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Gay San Francisco: Eyewitness Drummer                381
             a moment before as across the bar a hot man in full leather toyed with
             Thumper’s ass through his jeans. The man reached around, loosened
             Thumper’s belt, dropped his denim to his knees, and kissed his butt in
             the shadows of the bar. Flattered by the compliment, Thumper prolonged
             the moment of his tonguing, then re-dressed himself, tucking the tail
             of his Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer T-shirt into his jeans, moving
             slowly my way.
                He rubs my chest again. I stroke his bicep through his leather jacket.
             He is bearded. His red hair is clipped short, cut by the other Thumper
             [whose real name was Jim McPherson] who barbers up on Castro. A gap
             between his two front teeth makes me a sucker for his kisser. There’s
             mistletoe in his green eyes.
                A Top Man, we agree, should be believable.
                He claims to play Top.
                Later in his van we eat fresh strawberries. Again he touches my chest.
             He lights a Marlboro. In the glow, his tan deepens. His van smells of
             freshcut pine branches.
                I wonder the same old wonder we all wonder: Is this guy believable?
             Maybe. He’s offbeat enough. Looks like a genuine BST: Bent, Sick, and
             Twisted. We cruise specific types and read iconic fantasies in their faces:
             ranchers, truckers, bikers, linebackers, cons, mechanics, mercenaries,
             Mafiosi, and Marines. Symbolic men with a husky taste for celebrating
             male sex: whiskey in a glass, a baseball chaw of Red Man chew, a two-day
             beard, a cigar butt — bizarre, but exciting!
                As the song goes, “All I want for Christmas is . . . ”
                At my house Thumper rolls a couple jays. We pass the sweet blue back
             and forth, lust rising with the high. “You got good arms,” he says. “Want
             a ’lude? It’s fun. We can sleep when we want.”
                Down with the 714s. Down with the wine. Down to my cellar.
                He eyes the rack, stocks, cage, hooks, eye-bolted bed, and footlocker
             filled with toys. “I like imagination,” he says. He grabs my chest twisting
             my tits too heavily, too painfully, too little sensual build-up.
                We’re hardly beyond the foretalk.
                But I let him grind my pecs because of the delight in his eyes. My
             cock is hard. My head analyzes his moves. Judging. Taking — in this raw
             situation, in this pared-down human relationship where everything is
             upfront — the measure of us two men.

             JINGLE BALLS
             Recently on a night around Thanksgiving, at Allan Lowery’s Leatherneck
             Bar on Folsom, with only twenty guys or so, I approached a man in a

           ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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