San Francisco Memory #17
Setting: Louie’s Barbershop, The Castro
Year: 1996

Young man enters on a crowded Saturday afternoon. All barbers are busy trimming and buzzing. Young man sits and waits. Watches one particular man get his head shaved: Fifty-something Leatherman; Fu Manchu, bone piercing his septum, biker boots and leather pants sticking out from under the apron covering his neck and torso. Barber takes his time, carefully shaving the man’s head smooth and even. Twenty, thirty minutes pass. Leatherman approves, hands back the mirror, and the barber whips the apron off him, exposing a tiny, trembling Yorkshire Terrier, ribbons in its hair, sitting in the Leatherman’s lap.

Coincidentally (or not), as I was at the barber today someone reached my site by typing in “Gay+sex+in+barbershop+photos”. Sorry to disappoint you: I’m not sharing the hot, man-on-man action pics that were taken while I was there. Let’s just say I have a severe case of razor burn, and no animals were hurt during the production. And if I accidentally attract more photo-seekers by putting that search request in my blog, maybe you’ll stay for the margaritas.

Sanitized for Your Comfort and Safety

This morning one weary, confused soul tripped over a misplaced link in cyberspace and fell, unceremoniously, into my blog; earning the dubiously exhilarating title “One Thousandth Visitor”. I hope it was enjoyable. I report this knowing full well that all you older, wiser bloggers out there can barely remember such an insignificant number. Let me serve as a reminder of your youthful, idealistic exuberance, before your blog became popular, before it quietly and persistently took over your life, sucking you dry of each and every unselfconscious moment you’ll ever have.

Tonight is my date with cute bodybuilder boy. Below is an exchange we had. I’m presenting two versions; the first is the one that really happened. The second was born out of a concern on my part that Republicans may not feel welcome enough at the Campfire. All the past entries about same-sex partner discrimination may be unsettling to you, thus, the second version is included for your enjoyment.

Version #1:

Me: Okay, so I’ll come over at eight, then?
BB: Great. I’ll pick up a movie. What kind should I get?
Me: Up to you. I guess I’d rather not see anything starring a member of the SNL cast, otherwise I’m open. Maybe a good escapist action flick.
BB: Okay, will do. Looking forward to it. See you then.

Version #2:

Me: Okay, so I’ll come over at eight, then?
BB: Actually, I’ve been thinking about this whole gay thing…
Me: Gay thing?
BB: Yeah. Don’t you ever wonder if we’re missing something?
Me: Um…
BB: I mean, don’t you feel kind of…left out sometimes?
Me: Actually, I never…
BB: I want more. This lifestyle that we all lead, it’s so empty and fleeting.
Me: We all lead?
BB: You know what I mean. I want to play golf. I want to go to company picnics.
Me: You do?
BB: I want to feel included when guys around me talk about breasts.
Me: I’m never around guys who talk about breasts.
BB: I want my name to outlive me. I’m talking children, lots of them.
Me: What about the population prob…
BB: I’m talking neighborhood action committees gathered to debate sewage alternatives in a housing development out in the suburbs. Preferably one built on drained marshland.
Me: Really?
BB: C’mon. You and I both know that we are completely responsible for the collapse of the family and the decline of values in America.
Me: We are?
BB: It’s time we gave back a little. It’s time we stop flagrantly displaying our sexual orientation in public. It’s time we bought minivans and life insurance policies.
Me: It is?
BB: Yeah, it is. What do you say? Want to go pick up chicks? I’ll buy you a subscription to Details.
Me: Maybe you’re right.
BB: All those heterosexuals can’t be wrong.
Me: Is there a sports bar around here?

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