“You know, in the sixties, when we said someone was straight, we didn’t mean heterosexual. We meant narrow minded. . . And I don’t have any preparation for or any inclination to live in a completely straight world.”
–Penny Arcade

Today, Facebook has been all abuzz with talk about Tallywackers, a soon-to-be-open restaurant in Dallas, Texas, which is basically going to do for penises and gay guys what titties do for hetero men at Hooter’s. They are to be located in the Oak Lawn district, which is the main gay drag of Dallas. It’s no joke; some entrepreneurial homos in Texas are making a legitimate go of it with this concept–and I, for one, believe they’ll probably manage to be pretty successful, if they do it right.

As much as I legitimately wish the proprietors of Tallywackers the best in their venture, I find myself also feeling a fair level of resentment toward the whole affair; after all, the recent attempt to open The Randy Rooster, a male burlesque supper club in the heart of the Castro, was summarily dismantled following a spate of negative, misleading press and its attendant “community” outrage. Detractors eviscerated the plan without even knowing with certainty what the proposed business was offering. Following the recent outlawing of nudity within The City in general and the Castro in specific, the conservative voices of the neighborhood were instantly incited to decry the idea of putting a “strip club” in the middle of a “family-friendly area.” This, at the very epicenter of gayness in what is arguably the gayest city in the country and perhaps the world.

Meanwhile, in fucking Texas, they’re going to open an eatery which features presumably well-hung servers wearing some sort of uniform which draws a maximum amount of attention to their large packages.
And in Atlanta, Georgia, a bar with fully nude male strippers has been in enthusiastic and successful operation for well over a decade, with a Florida location more recently opened.
And let’s not forget the debauched general shenanigans of our beloved New Orleans, Louisiana, where I first witnessed fully nude and mostly erect male dancers–live, in-person, and very much receptive to the attentions of the bar patrons.

That’s all in the (ostensibly conservative) Deep South, folks. Here on the West Coast, however–and in the city which is purportedly the most wacko, liberal, anything-goes, permissive, personally-expressed, and hedonistic homosexual outpost within said Golden State–we have now relegated anything vaguely naughty or overtly sexual to a select few weekends out of the calendar year (and none of that occurs in the Gay Mecca which is supposedly Castro).

I’ve lived in The City for just under 13 years, and I was a frequent visitor for two years longer than that. The spirit which captivated and drew me here was that quirky, lustful, all-embracing, all-celebrating queer avatar…and in the last five scant years, I have borne witness to that spirit being trampled by capitalistic opportunists; ripped out by utterly heteronormative and monoculture prudes; paved over by panic-prone, conservative, pandering politicians.

I’m sick of it.

I want my San Francisco back.