Bunker Mentality: Thank You For Not Masturbating
Another year, another Folsom Street Fair, another opportunity to pull a jaded face and tell everyone that I like the idea of the Folsom Street Fair, but that it all falls apart when confronted with the sweaty, crowded, hairy-backed, cock-ringed reality outside of my front door. I want to see pretty people. I want to sit back and listen to Berlin and the Pre-Sets, because good bands hardly ever get booked for the stage on my end of the street. I want to try and on and then talk myself out of buying several corsets from the Aesthetic Meat Foundation. I want to drink whiskey out of teacups with the Modest Tea. I want to sit with the goths and the leather daddies and get my boots meticulously shined by people who are presumably deriving some sort of sexual pleasure from my footwear. I want to gossip with the painter and hug R, who has returned to the Bay Area after several years of touring the country as one half of a brother-sister fire-breathing circus act, and sit in a corner with my six-foot-tall doppleganger. I am not a good friend. I do not follow up. I do not, as they say, keep in touch. The Folsom Street Fair party at my Concrete Bunker is an opportunity to see people that I am irrationally fond of, but whom I cannot be bothered to call on the phone and invite to dinner.
I just wish there wasn't quite so much cock. I wish that every time there was some girl in latex being tied up and spanked, that she would not immediately be surrounded by a crowd of men who casually whip it out and start to jerk off, occasionally holding a camera in the other hand, snapping pictures for later use. If there is going to be cock, let it be clever cock, such as the McCain and Obama dildos: either way you're fucked! If you're going to be naked, at least wear a giant albino snake around your torso. If you're going to inject saline into your balls until they are the size of grapefruits - just stop, because I've seen that one before.
Oh Folsom Street Fair, you were not very transgressive this year, but that's okay, because that means that nobody (that I'm aware of) had sex in my kitchen or left suspicious stains on my couch. And my boots look really, really nice.
I just wish there wasn't quite so much cock. I wish that every time there was some girl in latex being tied up and spanked, that she would not immediately be surrounded by a crowd of men who casually whip it out and start to jerk off, occasionally holding a camera in the other hand, snapping pictures for later use. If there is going to be cock, let it be clever cock, such as the McCain and Obama dildos: either way you're fucked! If you're going to be naked, at least wear a giant albino snake around your torso. If you're going to inject saline into your balls until they are the size of grapefruits - just stop, because I've seen that one before.
Oh Folsom Street Fair, you were not very transgressive this year, but that's okay, because that means that nobody (that I'm aware of) had sex in my kitchen or left suspicious stains on my couch. And my boots look really, really nice.