No Church in the Wild

by Paine, Bacchus

  “Aw, come on, line,” I said. A girl in a tank top and a straw hat mumbled “suriously” in front of us, and the girl next to her leaned toward and against her, burrowing her head below the brim of the hat and revealing a tattoo of a Chinese character on the back of her neck.

  Isis threw me a questioning look.

  “They’re about to start. If this takes much longer we’re going to miss the swirls of leather and Old Spice riding by us to kick off the evening.”

  “That would be a damn shame. I love Old Spice.”

  I giggled in spite of myself, feeling a distinct increase in the intimacy between us as she smiled sideways at me to punctuate her comment, and itching, perhaps, with just a tiny bit more hope.

  The shadow of the dome of pleasure

  Floated midway on the waves;

  Where was heard the mingled measure

  From the fountain and the caves.

  It was a miracle of rare device,

  A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

  A damsel with a dulcimer

  In a vision once I saw:

  It was an Abyssinian maid,

  And on her dulcimer she played,

  Singing of Mount Abora.

  Could I revive within me

  Her symphony and song,

  To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

  That with music loud and long,

  I would build that dome in air,

  That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

  And all who heard should see them there,

  And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

  His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

  Weave a circle round him thrice,

  And close your eyes with holy dread,

  For he on honey-dew hath fed,

  And drunk the milk of Paradise.

  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Kubla Khan

  Precipice

  Having relieved ourselves, at least literally, Isis and I made our way back uphill to the location Aaliyah had specified, perched at the peak. I slowed to let Isis walk ahead and watched with tipsy eyes as her hip tensed the muscle of her ass, hoisting her uphill through the leg, round, tight, strong, depth more than girth, rounding with the thrust of her skillful torso, her tits bouncing obviously, unobscured by her arms. We approached, unintentionally covert, as their attention focused on the passing parade.

  Grant stood chatting with Trish, visibly swaying. I reminded myself to force him to drink a bottle of water. Jackson and Ben stood side-by-side, leaning slightly toward one another, occasionally lulling their mouths to the other’s ear to make what I guessed was a snide comment about the passers-by. Aaliyah wore a smile as she turned slightly to talk to Deb and Carly.

  “Those two,” Isis observed, pointing loosely at Ben as we approached. “Has it really been this long and they’ve never even tried to go out? Or at least screw?”

  “I feel certain at least one of them would have said something. But neither has even said he’s into it. Trust me, I’m as confused as you are. I’ve been sort of trying to come up with reasons it’d be dragging out like this. Maybe Ben has been working too much to reach out and Jackson thinks that means he’s not into it. Maybe one or both of them think they’ll be offending me. Maybe Ben thinks Jackson is more of a player and wouldn’t settle down,” and then in a flash a new explanation popped into my head, “or maybe Ben doesn’t want to be just one— ” I kicked myself internally, and damned marijuana and alcohol. Of all the people not to tell what Saucing exploit Ben’d not want to be a part of, the straight girl you wish you could seduce is probably the ultimate one, dumbass.

  “One what?”

  I played dumb as I felt. “Oh, sorry, I lost my train of thought. One to make the first move.”

  “Oh. Maybe. Do you really think they think they’d be running afoul of you somehow?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I hope not.”

  We neared the group and silenced our conversation.

  “You missed the bikes,” Aaliyah explained.

  “We heard. I suppose we’ll be forced to imagine the butch ladies on Harleys.” Grant laughed at me.

  Now passing by there were only unmounted (at least in the immediate term) lesbians. They walked, loosely ribald, without haste, without form or goosestep or any other characteristics of a traditional march. This walking was merely coordinated travel. At this early stage the marchers packed tightly onto the breadth of 18th street, perhaps twenty abreast, smiling, chatting, unapologetic, occasionally betraying intoxication. In appearance they ranged from something very close to what you’d find walking Union Street on a Saturday night, though perhaps with more protein, to women with bound breasts and men’s haircut’s and men’s clothes and men’s shoes who might pass unobtrusively at a tryout for the football team in Mississippi. Some were teenagers, some middle aged, but they all walked complacently together. There were piercings and tattoos and heels and Converse, perhaps a representation of the variety of styles of dress in the City itself, sprinkled lightly with the claim of homosexuality. But, for all of the bound breasts and loosely-fitting button down shirts there, there was no shortage of exposed stomachs or breasts peeking slightly out from a top facetiously attempting to restrain them.

  Just before the march the park had looked like a two-block square rave, bodies so dense they obscured the grass, but now most of that population had drained down toward Dolores street, at the lower altitude of the park, in order to press themselves into marching.

  “I had no idea this was so big,” Grant noted.

  “The City supports its gays…” I said.

  Then Ben graced us with some of the many facts squirreled away in what seemed to me a truly magical brain: “This chaotic swirl obscures a carefully planned and administered composition. The ordeal has been thoroughly permitted, from the music the city permits to play during the day in the park to the parade route the city permits the bikes to follow. The Dykes on Bikes have registered in advance to join this gaiety, and they’ve checked their helmets with Pride organizers, under the assurance that SFPD plans to look the other way as they ride helmetless, illegally, to display their dykedom. The cops will just watch the self-jollification in this park, skimming over ‘indecent exposure’ or ‘public drunkenness’ to protect more against bigoted interlopers trying to make trouble or star-crossed lovers whose fighting becomes physical, neither of which is ever really a problem. Then again, perhaps neither is a problem because these cops do such an excellent job of appearing foreboding.” Jackson looked at Ben with the same curious smile he had when Ben first threw out a description of a complicated neurological principle during a drag show.

  SFPD would, indeed, block off the path the dykes march toward Pink Saturday’s colossal disco ball, hanging above Market at 17th Street, so that the river of lesbians could flow undisturbed by cars and observed by anyone who pleased. The message was simple, clear: “Your City stands behind you in this, and we offer you the same protections we would a parade of children’s marching bands. Enjoy.”

  This was people watching at its best, really, since personalities passed without any obfuscation by costume or any mandate to be other than themselves. Here the cross-section of same-sex-attracted women, lesbians for today at least, exposed itself for consideration by its world. It was nothing to stand watching the procession for thirty or forty-five minutes; no danger of boredom loomed. Early in the march Grant would point to a particularly manly lady and comment, but he eventually succumbed to the redefined normalcy of the march and perhaps ceased to notice the differences from the girls that walked in his circles. Now, for this moment in this time, in this place, in this epoch, gay is normal. We passed around the Jäger, watching, muttering words of notice or comment or observation only occasionally, until the density of the pageant thinned and Aaliyah turned from the cavalcade and asked, “Shall we march?”

  Deb and Carly took no time to voice their agreement, but Aaliyah’s question spawned a debate among the remainder of our group
.

  “This is a dyke march,” Jackson said, “not a fag march.”

  “Yeah I dunno if I belong in there,” Grant added.

  “I never thought I’d say this,” Isis said, “but I agree with Grant.”

  I looked at Aaliyah and we exchanged exasperated expressions.

  “Team,” I began, “walking this path is no declaration and will confer no label upon you. It goes where we are going anyway, I presume, and I’m unaware of any requirement that you walk down to 18th and Dolores and eat a pussy before you start walking.”

  Aaliyah smiled at me. “Though maybe there should be!” she said in jest. Deb laughed.

  “Take another shot of Jäger,” I said, “and lets get a move on. Stop being ridiculous.”

  And so they reluctantly gathered blankets and beckoned a Chinese lady to relieve us of our fallen soldiers and merged into the thinning train, strolling and listening to the upbeat, inebriated masses. I texted Wesley, whom I was certain was drinking in the Castro already, probably surrounded by a throng of admirers as he usually was, merely selecting from the several potential companions for the evening or the hour or the moment. I imagined he’d kissed a couple pretty boys already today, or perhaps had been invited to a nearby apartment for a touch of casual sex. As far as I knew, he was between gents in the succession of beautiful and intelligent boyfriends he was known to keep, and at such times he rarely abstained from more casual entertainments. He responded that he awaited our arrival under the disco ball, near the Lookout corner, the promptness of his answer suggesting that at the moment he was not otherwise engaged.

  As we walked, I tore myself from trailing Isis to pull Jackson away at a moment of slight physical separation from Ben.

  “Lover,” I said.

  “Hmm?”

  I looked at him with a look that jumped to Ben and said seriously, what is with you two. Jackson was one of a very few males I talked to with my eyes.

  “I think Ben’s cute,” Jackson whispered in my ear.

  I could but smile. “You don’t say.”

  He walked silently next to me, looking to the ground, and I thought he almost took a step away before he stayed his course.

  “I want to show you something,” I said as I pulled out my phone and opened the picture I’d taken of him with Ben at Haight Street Fair. I held it out to him, and when he looked at it he smiled. In the photo, Ben wore a goofy face, looking, in my opinion, hopelessly smitten. Jackson did too.

  “I think I’m done turning people,” he said.

  “I didn’t think we were turning people, really. I thought the Saucing was about exploring with people who wanted to but had no experience… understanding them…”

  “I’m using a short-hand, dude, I believe you’re familiar with their fallacies. I’m not trying to create anything by naming it… Saucing… well, there’s a reason we had to make up a word for that. Anyway, I don’t like the feeling of being hushed. I came out so I didn’t have to hush, and anytime we try to Sauce someone I just end up being hushed. Straight boys are cute and all, but I really don’t want to be involved with other people coming out. It was traumatic enough for me. I see no reason to experience it again. And I don’t need to be making connections with boys who won’t connect back, it doesn’t matter to me like it does you why they won’t connect back. I need to focus on someone who’s ready to be out. Just have a boyfriend for a while. Even if it’s not him.” And he looked up the street at Ben walking fifteen yards in front of us.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “Just promise me that if things don’t work out you’ll deal with me staying friends with both of you.” I took a few steps before I continued, “You know what’s funny?”.

  He purred a “go on” sound, audible over the chatting crowds around us.

  “It never once occurred to me that I would, like, turn, her,” I swung my hand toward Isis, walking next to Ben. “It was always about finding out what she was interested in, I thought, and if it could be me. With Amber, it was about watching her experience this new kind of pleasure for the first time, but I didn’t turn her either. She knew she liked women before I ever appeared on any scene. As, apparently, did Scott. It’s just, like, from the moment I heard Isis talk I knew she was one of them. One of those people I meet from time to time with this brilliant insight, like what I think you or Ben have, but then some sort of vibe, some sort of chemistry, like their thoughts are actually on some kind of fire, some kind of sexy-ass fire. It’s like I can feel my brain lighting up more just talking to them. And she,” I jutted my chin through the crowds up the street, “well, I can’t remember feeling so alight.”

  “Well, there’s a newness chemical working on your brain right now.”

  “Fair. But I wouldn’t think to change her. I’m looking for Sauce. If I see it, I’ll be forward. If I don’t, I’ll back off.”

  “But I mean you’ve seen quite a bit of her, haven’t you?”

  “I guess so.” My eyes trailed over the multicolored houses ornamenting the street. “Several group social events and one solo outing, a few follow-up texts, some pithy emailing.”

  “So she’s not all over you.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “But have you chatted with her about lezzie business?”

  “Sort of. She said she tried it, not her bag. But I’ve heard that shit before.”

  “Well, so have I, but sometimes when you hear it it’s true.”

  I hung my head. “Yeah.” I walked staring at the ground, then looked up right at the sparkling neon sign of a liquor store. “We’re out of beer again. I suppose we should stop and get some.”

  “I suppose we should, though…” his eyes jumped around to survey our scattered companions, swaying, “maybe not too much.”

  “I think I’m about ready for alcohol-free recreation,” I said. The festivals were almost the only time I was drinking by this point in the summer. I spent my time instead on stalkery reading of Isis’ articles and, then, the articles she’d cited, the ones that cited her. And with all the sleeping I was doing I was starting to be good at my job again, since I had sixteen waking hours or so most days to think clearly about problems and solve them, and was, other than at festivaltime, sober enough to answer my email.

  “Well, there’s Folsom! You can’t skip Folsom.”

  “Oh, I’m not kidding myself, I know I’m still going to drink. Every social event we go to seems to involve alcohol. And I do want to see Folsom this year. I just don’t want to drink heavily. I want to be a person she could want, in case she does. If our attempts at Saucing tell me anything it’s that I’m eating the Sauce, not making it. The only thing we ever did is put people in circumstances where they were more likely to let it come out, at least that’s what I thought was going down. But for her, to be the sort of person she’d like, I think I need to have it together. Then, if she does have any same sex interest, there I’ll be. That’s all the Sauce I need in my life anymore.”

  “Well, that generally sounds like a positive plan. But you’ll always have my love regardless,” he said, wrapping his arm around me as he kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll go do the corrallin’ for beer.” He unwound his hand and skipped up through the people who’d filled in between us and the pair we were ogling, hopping right up parallel with Ben, barreling his shoulder into Ben’s as he approached in the way of lion cubs pawing in the grass. I turned back to find Grant and Wesley chatting behind us, and told them we were stopping for beer.

  We were near the center of Pink Saturday at Market and Castro’s intersection when we finally stopped to purchase beer at a minimart, and as we made our selections, parted from the rest, I asked Grant, “How you doing?”

  “I’m okay, good. But I don’t think that straight girl is into me.”

  I chuckled. “Observant. But if it makes you feel better I want her as much or more than you do, and I don’t think she’s into me either.”

  “She seems more interested in you than me!”


  “Well, we’re approaching the vicinity where many more will be interested in you than me pretty soon here.”

  He didn’t reply.

  As we approached the disco center, the flowing mass broke into sets of tightly packed, standing groups, peppered with individuals who had begun to dance to the throbbing music filling the streets. I led my caravan toward Wesley’s chosen intersection.

  He was standing surrounded, as I’d expected, by a cluster of tightly-dressed men jostling salaciously. I approached him and hugged him hello. Aaliyah and Carly had fallen back somewhere, but otherwise our posse approached in full.

  When Wesley saw Grant standing beside me he said quietly, “Aw, Bacchus, you brought me a present!”

  “Do as you will.” I looked back at Grant, who was taking a robust swig of beer. “But do me a favor in return?”

  “Name it.”

  “Take Ben aside and tell him that Jackson’s into it.”

  “Funny, I thought there was a flashing neon sign to that effect.”

  “Notwithstanding.”

  “Happy to be of assistance. But first…” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette case, popped it open, and removed a burgeoning joint. He raised his eyebrows in invitation.

  “Brilliant,” I replied. I turned and called back seeking interested participants, and Jackson, Ben, Grant, Deb, and, to my delight, Isis, sprung forward eagerly. They greeted Wesley, and he offered a gregarious hug to each, briefly introducing himself to Deb. I watched his forearms flex as they grasped Grant’s tight shoulders to his chest, accompanying small words of almost intimate greeting spoken in his ear.