Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

said Collier. “It empties during Mary Hartman .”
    Jon grinned, already feeling better. “I’m hungry, anyway. We never got past the braised endive, remember?”
    They microwaved a couple of hot dogs, laughing over the oven’s obligatory warning about pacemakers. A pacemaker at the Club Baths was about as common as an Accu-Jac at the Bohemian Club.
    Then they parted, each seeking his own private adventure in Wonderland.
    Jon prowled the corridors for fifteen minutes, finally settling on a dark-haired number in a room near the showers. He was resting on his elbows in bed.
    His towel was still on, his rheostat turned up.
    A good sign, thought Jon. The desperates invariably kept their lights down and their towels off.
    When they had finished, Jon said, “Let me know when you want me to leave.”
    “No problem,” said the dark-haired man.
    “It’s nice to rest.”
    “Yeah. It’s a mob scene out there.”
    “Full moon.”
    “I like it better on slow nights. I mean … sometimes I come here just to … get away.”
    “Me too.”
    The dark-haired man folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “I wasn’t even particularly horny tonight.”
    “Neither was I. I usually tell myself I’m here for the steam, but it never seems to work out that way.”
    The man laughed. “Quelle coincidence!”
    Jon sat up. “Well, I guess I’d better …”
    “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
    “Thanks. I’m here with a friend.”
    “A lover?”
    Jon laughed. “God, no!”
    “Are you … one of the reachables?”
    “Sure.”
    “Can I give you my phone number?”
    Jon nodded, extending his hand. “My name’s Jon,” he said.
    “Hi. I’m Beauchamp.”

Cruising at The Stud
    F OR HIS NIGHT ON THE TOWN WITH BRIAN, MICHAEL settled on The Stud. The Folsom Street bar was suitably megasexual, and its pseudo-ecological décor would probably be the least intimidating to Brian.
    It might even remind him of Sausalito.
    “It reminds me of The Trident,” he said, as they walked in the door.
    Michael grinned. “That’s the Code of the Seventies, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you do it in something that looks like a barn.”
    “Christ! Look at those tits by the bar!”
    “Yeah. He’s gotta been pumping iron since junior high school, at least!”
    “The chick, Michael!”
    “Hey,” said Michael. “You look at your tits and I’ll look at mine!”
    The other patrons were grouped undramatically around the central bar, some in knots of three or four. They laughed in short, stony spasms, while a scruffy-looking band imitated Kenny Loggins singing “Back to Georgia.”
    “Here’s the plan,” said Michael in a stage whisper. “If I run into anything that might interest you, I’ll send it your way.”
    “Not it, Michael. Her .”
    “Right. And you do the same for me.”
    “Don’t worry.”
    “See anything you like?”
    “Yeah. Ol’ Angel Tits over there.”
    “You’ll have to pry her away from that guy she’s with.”
    “Maybe he’s gay.”
    “Forget it. He’s straight.”
    “Now, how can you tell?”
    “Look at the size of his ass, Brian!”
    “Gay guys don’t have fat asses?”
    “If they do, they don’t go to bars. That’s the other Code of the Seventies.”
    The woman who sat down next to Brian was wearing a beige French T-shirt that said “bitch” in discreet lower-case letters. “You guys here together?”
    “Yeah. Well … not exactly. He’s gay and I’m straight.”
    “How nice for you.”
    “I didn’t mean it like that. Michael’s a friend.”
    “What do you do?”
    “Me and Michael?”
    “No. You. For a living, like.”
    “I’m a waiter. At Perry’s.”
    “Oh. Heavy.”
    That irked him. “Is it?”
    “Well, I mean … that’s kind of … plastic, isn’t it?”
    “I like it,” he lied. No radical-chic cunt in a bitch T-shirt was calling his job plastic.
    “I work for Francis.”
    “The Talking Mule?”
    She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Ford Coppola,” she said.
    Michael was standing alone by the bar when Brian rejoined him.
    “Any luck?”
    Brian took a swig of his beer. “I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. She was weird.”
    “How so?”
    “Aw, forget it.”
    “C’mon. Gimme the dirt. Bondage and Discipline? Water sports? Satin sheets?”
    “She wanted to know if I was into … cockrings.”
    Michael almost shrieked. “You’re kidding!”
    “What the hell do they do, anyway?”
    “A