Tony Bennett left his heart in San Francisco fifty years ago, and the rest of us are still looking for our pants.
It was a festive, and not entirely single, Valentine's weekend in SF. About a dozen bars hosted a Castro-wide pajama party on Saturday night, billed as the First Annual Pajama Jam. You know me. I'm a party joiner. Hunter, my new buddy and bear bar wing man, was game. He was a bit worried though about dressing up. At first he was nervous about a pajama party, because he sleeps in the nude. I had to clarify that this wasn't a "come as you sleep" party—even though I did wear my actual sleep clothes (comfy!)—but rather "costume." This was advertised as a neighborhood slumber party.
Furthermore, there was some stress on Hunter's part that if we dressed up, and no one else did, we would look foolish. He asked, "What happens if we show up and we're the only ones in pajamas?" My answer was simple, "Then we OWN it." In my opinion, if we show up in a bar in our pajamas, that makes us the cool ones. And empirical data backs me up on this. It's not like this is without
precedent.
Hunter was on board. And even asked to include another new friend of his whom he met via Scruff. The more the merrier, although sadly, he turned out to be NPLU and too timid to leave the house in PJs. Sad face.
Parking on 18th, the Edge was our first stop, and we didn't get 15 feet before seeing friendly faces in the slumber gear. My amazing body worker
Alex was one of the first friends I saw in sleepwear. On the corner with his friend Barrett, I tried to get another patron to take a photo, but there was a fairly steady parade of bedtime beauties walking by and it proved a challenge to get us all looking at the camera at the same time.
While our plan was for a Castro Crawl, we didn't make it to many bars. We started at the Edge, which was definitely a bar in the spirit of things. Love my gays. This one I did not know, but I loved his style. The pink foam curlers really made the bed set.
Hunter and Craig are a little shy, and we started out the night merely people watching and making commentary. When a fuscia-haired mad woman in a fur cap made her way loudly through the bar with a young cuter behind her dressed in a white onesie in her wake, Craig said, "My God... would you
look at that woman..."
To which I cried, "
Wilma!" Love the Wilma. (Some folks also call me Wilma, and we are most certainly a party of two.) Accompanying Wilma was the ridiculously adorable Kris, a visiting English lad who was most in theme in a Where the Wild Things footsie pajama set complete with hood and tail. He made it himself, and brought along pastel fabric markers for people to comment on the fuzzy, fleecy fabric should they be so inclined. Hunter and Greg thought he was in a bunny costume, and from then on he has affectionately been referred to as The Bunny.
The Bunny sensed an immediate intimacy with me and sought some personal advice fairly early on in our relationship. "What do you know about cock rings?" He had never worn one before, and someone had given him one for the night to, shall we say, help put his best foot forward. He asked if I might check it out for him and being the kind and generous soul (yes, that's what I'm going with) that I am, I obliged.
Good heavens am I glad I did. Someone gave him a thick gauge black disposable rubber ring whose diameter was such that I was surprised his bits and pieces hadn't already shriveled up and fallen off from
band ligation. I quickly said, "
Oh dear. That has
got to come off. No wonder you're in pain. Let's go next door and get you a proper one." I had to take a moment for how much I love this town: I'm at a neighborhood party, celebrating in theme and costume, enjoying friends, invited to inspect a cutie's cuties, and was going to pop next door to the greeting card, gift and adult toy store, owned by a rodeo friend, to shop for a steel cock ring with as much nonchalance and neighborly charm as borrowing a cup of sugar. The Bunny was a guest in SF after all, and being an (im)proper host is just good manners.
The ring shopping was, as you might imagine, a bit surreal. But
entirely amusing. He needed to try on a couple of sizes, and he took my advice as to style and substance. He also asked for my assistance in the fitting and it was all rather clinical and matter-of-fact, as if he were merely trying on a shirt at Macy's. I half expected him to ask me if that cock ring made him look fat. (Well, yes—but in the good way.) At one point I had to pick up something he dropped and I found myself down on one knee and offering him a ring.
This was all so...
so sudden...
And it was at this moment that Hunter and Craig came in looking for us.
Where the Wild Things Are indeed.
Appropriately girded, I returned The Bunny to Wilma and rejoined Hunter and Craig. The Bunny and I were to enjoy each other's company repeatedly along the crawl, although even the Engergizer can get over-served. Hunter, Craig and I closed down 440, coming full circle by hanging out with Alex and Barrett with whom we started the adventure. And shout to Barrett for party jammin' my Pajama Jam.
Sunday morning I enjoyed a pre-Warren Helman memorial Bluegrass Brunch at the Hotel Utah with Mike Anderson and Misispi Mike (LOVE to Gilly). The rave review of the new menu, new chef, and Rocking Robert will be posted next.
Sunday night completed the Valentine's-themed weekend with Sundance Saloon's annual Sweethearts Ball and underwear party: "Boots, Bras and Briefs."
It's Valentine's. I'm single. And I am not wearing any pants.
Oh San Francisco, won't you be mine?
Looking through my phone photos, I am reminded what a light it is when the lovely and talented Kris Searle visits SF. Kris called me when he was in SF working with his producer on the new album, and new single, in which I hear he is taking his music in a new direction. He's very excited about the new LP, and I can't wait to hear it! 
