Whenever I venture to dancefloors beyond the bubble, I consider myself a proud San Francisco ambassador. The response I get reinforces that San Francisco is exactly the right place for a die-hard hag like me to call home, and validates that there really is no place like home, where every minute of every day is hella gay.
On my recent trip to Miami’s Winter Party Festival, I gave a whole new set of boys a taste of San Francisco with my homothusiasm. The flowers in my hair and my excessive glitter expressed the spirit of San Francisco everywhere I went, from the Rough Waters leather event with DJ Ted Eiel, to a drive-by at the Atlantis sailaway party, to owning a section of the afterparty dancefloor with DJ Luke Johnstone to my left and a pack of Brazilians to my right.
My reality check came when my CASTRO hoodie got an unexpected reaction from a Latin boy who warned me that I’d better not wear it in Miami. And here I thought there was only one Castro in the entire world, and that it was covered in rainbow.
One of my favorite moments was in the crowd outside Palace in South Beach. I worked the pushy masses as if they were my personal receiving line, smiling at everyone that bumped into me while observing a stunning cross-section of Miami’s scene-queens.
“I sure did, handsome,” I said. Such a queer comment coming from a cocky gay without a cock apparently caught him off guard. Daddy felt compelled to gather his friends around and ask me where I had come from, as often happens when I forget where I am and that not every place is Oz.
But that wasn’t nearly as funny as the tranimal taken aback by the crazy braided ‘do my fab hairstylist Gib fierced me out with before I left for Miami, and the custom-couture Chaps t-shirts I rocked out with my travel trio. Working the rooftop at Club Manor like a runway after sneaking into DJ Manny Lehman’s booth for a cameo, Tranimal turned to me and said, “Where is you from, cuz it ain’t here?!”
San Fran Fucking Cisco, that’s where!
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