I'm living in Upstate New York, but back in San Francisco for a conference, staying with my friend David. We meet some guys at the Red Jade Restaurant on Church Street: Matt my ex-boyfriend's ex-boyfriend, a South Asian Daddy named Tutor, Seth the Chemist, and his new boyfriend Fangorn.
(I'm not kidding -- he was named after the forest in The Lord of the Rings.)
They live in Santa Rosa, about an hour's drive north of San Francisco. Seth teaches at Sonoma State, and Fangorn grows onions.
They make quite a pair. Seth is slim, blond, sharp-jawed, clean-cut, and Fangorn a big, hairy, husky nature boy with long hair and a beard.
We discuss the usual gigantic penises, dates from hell, and celebrity hookups. Matt tells about his date with Bronson Pinchot, star of Perfect Strangers. David tells about hooking up with Skyler Stone, who we know from Raising Hope. I stick to Michael J. Fox.
"Do poets count?" Fangorn asks, "Or do they have to be on the boob tube?"
"Sure, poets are fine," I say. "As long as they're famous."
"How many famous poets are there, that were alive in the last fifty years?" David asks.
"William Carlos Williams?" Matt suggests.
"Allen Ginsberg. Back when I was a college kid, still named Dennis. In fact, my first gay experience was with Ginsberg and his lover, Peter Orlovsky."
The full story, with nude photos and explicit sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood.