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Gay San Francisco: Eyewitness Drummer                583
             York. They began as literal backrooms, spontaneous, in bars like the Tool
             Box, Folsom Prison, and the Ambush. They came out on their own at the
             Covered Wagon, the Anvil, and with increasing intensity, the Zodiac, the
             Toilet, and the latest “infleshtation,” the Mineshaft.
                After midnight, after the lights go down low, a man of the Third
             Kind can see what the boys in the backroom will have: fantasy actual-
             ized a la carte. New York’s Mineshaft is the current frontrunner. Down
             a steep stairway, the Mineshaft offers “The Lourdes Room,” featuring a
             full-length white porcelain bathtub suitable for baptizing and initiating
             any man who dares.
                Any given night, a man can climb into the tub for nonstop Golden
             Showers. Fairer faucets, major and minor (less than seven inches), than
             he ever dreamed of, turn on–literally–to him and all over him. Saturday
             nights, especially, on three sides of the tub, men press in, six or seven deep.
             Men nearest the tub unbutton their Levi’s, unsnap their leather codpieces,
             or go for their meat by peeling down their jocks. They are the front line of
             the Third Kind, pressed from behind by dozens of others chugging their
             beers as they press forward toward the tub. [The topical pun referred to
             the biggest blonde female icon of the 1970s, Farrah Fawcett-Majors.]
             BATH-TUB PISS ORGIES


             A single red light illuminates the dark faces, the blond moustaches, the
             bared chests wet with the humid cellar sweat. Often, a man of no patience
             drops to his knees to drink the piss of a man three rows back from the tub.
             The pissers move around the private scene toward their target: the man,
             laid back in the white tub, sometimes naked, more often wearing only
             construction boots, athletic socks, a piss-soaked jock, maybe a USMC
             fatigue hat.
                One night, a perfectly groomed dude climbed into the tub wearing
             wingtips, a Brooks Brothers dark wool suit, Ivy League tie, a white oxford
             cloth dress shirt which, when he pulled open the suit coat, exposed holes
             cut out over his large nipples on his hairy chest. His hands found his
             crotch and fished his own cock hard from his white jockey shorts. On
             all sides, he looked up at the fifty or so piss-filled men looking down on
             him. A guy in full leather hawked up some deep spit and flumed it down
             on the dark suit. His baptism had begun.
                The ritual runs nightly the same. The dozen men closest to the tub
             rim are in various erect stages of pissing. Some unbuttoning, some whip-
             ping it out fast. Others teasing it out slowly. One peels back his lip of
             heavy foreskin through his full hardon. One stands, muscular arms folded
             across his thick pecs, eyes closed, waiting for his piss to work its way down

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