In the fall of 1996 Corbin, the gym rat from Oakland with the Mortadella+, took the leap and moved across the bay to San Francisco. He found a third-floor walkup on Valencia, seven blocks from Castro Street and about three blocks from Gold's Gym, so we started working out together.
One day in October, we were leaving the gym after a workout, walking down 16th, when we saw the Edwardian: in his 30s, very handsome, with pomaded hair and a little moustache, dressed in a waistcoat and a boater hat, carrying a walking stick. He looked for all the world like a dandy from 1910, walking down the Strand on his way to high tea with E. M. Forster and P. G. Wodehouse.
Since the days of Emperor Norton, the self-proclaimed Emperor of America (1818-1880), San Francisco has been a haven for eccentrics. Colorful costumes, bizarre behavior, kooky beliefs -- not a problem. Roller skate in your underwear while singing "Like a Virgin" and passing out tracts on the Illuminati and cornstarch -- just another day in Gay Heaven.
The Edwardian was a common sight on Castro or 16th. If you made eye contact, he said "Good afternoon, sir," and expected you to respond in kind. If you said "Hello," or, God forbid, "Hi!", he frowned and moved on.
Word on the street was that he had a footlong Kovbasa++++, which he shared with anyone who managed to maintain the illusion that this was Edwardian England for an entire conversation. I never managed it.
But today the Edwardian rushed toward Corbin, shook his hand warmly, and said "My dear sir, it is so delightful to see you! You and your friend must come by for tea soon!"
"That sounds super radical" Corbin said in Valley Girl speak. "Gotta book now, but we'll be there fer sure!"
The Edwardian frowned and moved on.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"Oh, I was with him a couple of weeks ago. Believe me, it was quite an experience."
"Is he as hung as they say?"
"Even more. But he's still not someone you want to hook up with."
"Why?
September 1996Corbin saw the Edwardian in the gym one day, dressed in ordinary gym clothes, trying to work out with the free weights. He had a sallow chest, but long, hard biceps and nicely developed triceps.
"Um..good afternoon," Corbin began. "I didn't know that you worked out."
"Indeed!" the Edwardian said. "How else did you expect me to maintain my level of fitness? Yoga?"
"Oh, of course. I meant no offense."
He smiled. "None taken, sir. You look rather like an expert in the field of physical culture. I wonder if you might consent to give me some instruction. I'll pay you, with American currency -- or high tea, if you prefer."
So Corbin showed him the proper form for the bench press, squat, and bicep curl. Then they showered and dressed -- the Edwardian indeed had a huge, very thick footlong, a garden hose hanging between his legs that even Corbin, who thought Bratwursts were small and Mortadellas average, found impressive.
"I'm a help desk technician. My employer insists that I use the colloquial American argot while interacting with clients, but after work hours I'm free to speak the King's English again."
"You mean the Queen's English?"
The Edwardian sighed. "My dear boy, of course I know who is actually sitting on the British throne at this moment, but in my heart and soul I am living in that most gracious and gentile of eras, the reign of King Edward, with an occasional nod to the last years of Victoria, or the first of George."
(Victoria reigned from 1837 to 1901, Edward to 1910, and George to 1936).
The Edwardian lived in a small apartment om Mission, on a rather run-down street otherwise occupied by a residential hotel and a pawn shop. But it was elegantly furnished in Edwardian style: dark wallpaper, old pictures occupying every square inch of wall space, cluttered overstuffed furniture and heavy bureaus. There was no tv or computer in the house.
There were a lot of books, all old hardbound. A lot of late Victorian and Edwardian authors: Dickens, George Eliot, Yellow Age Decadents, Oscar Wilde, James Joyce. E. M. Forster, plus Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, the ancient Greeks and Romans. No history books.
"Would you like to listen to music?"
"Surely you don't have a stereo?"
"No, a Victrola. But it plays records fine. I have some Debussy, Ravel, Stravinsky...and Madonna's Immaculate Collection."
"Really? I thought you maintained -- I thought it was Edwardian only."
The Edwardian laughed. "Sometimes, my dear fellow, you have to give the young man what he wants to hear, so he'll show you what you want to see."
Suddenly the antique living room was booming with:
Don't go for second best baby, put your love to the test
You got to make him express how he feels,
And maybe then you'll know your love is real
"It does get lonely, knocking around in this flat all by myself," the Edwardian said wistfully.
It was a cramped three room apartment!
"If only I could find a soulmate, Alec to my Maurice." (He pronounced the E.M. Forster character "morris."). "Lots of young men want to make my acquaintance -- and the acquaintance of my walking stick, as it were. But none of them have yet had the delicacy of spirit to appreciate my life here, my haven amid the bustling crowds of the modern world."
"Oh, I'm a big history buff..." Corbin began. Then he checked himself. "I mean, I have a great appreciation for modern literature and the fine arts. Do you like Picasso?"
"Very good," the Edwardian said with a smile. "You are a quick study. Come, if you've finished your tea, I want to show you the rest of the house."
Wait -- isn't this a little premature? Corbin thought. We haven't kissed or fondled or groped. We've barely touched! But maybe that's how Edwardians do it -- leaving all of the physical intimacy for the bedroom.He followed the Edwardian into a tiny but elegantly furnished bedroom, 3/4ths of it occupied by a giant bed with a 12-foot darkwood headboard.
He moved in for a kiss, but the Edwardian pushed him away. "It's a bit stuffy in here. Shall we remove our clothing?"
Feeling himself getting aroused, Corbin slid out of his pants and and shirt. The Edwardian carefully took off his waistcoat, pants, garters, and socks, and hung them on hangers. He was becoming aroused, too, his Kovbasa++++ pushing into the air.
Corbin went in for a grope, but the Edwardian pushed him away. "Might I have a feel of your underclothes?"
He shrugged and handed him his briefs The Edwardian sniffed them like a bouquet of flowers, then without warning stuffed them into Corbin's mouth.
Corbin spat them out. "Um...those are dirty..."
"Mmm..hmmm" the Edwardian moaned.
Shrugging, Corbin knelt and started to go down on the Kovbasa++++, but the Edwardian pushed him away. "Really, my dear fellow, you are anxious to begin, aren't you? We have the whole evening to get to know each other better. Perhaps I could...um..." He turned Corbin around and began feeling his butt.
"I'm not into anal!" Corbin exclaimed.
"What a gauche term! Rest assured, I have no sodomy in mind. Merely a touch."
He knelt and began kissing Corbin's butt. Corbin felt a tongue against his hole and jumped away. "Ahh! I'm not into that, either."
"Well, then, what are you 'into', dear fellow?""The usual. Kissing, sucking..."
"How vulgar! Well, perhaps I can convince you to try the finer things in life." A whip appeared out of nowhere. "Deliver your bum, please."
"Um...no, thanks."
"Water sports? I have the carpet in the parlor macadamized..."
Enough was enough! Corbin made an excuse, dressed, and left.
Who knew that the Edwardians were so kinky?
See also: Corbin's Choice; My Friday the 13th Date with Kevin the Vampire; and Finding Your Fetish.
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