CHROME
It's saturday at 10:30, and I just finished with a new job. A quick paint job on the eyes, purple dark brown and black, an aggressive fluff to the hair, I strip off my tshirt, just a black vintage mesh top now, suspenders, dark jeans, and boots just about disintegrating off my feet.
The scooter clatters, and chirps with direpair as I drive quickly up Larkin past busses, cop cars, weaving to avoid too slow tourists.
Phil hands me a cocktail and three drink tickets as I step inside, not a bad crowd for 11pm. In the office I put on the totally psychadelic, totally shamanic necklace I made to hold the poppers bottle. Phil admires, but won't take a hit. No one will take a hit. He presses folded 20 dollar bills into my palm, and I thank him, already on my second drink.
Matthew and I stand on the cusp of the dancefloor discussing the sad state of nightlife in SF. Or rather, the insular feeling of parties in SF. Or rather the non-dancingness of SF. Or rather the proclivity of fags to cruise instead of dance. Or rather I have a third drink.
3 people do poppers. I hand out the vodka shots.
No one cruises me. The dj tempts me to the floor with a Bikini Kill number but that-crazy-guy-who-seems-like-he's-on-speed-but-is-probably-actually-sober-and-quite-actually-crazy is dancing by himself. Or thrashing rather.
One more drink and a quick trip to the loo with Phil, where we "energize," I pull fabric from the walls, fold, save tacks, the lights come on and everyone is out.
This is the end of the night.
I am cold. My head swims from the popper necklace, and an after party is gathering quietly outside, a whisper of continued fun, continued booze... I go.
The scooter clatters, and chirps with direpair as I drive quickly up Larkin past busses, cop cars, weaving to avoid too slow tourists.
Phil hands me a cocktail and three drink tickets as I step inside, not a bad crowd for 11pm. In the office I put on the totally psychadelic, totally shamanic necklace I made to hold the poppers bottle. Phil admires, but won't take a hit. No one will take a hit. He presses folded 20 dollar bills into my palm, and I thank him, already on my second drink.
Matthew and I stand on the cusp of the dancefloor discussing the sad state of nightlife in SF. Or rather, the insular feeling of parties in SF. Or rather the non-dancingness of SF. Or rather the proclivity of fags to cruise instead of dance. Or rather I have a third drink.
3 people do poppers. I hand out the vodka shots.
No one cruises me. The dj tempts me to the floor with a Bikini Kill number but that-crazy-guy-who-seems-like-he's-on-speed-but-is-probably-actually-sober-and-quite-actually-crazy is dancing by himself. Or thrashing rather.
One more drink and a quick trip to the loo with Phil, where we "energize," I pull fabric from the walls, fold, save tacks, the lights come on and everyone is out.
This is the end of the night.
I am cold. My head swims from the popper necklace, and an after party is gathering quietly outside, a whisper of continued fun, continued booze... I go.
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