Folsom Street Fair makes me wonder a lot of things.  What do these people do during the day?  My fervent hope is that they have a really traditional office job, which makes each painful corset or ball clamp that much more subversive.  I understand nudists, but how does the nudist without any shoes survive walking on blacktop among thousands of people through the intersection of Folsom and 10^th?

How many asses will I see today, and how many do I really want to see?  I mean don’t get me wrong, I like an ass as much as the next gay guy (quite a lot) but Folsom is like an extreme version of a BDSM Benetton ad for asses – every shape, color and expression of humanity peers impertinently through jock straps and assless chaps.

My friends and I shoulder our way through the sea of tits and cock and riding crops, oh my.  Folsom is not all about questions, it’s also about answers.  I learn that the harness that I’m wearing is called a bull dog harness.  That makes me feel a bit canine, but in a sexily exuberant way.  I let out a few good “arfs” and “woofs” at cute guys.  Unfortunately, a bark or two doesn’t draw too much attention on this weekend.

I learn that wearing a jock strap is an invitation at Folsom for a lot of friendly ass attention.  I spend a bit of time swiveling around to see who is slipping their hands down the back of my pants.  Most of the time it is a stranger…and the crowd quickly swallows them up.

Mickey Mouse gets a lot of abuse this year at the street fair.  A pair of full size character heads atop a pair of jockstrapped homos cause a surge of photo opps.  Yes, Minnie was also in a jockstrap.  That’s one way to signal your preference in bed.  Is “Minnie Bottom” the new “power bottom?”  Other attendees accessorize mouse ears with a row of studs down the middle.

Full masks scare me a bit.  I see men in black latex masks with only eye holes, and a woman with a white leather mask with a zippered mouth.  If all I can see is your eyes…I’m nervous.  But hey, it’s not often that things can make me nervous any more, so bring it on.

Strangers keep saying “Happy Folsom” to me, which makes me oddly cheerful, as if this celebration of alternative sexuality has become an official holiday.  Do I get a day off from the office?  Or should I call in “sickening?”

I see a few people smirking at some of the body parts on display, but generally everyone is in a happy and accepting mood.  A surprised look crosses my face a few times, but I try to avoid grimacing judgementally, no matter how differently-shaped the ass is, or how menacing the costume might be.  There is better than equal chance that the man behind the latex hood is a good-natured puppy dog in his normal life.

Okay, I grimace at the ball torture.  I can’t help it.

At the far end of Folsom, around 12^th street, the big gay dance floor takes over.  My circle of friends dances, and then splits up into side conversations, reconvenes and then repeats.  I see people from LA, from SF, from Miami, Portland…some people I see all the time, some that I see once a year at most.  I’m in a goofy happy mood, which means I tend to kiss people with out warning.  (Friends, not strangers.  Well, usually not strangers.)  Hey, one of the best ways to get over an ex-boyfriend is to kiss a lot of cute guys.  It helps the recovery process.  Trust me.

One of my best friends, Manny Lehman, takes over as DJ.  I love the incongruity as poppy dance remixes of “Let’s Have a Kiki” and “Titanium” thump through a sea of leather and rubber.

Our hands go up in the air, and I have one of those moments that I think…”It’s kinda fun to be gay.”