The nomadic Life

San Francisco

Chapter 30

You might assume that a major tourist destination like San Francisco, much like New Orleans, would have bars that stay open 24 hours. Surprisingly, or perhaps thankfully, that is not the case. However, some bars only close for a few hours to allow the staff to clean up before welcoming the next wave of patrons.

Carl kept track of rental listings for me and found one I could barely afford. I knew I would have to find a job immediately if I wanted to eat and pay my bills. My savings would only sustain me for two months, which meant I would not be able to fully immerse myself in the city's vibrant atmosphere until I secured employment.

It was tough every day to hear locals and tourists rave about how welcoming and accepting San Francisco was, knowing it would be weeks before I could dip my toes into that sea of friendly faces.

But there are some situations you never hear about and some of those stick with you throughout your life.

There is one incident, in particular, that stands out. It was a moment that completely blindsided me and left me utterly speechless.

One morning, I had an early interview for a job I was woefully unqualified for but figured I had to at least try. As I stood at the bus stop, a young man, about my age, pulled up in a silver car, a Nissan, I think, but I cannot be certain because of how flustered I allowed myself to become.

He rolled down his window and, without any introduction, blurted out:

“Would you like to get together at my place?”

No "hello, my name is..." No small talk. Just a direct proposition.

I was not only appalled but also bewildered. Sure, I was dressed nicely for the interview, and I had my “game face” on, exuding confidence. But to receive such a bold offer, from a complete stranger who had no knowledge of who I was? That was next-level audacity. I politely declined, but as I watched him drive away, my mind raced.

What if I had been a serial killer? What if I were a gang-affiliated homophobe looking for a target?

Then, a thought hit me like a freight train, a question I had never considered before.

“Do I look that gay?”

Let me be clear: I have never had an issue with who I am, but I don’t wear what I would consider to be "gay fashion advertisements." I dress like everyone else, in what I consider to be normal clothes. No flashy jewelry, no overt signals. In my own eyes, I didn’t think I stood out. But in San Francisco? Apparently, I did.

The reality of the situation dawned on me. In New Orleans and other Southern cities, I may have passed for straight. But here, my presence must have screamed "San Francisco gay," whatever that means.

Looking back, the encounter could have been dangerous. I knew nothing about that man or his intentions. I could have just as easily been his target for any number of sinister reasons. And, if I’m being brutally honest, had he been an older, heavy-set man with gray hair, I might have considered the offer despite the risks. Because I was still relatively young at the time, I never saw myself as attractive, and the young man who had approached me didn’t stand a chance because of his age. I preferred “father figures” and men who thoughts went beyond sexual conquest. Perhaps we both missed out on something exciting that day. Or maybe one of us narrowly avoided becoming a headline in the next day’s paper. Either way, it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that never happened again.

I had been picked up before, of course, but always in bars, at parties, or even at coffee shops in the Castro. Never in a "drive-by" scenario.

I will file this encounter in the back of mind for future reference I thought, and here it is for your consideration and judgment.

Eventually, I landed a job as a bagger at Safeway, but that didn't last long. My obsessive-compulsive tendencies didn’t align with their fast-paced bagging expectations. While the customers appreciated my attention to detail, my manager did not.

Realizing that temp work might be a better fit, I signed up with an agency and soon secured a data entry position on the top floor of a bank. The company handled substantial sums of money for the government, and we were under strict orders never to discuss our work, under penalty of jail time. The job was temporary, lasting only four months, but it paid well. Once the contract ended, I missed the large paychecks but not the high-pressure environment.

The temp agency continued to serve me well, and I soon moved into a much nicer apartment closer to the South of Market area. I quickly learned that the bars in that district catered to the kind of crowd where I felt at ease and accepted. Most notably, it was the location of The Eagle, a bar known for its legendary Sunday beer busts. There, people from all walks of life and every imaginable fetish gathered. The experiences I had there were eye-opening and transformative, introducing me to facets of myself I had never dared explore before.

I was amazed by the sheer depth of the gay community. So many subcultures, so many different lifestyles within what I had once thought of as a singular identity. I had learned a few things in New Orleans, sure, but San Francisco was a whole new world.

There were groups I had never even heard of, and surprisingly, I found I fit comfortably into several of them.

I liked the bears and the leather bears. I liked the older leather men, who, to my surprise, were the most open and accepting of newcomers.

I spent nearly a year immersing myself in the leather community, studying what it meant to represent their culture. It was more than just a fetish scene; they were a brotherhood. Many of their bar nights were dedicated to raising money for AIDS and HIV-related charities. But their kindness did not end there. Imagine what it would be like to be hungry and on the street, with nowhere to go, not knowing where your next meal was coming from. Then you see a bunch of big, burly, and quite intimidating men in full leather, heading straight for you. A motorcycle gang out to ruff you up for fun? No, they arrive with words of encouragement, food and beverages and an explanation as to why they do not provide cash.

Because of a few bad seeds who turn cash into drugs, the charitable group will give all they can but refuse to provide things which may harm them. That was the kind of generosity and camaraderie I discovered in the San Francisco leather scene and I knew then and there I had to be a part of something greater than myself, and they were kind enough to take me into their fold.

And it wasn't just them. The entire San Francisco business community supported a variety of charitable causes, proving that generosity wasn’t limited to any single group.

For the first time, I felt truly accepted, safe, and secure. More importantly, I was finally able to let go of my inhibitions, drop my guard, and explore parts of myself that I had kept hidden for so long.

The Nomad may have finally found his true home.