the ones who are girly) and the Ugly. Learned that chest hair is popular (didn't know it was unpopular) again and the more you show, the better. Learned you don't adjust your crotch because card-man next to you takes that as an invitation; there is no such thing as discreet. Crazy evening. I don't think I fooled anybody.
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