My final night in San Francisco was a
I stayed on the couch with my gay friends and was taken to a boy bar.
A boy bar comprises lots of steamy, oiled up, gay guys dancing on podiums and snogging same sex couples.
My final night here, my new best gay friend piped up:
“Shame we should probably take Peas to Haight, you know, as she hasn’t seen it yet.”
Other gay friend: Haight is a bit straight for me.
Sigh. I want my straight back. I’m craving my boyfriend and as lovely as it is hanging out with a bunch of queens, it’s time to go home.
I spent the evening getting smashed on Bacardi’s (doesn’t Daffyt ‘the-only-gay-in-the-villudge- drink Bacardi’s and Coke? God), I found myself putting one dollar bills down one of the dancer’s pants.
Don’t remember this, just the evidence of the picture the morning after with a face that looked like I’d just sucked on a lemon.
The club was grinding. Guys groping guys, girls sucking on other girl’s faces, and me, clutching my new Kate Spade scarf.
Eventually I went outside, sat on the pavement and made another new [gay] friend in the process.
My friend came to find me shortly thereafter, “Peas! You look like a homeless person, get off the floor. “
Fair play love. There are lots of homeless people in San Francisco. Most are gay and on crack.
“I want my boyfriend. All this cock talk, and now I’m ready to go back to England.”
And so after one last Big Gay Night out, I can safely say that I have spent enough time in the gay world of cock. It was fun, but now I’m getting grumpy and need some straight time with my Brit.