by Daddy X
There were times during the 70’s when Momma X and I had to part ways. What we needed at the time and what we could offer each other were seldom on the same trajectory. At that point we’d been together since high school—over ten years. Neither of us ever had the opportunity to be single. In hindsight, it’s clear that we must have, on some level, understood the importance of experiencing something other than each other.
We’d finally arrived at a coasting stage of Momma X’s devastating, decade-long illness that had defined our twenties. She needed to branch out to discover herself. But not with me.
Alone, without a place to live, I hitchhiked from our current place in Mendocino back to San Francisco. And proceeded to be single.
As coincidence would have it, a good friend, Dean, also had been recently informed, under no uncertain terms, that he would exit his living arrangement, his girlfriend having fallen in love with a Japanese artist. Another coincidence made it possible for the two of us to sublet an apartment on Castro Street, right at the onset of the now famous (perhaps notorious) SF gay scene, which at the time was in transition from Polk Gulch.
Right on Castro between 19th and 20th. Smack in the heart of the action. Harvey Milk ran our neighborhood camera shop. We were two blocks from the imposing Spanish Baroque Castro theatre, added to the SF Historic Registry in 1976. They focused on old classics. There were bars on every corner. Cliff’s Variety sponsored a little stage with acts for a few dozen kids on Halloween, which over the years evolved into an annual SF event drawing upwards of 100,000 adult (very adult) partiers.
My friend Dean (now late friend. Above on the left). And me, forty years ago.
That’s he and I on a 1975 Colorado fishing trip. As you see, he was impossibly good looking. Paul McCartney good looking, so there were folks who thought that since we were living in the Castro, we were an item. In fact, we were the only ‘straight’ apartment in the building. (Depending on your definition of ‘straight’) Our next door neighbors named their place the Café “Shi-Shi”, in mylar letters on the door and a poster of Carol Channing. Ours was the Café “What It Is”. We put a James Brown poster in the window.
And did we have parties. Wild parties. Booze, pot and a potluck of powders and pills were readily available. The good old days. On any given weekend the building would have at least one get-down knock-out party. We all got to know each other. Events in the building fostered a traditional ‘doors open’ policy for neighbors.
One wild night at our place, Julie, a beautiful young thing with a chipped front tooth (an abstract but certain arousal for me) showed up with Autumn, a tall, attractive woman I’d known from back east. I’d not had sex with Autumn up to that point, but she was known to be sexually adventurous. There had been flirtations between us.
A good-sized party ensued, maybe fifteen or twenty revelers. We all proceeded to get wasted, dancing and boogying the night away. Throughout the course of the evening, I became mesmerized by the fleshy round tush (another turn-on for me) on Autumn’s cute young friend. Couldn’t believe its distinctive form, definition. How it protruded and worked at odds with the rest of her lithe body. A presence, an entity unto itself. How it morphed, jiggled and shifted—how it lagged a beat behind Donny Hathaway’s funky lyrics in: “The Ghetto”.
Teamed with the chipped tooth, Julie’s twitchy ass presented a perfect storm. Gave me chills.
Perfect. Katherine Zeta-Jones-on-her-best-day-perfect.
I broke out in cold sweats. It wasn’t the drugs.
When stoner parties ran late, some people would crash and wander home in the morning. That’s what happened with Autumn and Julie.
As I lay in bed, I heard one of them shout from the living room, “Hey! Anybody awake? Let’s tell dirty jokes.”
So I yelled, “C’mon in here; I’ll listen to your jokes!”
And come in they did—Amazon Autumn and sweet young Julie—into my room—side by side. Chipped tooth and all. As Julie got down to naked, Autumn whispered: “Isn’t she gorgeous?”
We frolicked until the wee hours, finally passing out from satiation. Not much joking. Lots of frolicking.
One of three threesomes in which I’ve had the privilege to be a member. (no pun) It was also quite a singular case of love (read lust) at first sight. What set this apart from so many other flash infatuations over the years was, in this case, the fantasy was actually realized.
Took a week to get the smile off my face.