One day in October 1996, Corbin the gym rate with the Mortadella+ and I were walking down 16th Street, near Gold's Gym, when we saw the Edwardian: in his 30s, very handsome, with pomaded hair and a little moustache, dressed in a waistcoat and a boater hat, carrying a walking stick. He looked for all the world like a dandy from 1910, walking down the Strand on his way to high tea with E. M. Forster and P. G. Wodehouse.
The Edwardian was a common sight on Castro or 16th. If you made eye contact, he said "Good afternoon, sir," and expected you to respond in kind. If you said "Hello," or, God forbid, "Hi!", he frowned and moved on.
Word on the street was that he had a footlong Kovbasa++++, which he shared with anyone who managed to maintain the illusion that this was Edwardian England for an entire conversation. I never managed it.
But today the Edwardian rushed toward Corbin, shook his hand warmly, and said "My dear sir, it is so delightful to see you! You and your friend must come by for tea soon!"
"That sounds super radical" Corbin said in Valley Girl speak. "Gotta book now, but we'll be there fer sure!"
The Edwardian frowned and moved on.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"Oh, I was with him a couple of weeks ago. Believe me, it was quite an experience."
"Is he as hung as they say?"
"Even more. But he's still not someone you want to hook up with."
The full story, with nude photos and sexual content, is on Tales of West Hollywood.