I scared a straight boy.
A few weeks ago someone burned me a compliation CD, and one of the songs on it was Set It Off by Peaches. I was walking home from a friend's house in Pacific Heights, listening to the CD with my headphones, and grooving quietly to myself.
Now, upper Polk Street in San Francisco is pretty much an extension of the Marina District, a decidedly straight and upscale yuppie enclave. There's a gym there that used to be the grand old Alhambra Theater, but now it's a Gorilla Sports. The guys who work out there are hot...incredibly so, and my friend and I often dine in that neighborhood just to cast furtive glances at the straight boys who are so good-looking, they look computer generated.
However, I digress.
I was standing at the corner of Larkin and Broadway, waiting for the light to change so I could continue my trek back over to North Beach. "Set It Off" was the next track on the CD, and I started singing along.
"Motherfuckers wanna get with me, lay with me, love with me, all...right."
Now, not only was I singing along, I was also grinding my hips, gyrating, and not lipsynching but actually singing out loud. And I mean loud. I pretended I was on stage, arms out, doing my little Peaches routine as if I was drunk at Badlands, with no shame, on a street corner in Russian Hill. Shit, I don't live in that neighborhood so who the fuck cares? Not I. I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, and I turned to look.
Standing not 2 feet away from me was a sweaty, [presumably] straight boy, about 24 years old, 6'2" tall, blond hair, green eyes, so hot he didn't even look real. He had just come straight from the gym, and he was staring at me the same way you would stare at Don King had you just walked into your bedroom and discovered him in your bed doing bong hits with Laura Bush and shoving a monster dildo up her ass while your mom videotaped.
There are certain times in your life when you just have to admit that no matter what you do, there is absolutely no way you can look cool and the only way to get out of that situation is to just say "Fuck it," and play it off. This was one of those times. I looked back over at the light, only slightly mortified, and by the pure grace of god, it changed.
I turned back to Mr. Hottie McStraight and sang, "C'mon let's set it off, c'mon let's set it off!" I whipped around, stared straight ahead, and crossed the street with style and grace as if nothing had happened. About 30 seconds later, I turned around, and he was still standing there on the corner looking shellshocked, somewhat confused, and in desperate need of therapy.
You know it, he loved it, he wanted it.
Had he followed me home he just might have gotten it, too.