This was the moment of euphoria and excitement at around 8.30 Pm before we went out of the house ready to knock them dead at the sex party in town:
Even the Uber ride down was fun. Me and Shawn were the Dirty Dolls. I was speaking French to the taxi driver, telling him I was from Fresno but I’d been home schooled by French parents so I couldn’t speak American very well. And then we got there and it was one of those dungeon moments. The guy on the door a-hem-ed and said that tonight was an night for 18-30. Oh no! Over-age at the sex party! We decided to “Style it out” as my London Wallpaper friend calls it, although as I was walking around looking a variety of pale white teens and 20- somethings doing their best with St Andrew’s crosses I thought, shit man, I’m one of those Milf people. Still, I had a nice conversation with a 23-year-old boy dressed like the wood cutter from Little Red Rising Hood. Except he had no bottoms on. Just a white shirt and red waistcoat and black leather shoes. It was a good look. He was from Silicon Valley. We talked about Dali and how Dali said that the “erotic should always be ugly.” And maybe that was the problem with the party, that everyone was trying to look too cute and nobody looks really that cite when they’re abandoning themselves to good sex.
I also thought of Betty Dodson and how she started her masturbation workshops up in the 1970s because she kept going to sex parties and noticing that women were faking orgasms. Frankly, at this gig last night (“Bent: a dungeon party for kinky youth – as opposed to “New Comers Plus” party ie the Superbowl all-age group tourist party we were supposed to be at) lot of the guys were ‘doing’ their chicks in a way that was clearly not doing anything for the chicks. Although the chicks were doing all that ‘Oh, yes, yes, this is so amazing” thing. In a way, this reminded me of my 20s – let some person do some mad acrobatic sex routine thing until you feel like a tent they’re erecting, etc. Hopefully, down the line when these young women will have read SEX DRIVE they might have the courage to say to their bfs, ‘Actually, wait, can I just sit you down and tell you how my body works?’ There was lots of Christian Grey drag (think shades, suit jackets, shiny black leather shoes and trousers that ended below the knee). They were lining up to get into one of the cages but had no idea how to effectively use a whip once they were in the cage. That’s the trouble with performing sex in public. Probably people in bed in Grimsby eating Hob Nobs in front of the TV are having better sex than the dungeon people because they are doing whatever weird thing they want because they don’t feel a pressure to look good while they’re doing it.
Having said that, the hottest ‘show’ of the Bent night was from a table of chicks, specifically a black woman with amazing model legs who was dressed up as a (randy) police officer. Talking of Africa and America, the most exciting encounters we had all night were with black guys after and before the party. Before we went in, a guy who looked like a hustler Sammy Davis Jnr came up to me and Shawn and Beth and complimented me on my MaxMara leather thigh boots, which, frankly is more than any of the teenagers inside had the nerve to do. Not even the Woodcutter. Sammy was cool. He said he’d like to marry me and Shawn said, “Great! She needs a green card.” After Bent, we went to Carl’s Jr which was fun in a Pulp Fiction sort of way. Sometimes you just need to go to the nearest cafe-type place when you are wearing 5 inch Maxmara boots. I forgot how grumpy high heels can make you. And then I wasn’t grumpy at all because Carl Jr’s, a burger place lit like a police station at 2 AM on a Saturday morning, totally hit the spot. Beth and Shawn had that drug food you get in those places- potato waffles and onion rings with that fast food-high powder that they spray onto their edibles. I had a huge Dr Pepper -the ‘with sugar’ version, with lots of ice. It was great. Then these two black guys came in (the place had been full of Superbowl types) and livened the place up by saying hi to each other and to other people, just as if it had been their local private club. Again, there was that slight mystery about them- that Tenderloin look where you could be a bum but you’re actually quite clean and you’re not drunk and maybe it’s just that you have un-shiny shoes on. My dad always said you can tell a lot about a person by the shoes they wear. I guess they were in their 40s. One of them had a cool earring and the other one was wearing a cap and was sexy in a shy way. They were chatting to some white exec man who was talking about working for Fox TV. I thought the black guys were going to nut him for being such a show off bore, but they were very considerate. They seemed pleased to be learning stuff. When I left I said to the cap guy ‘you’re very sexy’ and he smiled and looked surprised and pleased.
Then we left and went out again into the Tenderloin. When I first heard this word, “Tenderloin” I thought it must be the gay bit of San Francisco. Like the most tender cut of steak you can get. Like a gayboy bum, I reckoned. But no, it means it’s the homeless area. Walking down this strip feels like being in Starsky and Hutch. All the jiving and the hustling and the Huggy Bear accents. And the sheer madness. I have never seen this level of functioning mental illness in play on the streets anywhere in the world before. In fact, I remembered last night that I celebrated my 21st birthday in San Francisco. I don’t remember much about the birthday, but I do remember walking past a brightly lit fast food restaurant and there was a man dressed as a hooker chick, sitting at a table in the window, talking to an invisible stranger opposite him. There are still lots of people who talk to themselves in San Francisco. At 2 in the morning, it feels like being in the presence of geniuses. A drama came in Carl’s Jr when the hot black security guard tried to get someone out of the loo who’d been there too long. I told him, it was the granny chick who’d been sitting at the table next to us for the past hour. She was in her 70s. A tiny frail thing. She’d obviously come to Carl’s Jr’s for some company and some sleep. She was sweet and when she finally came out of the bathroom, the black guy with the earring held her corner. “You alright, Mama! You keeping the world turning!”
It was a nice thing to say after you’ve just been unceremoniously turfed out of a bathroom in a fast food restaurant at 2AM on a Saturday morning.
Below is a performance about meeting a stranger in a bar in San Francisco by my amazing Mini Me friend, the poet Lisa Luxx