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Permission granted by author for anyone to distribute this
writing free of charge (including translation into any
language)...under condition that no profit is made therefrom,
and that it remain intact and complete, including title and 
credit to the original author.

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

(A True Tale From The Castro. Eat your heart out, Armistead!)

© 2003 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
(Jehovah's Queer Witness)

I love Gay Mecca! Every day's a great day, if you're gay...
here in Santa Francisco. And today was just another typically
WONDERFUL day for me:

My alarm goes off at 10:30am (I'm unemployed). I roll over and
slam the snooze bar, when someone buzzes my door. Turns out to
be twelve gorgeous studs super eager to serve me breakfast in

Topped off with a yummy BJ by my disciple of choice...who
straddles me the entire time he butters my toast! What a way
to start the day, huh?

Then I drag myself outta bed and  pull a triple S (shave shag
and shower) and step out...stroll down Market Street where I
walk by this STUNNING specimen of manhood...upon whose arm,
unfortunately, dangles a chic.

So I says to the lady: "Whoa, dear, I hope you don't mind my
saying this, but gee-willickers your boyfriend has the most
gorgeous basket I've ever seen on a dude!"

So the guy addresses her: "How come YOU never say nice things
like this, about me? Where has the romance gone?" Well, they
get into this raging argument, and I decide: "Uh-oh, I'd
better book on outta here", when the cute dude hollers back:
"Wait up!"

He dumps his fiancee for moi...can you believe it? And the
next thing you know he's wining and dining me at the Top of
the Mark! He says: "You say such nice things about me. My ex,
though, only thinks about, me, me...what can my
boyfriend do for ME today?"

So I say, "That's nice, honey" as I pour my second decanter of
cold duck. "Please pass the caviar. And when you're done
massaging my feet, I'd enjoy another tongue lashing on that
naughty widdle snake in my Garden of Pubic Delights. My stock
of bull semen is raging to stampede outta the ol' corral
again! You were pretty good the last few times-- not knocking
it (wouldn't be prudent)--but I KNOW you can do a HECK of a
lot better!"

Well, before we depart, he gives me his card, and proposes
domestic partnership. I says: "I'll think about it; don't know
if I'm ready yet to hang with a know
how us renegade counter-culture types are: root of all evil
and good stuff like that. So I'll just get back to you on
this. Don't call me, I'll call you."

And it's only 3pm...the day's not even half over! So I decide
to hang out for a while South of Market, at this gay biker
bar: "Toad in the Wall Wanker's Lounge & Party Animal Saloon."

The moment I step in, I find myself in this handsome leather
dude's arms. And we start feeling each other up and we're
French kissing, when the next thing I know his hand is in my
crotch, and he's dragging me to the urinals. I stop him dead
in his tracks: "Whoa cowboy, slow down there," I exclaim,
"What do you think I am, just another common hussy? You gotta
pick me up in your arms and CARRY me to the pee trough. After
all, this is supposed to be the honeymoon sequence, right?"

There's a new bartender there: Rod. And boy does he make me
one happy puppy! Not only does he treat me to all the booze 
and mari-juana I want, but sets me up in a back room where he 
gives me the best hum job I've received in the last ten 
minutes, peoples!

Does it get any better than this? You bet! But all play and no
work makes Jehovah's Queer Witness a dull Messiah, so I decide
to boogy on home, and work on a new routine.

But will the bartenders and customers of Toad in the Wall let
me leave without first going down on me, each and every one?
No, they will not, God bless 'em! Each and every mouth, a
luscious memory! Sure beats the heck out of communion wafers
for pleasuring the palate!

A hundred and five ejaculations in less time than it takes to
read the Sunday Comics (excluding Doonesbury, of course). How
do I do it? I have no idea why I'm so virile! Chalk it up to
Daddy Jehovah's queer magic, I suppose. Well, just when I
buckle my belt and am about to leave, this bodacious police
officer saunters on in, peers around in the dim light, fondles
his handlebar mustachio, and says:

"Where's this Jehovah's Queer Witness fellow, who I just heard
back at Mission station has the most OUTSTANDING family jewels
this side of the Sierra Nevada foothills?" Well, one thing
swiftly leads to another. And once again, I drop my pants
"[sigh] Okay Commissioner. But make it a quicky...I'm doing a
show tonight."

Walking home (for the exercise) is a mistake. What should be
only a 30 minute trek, takes two friggin hours! I swear, at
every street corner, a stiff-hard stallion in uniform offers
to service me...and does! (In the nearest doorway of course;
I'm nothing if not discrete.)

And I'm not even gonna get into all those cutie-pie homeless
rakes luring me into their horizontal cardboard booths of
bawdy entertainment! I'm surprised I even make it home at all!
(Come to think of it, I usually don't.)

So I have to just forget about writing that new skit this
evening...else I won't make it here tonight, for the show! So
that, folks, is just a brief list of the MANY reasons I love
Gay Mecca!