A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE: PARADES, PRIDE, AND POUNDING THE PAVEMENT

"Holly came from Miami, F.L.A.
Hitch-hiked her way across the USA
Plucked her eyebrows on the way
Shaved her legs and then he was a she
She says, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild side
Hey honey
Take a walk on the wild side

Candy came from out on the Island
In the backroom she was everybody's darlin'
But she never lost her head
Even when she was giving head
She says, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild side
I Said, Hey baby
Take a walk on the wild side
And the coloured girls go
doo do doo do doo do do doo."
- "Walk on the Wild Side" - Lou Reed.

I went Sunday morning out to the Gay Pride Parade. I went as la Tourista, playing looky-loo, and enjoyed my jaunt immensely.

It comes as no surprise to my readers, that I’m GBLT-friendly (how friendly? None o’ your beeswax, hehehehe).

I was filled with a deep sense of love (maybe there was some lust, but none directed at me: a small bit of me mourns the fact that I was unapproached in any way, shape or form by anyone, except a tall, lovely black woman who talked me into buying some Shea butter product, in a booth), light, and a general sense of happy.

There were costumes a-plenty (varying from sexy to kitsch), and the place was PACKED, eight (?) city blocks, clogged with human traffic. People broke into spontaneous dance, albeit I saw noone copulating in public (though some came close). A whole lotta nudity (and there were moments I was tempted to give some of these folks a few bucks, so they could buy some clothes).

It was a glut for my visual senses, a moveable feast in many ways.

I did get the occasional eyeball (one from a mascaraed young black fellow, dressed androgynously in black leather, bearing a banner that said ‘Miss something-or-other’, sorry, shot memory). I think I got the come-hither look, but I’m an old fart, what do I know? I ignored the men: I’m a skirt lifter, meself.

I came across a gaggle of she-males (who were for the most part drop dead gorgeous, tall and/or taller than me) posing for a camera op, struggled through one cross street where a group of BSDM adherents spontaneously erupted into a performance that drew many onlookers (I only got a few glimpses: the guy behind me kept pushing and carrying on about how heavy his acoustic guitar was getting). Two middle-aged women scantily dressed also erupted into a spontaneous dance number (interrupted by a mini ambulance honking through, some partier who’d overdone his partying, hope the guy’s all right). One of them, judging from her pencil-eraser nipples, had had kids at some points (signs of breast feeding), the other was very thin, and it was fun to watch.

I was there about six hours. I wandered to and fro, like a kid trying to swallow experience whole with his eyes alone.

A dimunitive vietnam vet struck up a conversation while I was listening to Shadowplay (good, solid rock ‘n roll, you could feel it in your ventricles, I kid you not), we chatted a bit, but most of it lost via the loud riffs of the band. He wandered off finally, too many hits from his bottle of Thunderbird clouding his senses.

I’m something of a voyeur, obviously, so I enjoyed it immensely.

This is my third or fourth time. I enjoy the gaudy costumry, the giddy sense of release (no, not that kind, so please), the general atmosphere of par-TAY.

The heat was offset by blasts of wind (hey, it’s S.F, no wonder there), and I stopped more than once, hoping for a modern version of the old Monroe performance. I actually started staring at this gorgeous woman in fishnet stockings as I walked, who was selling ‘Magic Fudge brownies’, so much so that I interrupted a gay couple by walking right through their hand-holding (I wonder what the latin phrase for that would be?).

I have this thought every time I go: if this were a St. Paddy’s day parade, there’d be chunks blown and fists a-flyin’.

The streets were clogged with trash, mind you, but as a rule, everyone left others alone.

I saw one aged black fellow, taciturn, carrying a big green sign that said ‘Jesus Christ Loves You.’ I let him be, as did everyone else.

On the outskirts, young white men with ties desperately tried to hand out religious literature. I told them, “No thanks, I’m an atheist,” but I think that got lost: no big whoopie. I got the distinct impression of starved vultures.

I like this crowd. They’re as a rule, outrageous, but kind: tolerant, well-behaved (usually), friendly (I had no dialogue with anyone Sunday, but I’ve had involved discussions with GLBT folks before). In short, lovely people.

Personally, I think they should be left to their own devices. Morality be damned: it ain’t none o’ MY business who sleeps with who. Adults who say yes, and all that.

I drank a sip of the wine of hedonism, and I admit, I rather like it. Of course, I always have: who doesn’t?

But I shan’t climb into the bottle: but that’s just me.

Be that as it may, it’s definitely a must-see event, no matter what your predilections. Old and young, beautiful and…not-so-much, all walks of life.

That, dear readers, was a moment I felt the need to share with you. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did experiencing it.

Till the next post, then.