"Do you feel like taking a drive up to Sonoma County the day after Thanksgiving?" My friend David, the former Baptist minister, asked.
"What for? We're already here."
In San Francisco, that was the common response to an invitation to go somewhere else.
"Come on, the whole world doesn't revolve around Castro Street."
"No, just the gay world." San Francisco was Gay Heaven, the impossible dream of gay men trapped in homophobic small towns around the world. Those few who managed to live there were honor-bound to spend every moment in a whirl of activity. To leave even for a day seemed like a betrayal.
"Believe it or not, there are gay men outside of San Francisco. I met one online in a chat room."
"Computerized cruising!" I exclaimed. "What will they think of next? Still, Sonoma County is a long way to go for cock. Does he live in a town, or out in the woods somewhere like a hermit?"
"Sebastopol."
Hmm..Sebastopol sounded Russian. I knew that the Russians were the first European settlers in the region. Could they have left traces in Sebastopol, like a Russian Orthodox Church? Golden onion-dome towers, walls of icons of Cyrillic saints, priests in black robes...
"Ok, I'm in. But only if we get a tour of the city before or after the cock."
"No problem. I'm sure Rick will be happy to accommodate us."
This was before wikipedia, so I couldn't look up the history of the town. And finding a phone book meant going all the way downtown to the public library, so I didn't bother to check whether there was actually a Russian Orthodox Church.
Sebastopol was an hour's drive up the 101, just an ordinary wine country town, known for its Gravenstein apples. And its traffic. Clogged streets, no parking lots or garages, just very tight parallel parking. We passed two Thai and a Nepalese restaurant on the way to the place Rick wanted to meet, the Gypsy Cafe, which you could only get to by driving down a one-way street and turning left onto another. We circled three times before finding a parking space 10 blocks away, and tried to maneuver the rental car into place while an endless line of cars honked at us or zoomed around.
We still managed to arrive early, and wait around for 30 minutes in the greasy spoon, which was uber-crowded with rich heterosexuals touring the wine country, in spite of the fact that they just served sandwiches and french fries (and wine).
To this day, I have never had Nepalese food. But I've had sandwiches and french fries.
Rick was not really my type: tall and thin, with a long face, dirty blond hair, and a blond beard. But he had two things I wanted in Sebastopol: a cock, and a knowledge of the town.
"So, was Sebastopol founded by Russian immigrants during the days of the Tsars?" I asked.
He frowned. "I doubt it. I think it was after the California Gold Rush in 1849."
"Then where did the name come from?"
"I don't know." [Wikipedia: it was named after the British siege of Sevastopol, Russia, during the Crimean War.
"So...any interesting sights? Any old churches?"
"Sure, I can take you on a tour. But you'd better move your car -- they're very pick about the two hour parking limit."
No Russian heritage. No Russian Orthodox Church. We drove right past a used bookstore and the Sebastopol Center for the Arts without stopping. Just driving through endless bumper-to-bumper traffic while Rick said "I think it's over here...oh, wait, I missed the street, we'll have to circle around.
We finally inched our way to the Barlow, a sort of permanent farmer's market. I bought some apple butter.
Then we had to go back and move our car again.
After many twists and turns and "Wait...this isn't the right way," we ended up at Gold Ridge, the farm where Luther Burbank experimented on plants. David was an Arkansas country boy, and knew something about plants. I had bought flowers maybe twice in my life.
If I wasn't so stressed out from the endless traffic, and claustrophobic from the narrow streets, I'd be bored.
Finally, after a day of traffic and boredom and no Russian heritage, we retrieved our car and followed Rick back to the house he shared with an older gay couple (not at home). After driving around fot 20 minutes looking for a parking space, we played with his dogs for awhile, then went into the bedroom and got naked.
Rick had a soft, hairy body with a thick, hairy 8" cock and low-hanging balls. David and I took turns going down on him, and then David topped him while we kissed. I finished with interfemoral.
Not bad, but the sort of friendly sharing that David and I could do any day. Without having to rent a car and drive all the way into Sebastopol.
Rick asked us to spend the night, but we refused. San Francisco beckoned, with its street cruising and bear parties.
And better parking.
And a Russian Orthodox church.
"Sebastopol."
"Ok, I'm in. But only if we get a tour of the city before or after the cock."
"No problem. I'm sure Rick will be happy to accommodate us."
This was before wikipedia, so I couldn't look up the history of the town. And finding a phone book meant going all the way downtown to the public library, so I didn't bother to check whether there was actually a Russian Orthodox Church.
Sebastopol was an hour's drive up the 101, just an ordinary wine country town, known for its Gravenstein apples. And its traffic. Clogged streets, no parking lots or garages, just very tight parallel parking. We passed two Thai and a Nepalese restaurant on the way to the place Rick wanted to meet, the Gypsy Cafe, which you could only get to by driving down a one-way street and turning left onto another. We circled three times before finding a parking space 10 blocks away, and tried to maneuver the rental car into place while an endless line of cars honked at us or zoomed around.
We still managed to arrive early, and wait around for 30 minutes in the greasy spoon, which was uber-crowded with rich heterosexuals touring the wine country, in spite of the fact that they just served sandwiches and french fries (and wine).To this day, I have never had Nepalese food. But I've had sandwiches and french fries.
"So, was Sebastopol founded by Russian immigrants during the days of the Tsars?" I asked.
He frowned. "I doubt it. I think it was after the California Gold Rush in 1849."
"Then where did the name come from?"
"I don't know." [Wikipedia: it was named after the British siege of Sevastopol, Russia, during the Crimean War.
"So...any interesting sights? Any old churches?"
"Sure, I can take you on a tour. But you'd better move your car -- they're very pick about the two hour parking limit."
No Russian heritage. No Russian Orthodox Church. We drove right past a used bookstore and the Sebastopol Center for the Arts without stopping. Just driving through endless bumper-to-bumper traffic while Rick said "I think it's over here...oh, wait, I missed the street, we'll have to circle around.
Then we had to go back and move our car again.
After many twists and turns and "Wait...this isn't the right way," we ended up at Gold Ridge, the farm where Luther Burbank experimented on plants. David was an Arkansas country boy, and knew something about plants. I had bought flowers maybe twice in my life.
If I wasn't so stressed out from the endless traffic, and claustrophobic from the narrow streets, I'd be bored.
Finally, after a day of traffic and boredom and no Russian heritage, we retrieved our car and followed Rick back to the house he shared with an older gay couple (not at home). After driving around fot 20 minutes looking for a parking space, we played with his dogs for awhile, then went into the bedroom and got naked.
Rick had a soft, hairy body with a thick, hairy 8" cock and low-hanging balls. David and I took turns going down on him, and then David topped him while we kissed. I finished with interfemoral.
Rick asked us to spend the night, but we refused. San Francisco beckoned, with its street cruising and bear parties.
And better parking.
And a Russian Orthodox church.
Lots of cities like that in the States. Surprising one is called Sebastopol; one would think of St Petersburg and Moscow first, sticking to Russia.
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