Category: San Francisco

…went to the tubs because I wasn't that kind of boy in my 20s. Drop to my knees at the gloryhole at the Univeristy of Arizona Main library yes, but go to a bathhouse? Never!

Until we moved to San Francisco and I discovered the 1808 Club.

The 1808 wasn't a bathhouse per se. The 1808 was among the first of many "sex clubs" that rose up in the City following the closure of all traditional bathhouses in the mid 80s. It differed from a bathhouse in that there were no private rooms and the only acceptable (and yes, it was monitored) interaction between patrons was jacking off, but it was still insanely hot. Lots of very hot men more than willing to lend a well-lubed hand when needed.

From an entry in my August 1991 Journal:

It's been an interesting evening.  I went to the 1808 Club.  I hadn't been there in over four years, and it was like becoming reacquainted with an old friend.  Some things had changed, but for the most part it's still the same as it was.  There wasn't anyone there I especially wanted to set up house with, but there were a few hunks running around; none of whom wanted anything to do with me.  But that's fine.  It's one of those places where you can still stare at 'em and whack off anyway; like live porn.

I don't know especially why I went…I just had a need to get naked with a bunch of naked men.  Probably some sort of unconscious male-bonding thing.  Yeah, right.  I wasn't especially horny, but the thought of spending another Saturday night at home didn't appeal to me, and neither did going to the Night Gallery.*  I sure as hell didn't want to deal with attitude and smoke in some Castro bar.  Sure, there was attitude at the 1808, but at least you got to look at all the wonderful glistening naked bodies and  throbbing cocks!  It was kinda magical and the music was excellent.

*a.k.a. Mike's Night Gallery, another story for another time…

While the drama had been brewing with Emmett, I'd been in touch with a my longtime friend Michael in San Francisco. He and I had met on an inbound MUNI train years earlier, and after a couple romps in the hay we both came to the realization that we both carried too much baggage that didn't match and we'd probably be better off as friends than lovers. When I'd made the decision it was time to return to Bagdad By The Bay, he suggested I move in with him until I found a place of my own. "I have big house all to myself. You'd have your own room downstairs and I'd be glad to have the company."

Michael lived out in the Avenues. Not my first choice of where in the city I'd ever want to live, but his offer to crash there until I found work and got a place of my own was too good to pass up. So, the first weekend in December, Michael flew down (to drive my car while I drove the rental truck) to Tucson and helped me pack up, load the truck and get out of town.

As I recall, a job arrived pretty quickly, even though I wasn't able to return to the firm I'd worked for the previous eight years. I still wasn't able to transition into PC support, but a job's a job and since I had the architectural and AutoCAD skillz, any port in a storm, y'know?

Unfortunately, instead of staying put at that prestigious national firm, when the opportunity arose for me to go elsewhere  and actually get my foot in the door doing computer support work, I jumped on it.

While I prided myself on my PC knowledge, I soon found out I was in over my head. I knew the ins-and-outs of Microsoft Word, but not to the degree required by a Law Firm. Additionally it was a whole new world for me to be dealing with end users, many of whom were difficult at best and—being a Law Firm—hellspawn at worst. I got minimal support from the two other people on the Help Desk and next to none from my supervisor. I was miserable.

In one of those odd twists of fate, however, one day while returning from lunch, I ran into a guy I'd worked with in Phoenix twelve years earlier. I knew Fred had relocated to San Francisco, but lost touch with him shortly after he left the firm where we both worked.

Fred now had his own business. We chatted briefly and I told him of my employment woes. "I'm looking for people," he said. "Here's my card. Come by next week and we'll see if we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement."

And thus began two years of employment hell that was to send me back to Arizona again.

(To be continued…)

As most of my readers already know, I lived in San Francisco for approximately sixteen years, encompassing my late 20s through early 40s.

The other morning, while laying awake at 4 am, memories of San Francisco started bubbling up. I don't know if it was my age/hormone level at the time I lived there, or whether it is something about The City itself, but going over my memories of San Francisco I came to the disturbing realization that the vast majority of those memories—okay, pretty much all my memories of life in San Francisco—revolved around getting laid or trying to get laid…under the guise of looking for true love, of course.

Naturally, during my time there I worked. I made friends. I went to movies and plays. I took photos, made art, read books, acquired new skills, spent way too much money on way too much stuff, and explored the natural beauty of the Bay Area. But it seems all that was nothing more than background noise amid the unrelenting need to connect.

I would like to think that I fell into that lifestyle over the course of several years, but if I'm being totally honest, I have to admit it started almost the minute boots were on the ground.

While I did date and had several serial boyfriends, the smorgasbord of carnal delights and availability of potential sexual partners literally anywhere in the City is no doubt why so many refer to those 49 square miles as "Disneyland for Adults" and none of those relationships actually lasted. "Cruisin' the Streets" is more than just an old Boys Town Gang song. You could connect with someone on the subway, waiting for the bus, on your lunch hour downtown, walking home after work—and either go right to your/their place, make plans to meet up later, or duck into an empty stairwell for a quickie; literally anywhere. Buena Vista Park, North Baker Beach, "the whispering bushes" and the southern convenience station at the polo field at the western end of Golden Gate Park, the Hyatt Embarcadero, the 1808 Club, the Shaklee building, the 11th Floor of the Russ Building, The Playground, the Sir Francis Drake, Mike's Night Gallery, the Sheraton Palace…

You get the idea. There was a lot of action going on in The City. All. The. Time.

Inspired to start keeping a record of my life in San Francisco after seeing Prick Up Your Ears about a year after my arrival there, my journals read like an embarrassing, depressing erotic novel, full of saucy but ultimately empty encounters, littered with the names of men of whom I now have no conscious memory. (Oh, to have had cell phone cameras back then!)

I can't help but think that in the wake of 9/11 and the added security everywhere that followed, most of those locales have long since been locked down, but I know how industrious and creative horny men can be, and despite the authorities' best efforts, trysts will still happen somewhere.

Before I moved to San Francisco, when my friend Kent (who had arrived about six years earlier) once related how he stopped to have sex with some guy he met while on the way to a date with another, I was appalled. I could not understand how such a thing could happen, much less that anyone would actually partake. Note I said before I moved there…

While that particular scenario never happened to me, it was apparently not that uncommon, and I had plenty of other equally lascivious encounters during that decade and a half to make up for it. To this day I'm still amazed that I made it out alive, somehow remained STD/AIDS free, and didn't end up with a police record.

1645 Folsom Street, #7. My first—non-shared—apartment in San Francisco. September/October 1987.

It wasn't perfect, but it was one of those places I immediately think of when I hear the word "home."

At the time, the area was still very much industrial/commercial in nature. The building was a half block from Hamburger Mary's and just around the corner from the SF Eagle. At $745 a month, this one bedroom plus den stretched my budget but I loved it. #7 overlooked the extremely shallow paved back yard (that was never used by anyone). It had a good southern exposure, even though the equally tall buildings completely surrounding the yard sometimes made it feel like it was at the bottom of a light well. It also had an easily accessible roof deck where you could throw a lounge chair and catch some rays or the wonderful views at night.

About eighteen months after I moved in, #9 opened up on the top floor, and I jumped on it. It wasn't quite as big as #7 (no separate den), but it was bright and airy, had a charming—if non working—fireplace, and a decent view of Twin Peaks if you stood in either of the bay windows.

The biggest adjustment moving upstairs to the opposite side of the building was the noise. Sleep was impossible with the windows open for the first few nights I was there because I was now facing Folsom, and even then it was a busy thoroughfare. But when the winter rains started sound of drops hitting the pavement and the woosh-woosh of cars passing on those wet nights more than made up for it. Parking (or lack thereof) continued to be a problem; I can't even begin to tell you how many hundreds of dollars in $10 overnight street-cleaning parking tickets I racked up. But this was still home, and after I struck an arrangement with one of the business owners a few doors down to rent a parking space in their lot for $25 a month, the parking problem all but disappeared.

Then there was the stove in #9. It apparently hadn't received a proper cleaning since it was originally put in place from the looks of it. I made the mistake one night of lifting up the range top, thinking I'd only have to wipe up a few spills under the burners, but I ended up spending the entire evening—with a putty knife—scarping off god knows how many years of accumulated gunk. But it shined thereafter!

This is where I was living when the Loma Prieta quake hit in 1989. The building came through with nary a scratch, but it pointed out the disadvantage of living in that particular area; probably because of its zoning and demographics, it was one of the last areas of The City to regain power. Even so, if I hadn't made a very poor decision some months earlier and asked an even poorer decision of a romantic partner to move in with me, I might've stayed much longer. As it was, we transferred the lease into his name and I moved out in 1990.

When I'm not otherwise occupied at work, I've found that an excellent way to make time pass in the blink of an eye is to get on Google Maps/Street View.

I spotted this photo over on Shorpy the other day. It was labeled, "Card Alley, San Francisco, February 1936." I'd never heard of Card Alley, so I figured it was either one of the multitude of half-block long streets that dot downtown, or it was no longer in existence.

The former proved to be the case, because I hopped on Google Maps and found it almost immediately, Surprisingly it still looks very similar.

Once in San Francisco, however, I started exploring. First it was all the places I'd lived. (It looks like many of the buildings had changed ownership because they were actually being kept up now.) From there I started visiting all my old haunts, my workplaces (the small architectural office where I worked 8 years is now a vacant lot adjacent to a condo complex), my daily commute (I actually walked that much?!?). And from there I moved out of the city proper to visit a few of my other favorite places: the Marin Headlands, Sausilito, and then points further afield.

I found myself awash in a curious mix of emotions, a lot of which I can't even find words for. Obviously there was sadness, a sense of loss tinged with regret at having never done all the things I'd wanted to do (because there was always next week, next month, next year)…but there was also joy and that feeling of "home" I always experienced when I was there. I've always said San Francisco was a very jealous mistress, but one that would welcome you back in a heartbeat with open arms should you stray and then return.

I think that's one of the reasons I haven't gone back since my departure in 2002. I fear that Siren will grip me and demand my return to her bosom as it did the last time I left. (Granted, that was only an absence of about six months, not fifteen years, so my fears may be groundless.)

And—perhaps most fortunately for me to resist that siren song—as I noted even while living there in my 20s and 30s, is that it remains a city of and for the young…and most recently, a city of the insanely wealthy young, a demographic that I decidedly do not fall into. I remember balking at having to pay $1300 a month for a one bedroom apartment with off-street garage parking and a view of downtown on Twin Peaks in 2002. Nowadays, $1300 might get you a mother-in-law studio apartment in the back of a garage in the Outer Sunset.—if you're lucky.

But it was still a fun little virtual visit and I plan on returning for further exploration the next time I'm sitting at work with nothing to do and waiting for the day to end.