fancy pants

I finally got me some RoMo time this weekend. Between our two travel schedules, there has been no super happy RoMo HoMo times in over a month (not since SubLime). I was going through withdrawal.

The loosey-goosey time-indeterminate that is the Spanish/Latin scheduling and lack of protocol proved too much for RoMo and he had to cut loose from the lovely Latinos in order to successfully work in three commitments with a hopeful SoMa finale. Which was lucky for me as it meant I could get in some quality socializing with RMJ. I traded my plan for the Trannyshack Kiss Off (which I was sad to miss) for another theme.

RMJ and I had a social engagement in the Castro and regrouped at Twin Peaks before the next stop, a annual Fancy Pants party in Potrero Hill with the AoF crowd. Now, RMJ knows that being invited to a fancy pants party last minute is not so much a challenge for me. It's not so much trouble to find fancy pants in my closet, as it is to choose the most suitable pair.

Now I can bring it to a fancy pants party. The trick is wearing a pair that translates appropriately to pre-parties, post-parties, and a late night leather tour of Folsom Street. I chose the blue jeans with blue glitter embroidery I made for this year's Post Holiday Blues Party.

While we were enjoying our Mandarin and sodas in the window of Twin Peaks and watching the costumed throng of theater goers headed to the Castro Theater for the Sing-a-long Little Mermaid, we spied to handsome gents in ridiculous plaid golf pants. We were reasonably sure we would see them later at the same function. if not, God bless them.

Now, the hosts for Fancy Pants are lovely, kind gents. The crowd was very AoF and RMJ and I stopped running in that circle a few years ago. I can't knock anyone in particular (well, I can but won't), and I hesitate to comment here at all, its just that that particular social circle has always seemed to me to be too false, to preoccupied with social climbing/ standing/ status/ or money.

I mean, I came from high society. I can socialize and socialite like riding a bike (hell, the society page asked me to be a hat judge at the races this year). But there is something around the AoF events though that seems rather forced. There is a strong background murmur of uneasy superiority, and an arrogance masking an underlying insecurity. Too often that artificial smugness manifests itself in an exclusivity based on body-fascism. And being more "bear" than "body," I just find the pretension unmerited and unpleasant.

They are all, almost universally, very nice to look at. Someone once told me when I moved here that "muscle queens rarely date outside their own species," and the attention span at these function reflects that attitude at times. At one point, one guy actually said to me, "you're not hot enough for me to be talking to" and brushed past.

I appreciate honesty and am secure enough in my own merits that it didn't really bother me, but for fuck's sake, that was such a loser thing to say. And unfortunately I felt as if he had merely verbalized what a lot of the other plastics were thinking.

Okay, for not wanting to talk about that I seem to have rambled. Suffice it to say, as much as I love socializing, socialites, and hot, wealthy guys in tight clothes-- I am not always excited to receive such an invitation. That, and there is often too many drugs for my taste. When we saw this sign outside:


We thought, "no kidding."

That having been said, this party featured both the unpleasantly plastic and the wonderfully friendly, and RMJ and I wisely spent out time with the latter.

Our hosts were, as always, the life of the party and exceptionally gracious.


Wes referred to his pants pattern as "glamouflage." Awesome.

We also happened to meet the cute boys who had fancy-pants pranced before the Twin Peaks window about an hour before.


And our fancy pants:


(You'll have to click to embiggen to see my glitter designs.)

I had had a coffee/lunch date that afternoon with Oklahoma J. I was the one who asked him out, but after a couple of phone calls it was clear this would not advance to a romantic relationship. I of course kept the date though, as to do otherwise would not have been gentlemanly. I prefer tempered honesty and a strong non-verbal to game play and machination.

I think it would be unkind to enumerate the disparities here, so I'll just highlight these points of my view: (1) it's not a good idea to talk about marriage, rings, and buying a house together before the first date; (2) I need someone who not only enjoys parties and urban adventure, but can hold their own in a room full of people they don't know; (3) offensive drag can be performance art when done right; don't knock it, (4) there is too much adventure to be enjoyed in the City to spend endless hours in online role-playing fantasy games, and (5) coffee and vodka are staples.

The nail in the coffin was the question: "What's Project Runway?"

RMJ and I spent some time talking about dating and relationships and reasons why don't do much of either. For me, it came down to this: if I'm going to date someone, they are going to have to get the joke.

And they'll understand what that sentence means. (RMJ knows. Kevin knows. Shilpa knows. It's a get it or don't thing that can't be explained.)

I say all of this because Don totally gets the joke. That's him on the left.


I don't date much; I'm too busy and otherwise engaged with life already. But I asked Don out. RMJ and I had another party to get to and a deadline for arrival, so I had to be a bit forward about it. Hopefully I was still charming even on an aggressive schedule. He has my card, and hopefully is checking up on me— which will likely include reading this.

So there.

Call me.

Now, on to the next stop:

The next stop was at 7th and Market: Mr. Smith's for a private birthday party. I will say Mr. Smith's is a very cool space. The door guy kept the crowd to a manageable shoulder to shoulder without it being too dense. The Victorian lounge space was a warm mix of vintage and modern with high ceilings and a loft, as well as a underground club space. The crowd was very young 20s straights, predominately white and predominately pretty. But very young, and most of the guys wore the same uniform of stripped dress shirts, or over-embroidered button-downs, strategically untucked.

RMJ and I had our non-verbals honed and navigated this appearance and disappearance with aplomb. It's so nice to have close friends with a shared shorthand, be it code words or shared glance.

By now it was closing in on one o'clock, and we wrapped up the evening with a Folsom crawl. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to wardrobe for three City events, one themed, and South of Market? God I'm good.) After several stops we stayed at Chaps. We took the space with the fewest people and made the most fun.

Highlights:

• Me to Andrew, out of drag, trying desperately to pick up a solid daddy, "Excuse me, aren't you Tiger Lily?" Tiger and I work together at Rodeo events and booze booths.
• Tober Brandt, muscled porn star who has gone over the top with the ink and the horns and the hair and firmly ensconced in the land of WTF as our barback.
• Meeting the diminutive professional flogger (i.e. that's his occupation.)
• Watching the professional flogger get worked over with his own flog by the "expert" bartender.
• Snatch, fresh from her show at Marlena's, defining fierce.
• Crosswalk exchange: RMJ to tall, muscled, leather man in the middle of the street hailing a cab, "Where are you off to handsome?" "Home. I have to eat and go to bed." Judging by his glassy eyes, forming that sentence was a Herculean effort. Then calling out his shorter buddy, who was feigning modesty and hanging out at Powerhouse wearing a sweatshirt. "But this unzips..." RMJ demonstrates revealing nothing underneath. Shyly he responded "Yeah, okay, this comes off...."
  
• Getting molested and bitten on the street corner by said hottie with the zip off sweatshirt who was jonesing for me as a "big guy" (That certainly erased any bad taste left over from the muscled disdain I felt at the earlier party.)
  
• The professional flogger trying to rip off RMJ's investment couture shirt that seemed to be made from mosquito wings, gossamer, and hope; and RMJ crying out: "Delicate fabric! Delicate fabric!"
• Running into Mickey D. on the sidewalk, the FedEx guy I had a crush on back in 1997.
  
• The professional flogger inviting us to join him after the bar closed at the MACK Folsom Prison Sex Club, where he had to go to work. Invitation politely given and politely declined. I know my limits.
  

Home by 3:00, happy, sated, and sober. It was a good night.