Castro, 1977….

Spring 1977. The fog peeled back over the Castro like a curtain, and the whole neighborhood smelled of eucalyptus, pot, and fresh cum. Castro Street glittered with rainbow flags flapping over bars that never seemed to close.

Julian was twenty-five, long-legged, lean muscle dark blond hair curling at his collar, green eyes that looked like they’d seen everything and still wanted more. His seven inches pressed a permanent ridge against the faded denim of his 501s, flannel shirt open over a chest with just the faintest trail of hair running south. He’d come west with Diego Morales, thirty-one, built like a bull, olive skin, thick black hair everywhere, eight fat inches always half-ready. Diego shot photos for the Bay Area Reporter and every sleazy queer rag that would pay, but their tiny flat on Noe Street was the real museum: Polaroids of Julian bent over a glory hole at the Jaguar, mouth full, cum streaking his chin; Julian riding some leather daddy in the Ritch Street baths, hole gaping; Diego himself, hairy belly shining with sweat, cock buried in a twink’s throat while another fist worked his ass.

The Castro swallowed them whole. The Midnight Sun, The Pendulum, Alfie’s—every bar spilled men into the street, mustaches, tank tops, assless chaps, cocks swinging free under leather kilts. Julian’s dick stayed hard from the moment he woke up until he passed out sticky and spent. Diego’s camera never stopped clicking: a clone boys in harnesses, bears in jocks, drag queens towering on platforms, cum frozen mid-air in the flash.