(submitted by Anonymous)

Many of my experiences with “that which occurred last night” were mundane, but there were a few that would be worth writing about; at least for comic relief!  Like the English guy who picked me up (or maybe I picked him up in a fit of desperation) at a poetry slam in some South of Market bar.  I remember him reading his poetry and it seemed Hallmark-cardish.  I accidentally dropped a symbolic hanky (I honestly don’t remember what the object was…maybe a tampon?) on the floor and he promptly picked it up in a slick robotic way, looking emptily into my eyes as he up-righted himself in slow motion.  I was fascinated and somewhat mesmerized by his movements and words which seemed so clearly rehearsed and scripted, me so I allowed myself to be swept off my feet - no easy task considering my size.

When we arrived at his motel room, he insisted on giving me a massage, rubbing me from head to toe in rancid honeysuckle scented oil (including my scalp and hair which was much longer in those days.) The room was lit with a glaring neon light and the bed frame was gray aluminum. The sex was unexceptional (to me anyway). 

I woke up in the small hours of the morning and snuck out of the room while he was still sleeping.  When I rode the Muni bus home early in the morning, I must have looked like a bird that had washed up on a beach after the Exon Valdez accident. (I certainly felt fowl!)  He found me a few days later when I was working as a receptionist at the European Guest House and handed me a poem that he’d written about me.  It was a bit touching and flattering, but I felt that it could have been generated from a computer somewhere in a Nashville song-lyric factory.  I think I still have the poem somewhere…

(submitted by le Marquis Déjà Dû)

            I had a crush on a boy for a long, long time.  I’m too much of a shy dork to ask the Object of My Desire (OoMD) out on a date directly, so my crush went unrequited for an exasperatingly long time.  Finally my friend hooked me up on a date with him, being mutual friends of us both.

            It was the night of the Decadence Ball—not to be confused with Southern Decadence, a major week-long gay holiday in New Orleans.  The Decadence Ball is a one night affair in November which, at that time, was held in an abandoned brickyard next to the Mississippi River.  Costumes are a must.  I decided to go in drag, as the OoMD was a notorious local actor who often played his roles in drag.  I thought he would “get it.”

            My costume that night?  A skimpy black velvet dress and attached spaghetti-strap top.  No panties.  I was feelin’ lucky, yo.

            I met him at his house.  He was doing a hit off a gravity bong.  Me, I don’t smoke pot.  And had never seen a gravity bong.  (Something about submerging a joint in water and somehow extracting its fruits?  I forget the details.)  The result of me smoking pot has historically been one of two scenarios: either extreme paranoia and panic attacks stemming therefrom, or uncontrollable sleepiness.  Neither of which I consider a good drug result.

            I was totally into this guy, however, and my nervousness at this long-awaited date was grinding my nerves down.  So I decided to do one single hit off the bong with him — an ice-breaker, you might say.  I really needed to be loosened up.

            I got a little high, but nothing unmanageable.  We talked.  We laughed.  We hit it off.  We left his house to go to Decadence Ball, a mere two blocks from his shotgun apartment.

            My friend Patti was working the bar at the event.  We went over to say hi to her, as both my date and I were friends of hers.  The bar was stationed next to the generator.  This comes in later in the story, in case you’re a retard about foreshadowing.

            There we were: me, my best friend, and my date whom I lusted after and with whom I finally secured an audience.  Standing at the bar.  Suddenly, a thought crossed my mind.  More than a thought; an imperative.

            “I need a nap.  RIGHT.  FUCKING.  NOW!”  I thought.

            I vaguely remember crumpling to the ground and bashing my chin against the bar.

            A blank space.

            Next thing I know, Patti is standing over me.  I’m lying in the wet gravel of the brickyard.  She is slapping my face.  My date is standing off to one side looking very concerned.  My chin is bleeding.  (In fact, I would have a scar of that night for two years.)

            My mini-black-velvet-sans-panties dress is hiked up around my hips.  My junk is out for the world to see. You likey-likey?

            “Wha happa?” I asked groggily.

            “You just passed out!” said Patti, and instructed my date to take me to her friend’s house on the corner to wash off, freshen up, etc.

            As you can imagine, I was at this point absolutely mortified.  My date, much to his credit, was Ever The Gentleman and saw to my state of being as an invalid, though I could tell he was none too pleased to be doing so.

            After my Messy Marvin clean-up scenario, which included wiping blood off my face and excavating gravel from the crack of my ass, we went back to the Decadence Ball.  The rest of the night is a blur.  I do remember that he was not exactly attached to my hip for the rest of the evening.

            At that point in my life, I worked the graveyard shift at a bar on Lower Decatur Street.  My date and I parted, with a polite kiss on the cheek, and I went to work.

            Around 4am, a mere two hours into my shift, Patti showed up.

            “Oh my god!  I know why you passed out!”

            “Yah.  ‘Cos I smoked the Devil’s Weed?” I asked, scowling at the memories of my tragic date.

            “No!” she replied.  “The generator!  The carbon monoxide!  Many more people passed out after you left.  I felt lightheaded myself!”

            This intelligence made me feel a little better about the night, but the fact remained: there was someone I was genuinely interested in, and I had fainted at a party and my dress had flown over my head.  I never expected to hear from him again.

            This is the point in the story where I show what an understanding fellow my gent was.  He called me the next day, asked if I were okay, and begged a redo of the night.  I was happy to oblige him, and we had a civilized dinner at Commander’s Palace and what followed was a stimulating affair, both sexually and intellectually.

            I would like to tell you that’s what happened.

            What actually happened is that I never heard from him again.

            And to this day, almost ten years later, I cannot blame him for not following up on that exquisite first date.

            To quote Lisa Kudrow in her fabulous miniseries, THE COMEBACK, “I didn’t need to SEE THAT!”

(submitted by Anita LaRori)

            In 1994, I directed my first opera, Verdi’s, “Il Trovatore”, in San Francisco.  Two weeks before opening, our tenor, who also was our benefactor, bailed on us.  He just up and left us hanging, with orchestral scores and the theater not paid for.  So it was decided amongst the cast that they were willing and able to produce the show from their own pockets.  That was great except we still needed a tenor and certainly needed one that either knew the opera or could learn it fast (tenors are not very smart).

            Our baritone knew of a Costa Rican tenor by the name of Carlos.  He came to our rehearsal and man could he hit those high C’s effortlessly.  He did have a tendency to sing sharp, but who cares, he can sing and he is not fat and smelly like our previous “tenor.”  He was indeed hot.  After rehearsals, we hung out at Marlena’s bar in Hayes Valley to get drunk and play pool.  He would often break into an aria that had all the old drag queen’s swooning. 

            We opened on my birthday and Carlos was amazing.  The orchestra, the cast, everything was perfect.  Our cast party was at Villa Romana, but I was going to be late because I had to lock up.  Carlos said he would help, and told me that we will go to the party but won’t stay.  I was like, “what?”  I was wearing my cute black party dress and extra cute pumps.  I wanted to attend my cast party on my birthday! Reluctantly I bid everyone goodnight (it was at least 11 pm and my birthday would soon be over).

            We drove to Bakers Beach.  I had trouble, as you can imagine, walking in the dark in the sand down a Hill.  There was a bonfire up ahead and he led us towards it.  No one he knew, just random people hanging out.  There was the obligatory passing of a pipe and bottle, thank goodness, and then they were gone.  Just Carlos and I on the beach.

            He removed his jacket and placed it under me and we had hot sex on the beach.  We didn’t get home till 4am and I still couldn’t believe the magic for weeks after.  We hung out a lot after that, but that night on my birthday with the tenor on the beach was the best.

(submitted by Medea)

            The summer of 1980 I spent reading and putting into practice ideology from classic feminist literature, such as Fear of Flying, The Women’s Room, and Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living in NY.  In other words, I had just turned 20, was no longer a naïve teen, and, was looking for an excuse to dispense with the fairy tales and romanticism, which in fact had never served me.

            My friend Joella was a hippy chick I’d met in life drawing class at community college.  She and her sister had super long brown hair, and worked sometimes as catalog models; who, like most girls seemed back then, did speed daily to stay thin.  She wore funky clothes she sewed herself.  She introduced me to Ladies’ Night at The Steakhouse. Ladies paid two dollars for an empty glass at the door.  Guys came just to witness the madness. 

            My girlfriends and I would stand at the crowded bar and drink Hawaiian Punch. These contained about 4 different alcohols and grenadine and went down real smooth.  In fun drunken girl talk we schemed on and on about whom, in the paltry selection of suitable boys, we deigned worthy of The Zipless Fuck.  (A Zipless Fuck is  spontaneous sex between two strangers that is equal in desire, free of toxic games, feels like a sensory dream, and is seemingly free of all ulterior motives.)

            I considered David Bowie, in his Ziggy Stardust incarnate, androgynous glory, just about the only guy worth my utter devotion.  

            My friends and I made the best of our small town lot one weekend by becoming groupies for this Bowie cover band, called none other than “Foxxie.”  The lead singer, Chris, had waist length Frampton-esque blond hair and wore thick metallic blue cream eye shadow with black eyeliner.  He had a super possessive dorky girlfriend that hovered around like a bee, but, as high as I was, she was not that noticeable.  My friends and I danced, in a fairly small crowd, in such a way, that somehow that night, Joella and I were driving home (or somewhere) with Chris and his band mate, who had kind of a Keith Richards look.

            Joella was really excited.  Chris had a waterbed.  The four of us sat on it and got stoned, which always made me utterly mute.  Chris paired off with me.  Joella and Keith disappeared.  We made out, removing each other’s clothes, but when we actually got down to fucking, the waterbed kept slogging around in a sickening way.  I sunk in so far that I couldn’t move.  Plus I was paralyzed by pot.  This line from a novel (in reference to having sex for the first time) kept droning inside my head: “This is as boring as a trip to the Laundromat….”

            I fantasized about just jumping up to leave, but alas…. I was utterly wedged into the under filled waterbed.  That was my first and last experience with a waterbed.  I don’t recommend them.

There once was a boy from Nantucket…

A few of us, with the helpful assist of adult beverage lubrication, shaped some of our one night stand experiences into limericks.  They are posted below to enjoy and marvel at - oh yessss.

I once knew a hottie named Lance

Who wanted to get into my pants

He left a huge hickie on my thigh

About which I had to tell lies

I think I’ll give him another chance

There once was a lad called Brad

And oh what a penis he had

It was sturdy and taut

And went where it ought

Not only was it striped, it was plaid

There was a boy with dreadlocks and blue eyes

I knew that it wouldn’t be wise

He was heroin chic

And so could not peak

Redemption was his tongue betwixt my thighs

He was a lead singer in a novelty band

Not the type to sit there and hold my hand

He tied me up tight

We romped through the night

It was better than we both could have planned

There once was a couch-surfer named Ferret

Who let me gnaw on his carrot

I nibbled away

For just longer than a day

But alas the project lacked merit

There once was a pretty boy named Sammy

Whose personality was kind of clammy

He once showed up at my door

But the sex was a snore

I felt like I’d been flim-flammied

There once was a punk rocker named Dan

Who was rather an exciting man

He did give me scabies

At least it wasn’t babies

After that he was on permanent ban

A snowboarder at a punk show I did meet

Who taught me to “dance” to the beat

We stopped by the taco truck

Before proceeding to fuck

And nearly melted away from the heat

On the table a penis went splat

It was rounded and not very flat

My interest soon faded

I guess I’m that jaded

Maybe if it was wearing a hat

Sex with a boy and

he’d find a girlfriend in two weeks.

Not me.  I was luck.