BIG TRIP

Oh man.

Where to begin? How to recount an entire weekend and not have a huge and daunting block of text for you, my readers? I'll do my best to operate by headlines and brief-ish blurbs.

The Voyage Out

Not a prob!

Well, not entirely true. The long term parking lot at Newark was filled, so they sent us to the short term parking lot with a green tag that would give us long term rates. But, I drove around the short term lot for forty five minutes before concluding that there were no spaces available here either, and no one coming out the door with luggage that I could track to his car and nab his spot. I had given myself a comfortable window of time, but that window was closing.

What to do?

How about, move some orange cones and park on white stripes and spend the weekend hoping my car hadn't been towed when I got back? Yuh. Okee. So I did that.

And then, I somehow got it into my head that I was flying Continental. They set me straight on that at the Continental check-in counter. In Terminal C. And United, which I was flying, was in Terminal A. So, it was another trip on the tram for me. But, I even had time to stop at Starbucks for a half-caf grande latte before boarding.

Oh. The security guy complemented me on my boots ("Damn! Those are some big beautiful boots!") and my Schott MC jacket ("Yo. Sweet.") and the young woman at Starbucks, who made my drink wrong, told me she wished every customer was as nice as me.

I eat that up like candy.

But, how unnerving was it not wearing Big's collar? Very unnerving. After the Incident of the Wallet Chain at the Detroit Airport, I decided not to chance it. Hated that.

But I got into SFO, and there was Big waiting for me by baggage claim. Looking... well... like one of the hottest men I've ever laid eyes on. We grabbed my bag, headed to the parking lot, threw my bag in his white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and rectified the collar situation.

Friday Night

Big is a very good driver. Maybe SF does that to you. Several times I felt that my skills wouldn't be a match for the not-covered-in-my-high-school-drivers-ed-class challenges presented by the streets, but very quickly I had full and complete confidence in Big. Big is a good driver.

We drove slowly through the Castro so I could get a first look, and then headed up Market Street to Chez Big in Twin Peaks. (On Twin Peaks? Is that a shiboleth?) Once there, I dropped my bags, and big had a light dinner waiting. Minestrone soup and popovers. (Popovers are a Big specialty.) How perfect was that? Perfectly perfect.

And, Big had a gift for me. A complete bootblacking kit. I'll be in touch with Cubby J. Sherwood about figuring how to use it. It's pretty wonderful. I am one grateful boy.

Good Morning, Sunshine

Y'know what rocks about traveling to the West Coast? You can be a lazy slug and stay in bed till noon, and they think you're up and at'em at 9 am. Big fixed us a quick breakfast of last night's popovers and fruit salad, and then we headed for home. 'Home,' in this case, being Starbucks. And this particular Starbucks was the Starbucks in the Castro. One venti iced latte with two pumps of cinnamon and a tall blend of the day with no room later, Big and I were sitting on a bench watching the world go by.

Welcome To The Castro!

We headed to a leather shop that sells second hand stuff, as they were having a sale. I think the idea is brilliant, what a great way to recycle gear! Alas, there was nothing in my size, so no money was spent. Then, we had brunch on the back porch of a nice little eaterie, and stopped by a plant place a few doors down. The enormous rainbow flag was flying at the Harvey Milk memorial, and Big informed me that the leather pride flag had been flying below it over the past few days, as Alan Selby, who put the 'S' in Mr. S had passed away.

Wow. So municipal government not only mounts a huge flagpole to acknowledge the contributions of it LGBT citizenry, but makes room for the kinksters in the citizenry, too? Wow.

Colorful Natives In Their Picturesque Costumes Practicing Their Charming Folkways

Time for touristry! Into the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and off to the site of the exposition, then down to Folsom Street to visit Mr. S, the store. (Nothing purchased. I think I'm pretty much set gear-wise. Imagine that!) Lots of picture taking. Another trip to Starbucks in the Castro. Then, it was time to head back to Chez Big for a nap.

San Francisco Nights

While I napped, Big got dinner dinner ready. Big does a lot more work than any man with a boy should, I think. But who am I to complain?

Dinner was great. Really superb. But if my Sir had served me toast and Kool-Aide, it still would have been a feast. 'Cause my Sir made it for me.

After dinner, I asked Big what he wanted to see his boy wearing that night. Big opted for the chaps, black tshirt, leather armbands. I got myself ready according to Sir's wishes. Sir looked pretty great himself. Natch. And so, the two of us headed out to the Loading Dock.

Big finds the Loading Dock to be all but totally devoid of sexual energy. And maybe it was just because IML was going down a couple of thousand miles away, but I had to agree. It was like those guys were waiting for a bus.

We took it in, relaxed, had beers.

Then, I was inspired. I'd show those San Francisco boys how this East Coast boy honors his Sir, and save Big the trouble of having to explain why he passed over the local options. Down I went, giving my Sir the boot service he deserves, making him proud. Oh man. When did I get such a taste for boot leather? I swear, I was rock hard the entire time. Happy as a pig in a pile of acorns. When I came up for air, Big was glowing, and a semicircle of awed leatherbar patrons had formed around us.

There. Nuff said. Made my point.

Big and I finished our beers and headed home. 'Cuz a certain boy had earned a nice, long, hard, sweaty fuck from the Sir he serves.

Before the fucking ensued, we had a little portrait sitting. Big wanted some pics of us together, and so did I. And since we were both leathered up, it seemed like a good opportunity.

Glorious Sunday

What a great day. Things started out with breakfast in the Castro with a buddy of Big's.

Interesting thing I noticed about San Francisco: you see the same guys over and over again. There at the restaurant was a boy we had just seen the night before at the Loading Dock, one of the awed faces I saw when I looked up from my boot service. And he was one of scores of repeats throughout the weekend. Sure is different from Life in the Megalopolis.

After breakfast, Big and I stocked up on sandwiches. We were going on a picnic.

We headed across the Golden Gate Bridge into the Marin headlands.

As we crossed the bridge, I asked Big if he was familiar with Armistead Maupin's riff from his Tales of the City books on Tonys and Jeannettes. Of course, he was. AM opines--through Michael, if memory serves--that there are two kinds of people who find their way to San Francisco. The first is in line with the sentiments expressed by Jeannette MacDonald in the ditty she made famous... "San Fran Cisco! Open your golden gates! Another stranger waits outside your door!" Wayfaring optimists, leaving behind their humdrum hootervilles to bask in the California Sunshine. The second variety are those who sway to Tony Bennett singing about his departure without his cardium, lyrical romantics, made melancholie by the spell of the City by the Bay. I had always thought of myself as a Jeannette, but I was beginning to think that Big was turning me into a Tony.

First stop was the Point Bonita lighthouse. Much photography ensued. I find something so magical about those golden hills of sand covered with sage and succulents. Then, back in the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and continuing on to Mount Tam. As in, Mount Tamalpais. (Question: 'Malpais' is a fairly common Spanish-language place name meaning 'badlands.' So where does the 'Ta' come in?) We drove and drove and drove, winding our wending way (or is it, 'wending our winding way') up and up and up. Near the top, we pulled off the road and climed the embankment opposite, and made a picnic lunch of our sandwiches. The whole of the Bay area, from Berkeley to Half Moon Bay was spread out before us. It was glorious.

Big pointed out the beach where once a month, the leather community gathers at night around a big bonfire.

*sigh*

I'm gonna say that again. The beach where once a month, the leather community gathers around a big bonfire. Men in leather, smoking cigars, their faces dancing in the firelight. Gathering to enjoy being men in leather, smoking cigars, and watching the faces of their brothers dancing in the firelight.

I guess there's a lot to like about San Francisco.

We drove the balance of the way up to the summit, then headed back across the bridge and into town. First stop was (you guessed it) Starbucks, although not the one in the Castro. Then, Sir told me to tuck my BDU pants into my Wesco's because we were headed for the Eagle.

Cool.

Well. Maybe not.

It was packed to capacity. Verrry Sunday Beerblast at the Dugout. Only, the vast majority of the crowd were neither bears nor leathermen. They were just... y'know... gay guys. Mebbe because it was IML weekend?

Interestingly enough, someone I had met a few years ago at the Harm Reduction Conference in Seattle where I delivered my presentation on barebacking was receiving an award for service from the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Small world, huh?

Big and I got beers, and took in the scene. Then, Big decided that it was time for me to spend some time on the leash I had gotten him. He clipped it onto my collar.

Schwing!

Oh. Man. Did that feel great or what? Instant hardon.

The crowd got to be a little much, so we headed first for the Lone Star. There was a line, neither of us felt particularly compelled to stand in line, so we headed for home. Nap time again.

I told Big I wanted to take him out to dinner that night, to show my appreciation to my Sir. He was amenable to that.

So we headed home. We decided that a nap was in order, and headed to bed. Really great sex ensued. I mean really great. As in, that weren't no seismic activity, that were boy breeding! I drifted off to sleep in my Sir's arms.

A Man And His boy Dine Out

We awoke at 9 pm, showered and dressed hastily, and headed down to the Castro. The restaurant was ideal. Great food (Great Food!) at reasonable prices.

Big and I talked. And talked and talked and talked.

This man... his mind, his life, his manner, his ways, his predilections... This Man. What have I done that was so selfless, pure, and good to merit wearing his collar?

I'm falling hard for Big. Way hard.

Chance Meeting

After dinner, Big and I took a passegiata so I could mail postcards to my father and the Baron. I'm not a postcard kinda guy, but both of them insisted requested, so I was happy to oblige. They're winging their way eastward courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service as I speak.

As we walked, in stride, hand in hand, to the mailbox Big knew of, who should come walking the other way but Special Guy.

I'd been keeping half an eye out for him the whole weekend. And there he was. We greeted each other warmly. He looked great. He introduced me to the guy who was with, I introduced him to Big, although, of course, they had met a few days ago outside Starbucks in the Castro.

How uncanny, that I have known the love of two wonderful men. Big and Special Guy. Special Guy and Big. The leathergods are sure looking out for me. And there they both were, in my field of vision at the same time.

This might have been an awkward situation. "Uh... Hello there, guy I used to date. This is the guy I'm dating now." But at the risk of generalizing, I think that the hearts of leathermen are bigger than that. We are men who devote our lives to love. To deep, deep love. We know that our hearts are much larger than we think they are, that our hearts can expand seemingly infinitely, to be filled with so much love. And to give so much love, and still find that we have so much more to give.

Home. Bed.

That was tough. I didn't want the weekend to end. But end it would. In a few short hours, I'd be taken to SFO, and board United Flight 70 bound for EWR.

Tough to leave Big behind. Tough to have to wait three weeks until I see him again. See him. Feel the warmth and strength of his arms around me. Smell him. Taste him. Three weeks. That's tough. Tough to live and work and play thinking all the time that you'd rather be at the other side of North America. Tough.

But I'm tough, too.

---

Okay. Here's the pics.

Here's a shot by of Exposition Park...



I took it because of the sign that appears to blight the view...



...y'see, that thing about having to pick up after your dog? Well, after Harvey Milk, one of my heroes, was elected to the Board of Supervisors, one of his first actions was to introduce and fight for passage of a bill, then controversial, to make dog owners clean up after their dogs. At the time, this was completely novel, although such laws are now commonplace. In doing so, Milk signaled that he was not simply a gay politician, but had the interests of all San Franciscans at heart. In a way, this sign and others like it are memorials to Harvey.

And here's me at Fort Mason. My father, seeing this picture, was flooded with memories. When he got off the boat, a WAC band was playing to welcome the new soldiers, under a sign saying, 'Welcome Home.'



And here's an obligatory pic of the Golden Gate Bridge.



Here's a few pics from our travels in the Marin Headlands...










And here are the portraits that Big and I took on Saturday night, fresh from the Loading Dock...