"Happy Pride Weekend!" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
San Francisco, June 28
The fog had lifted by late morning, revealing the sun-drenched, rainbow-draped streets of the Castro. Pride flags fluttered from every window, crosswalks blazed with color, and the neighborhood pulsed with music, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of freedom.
Jake, Sam, Billy, Dominic, Hal, and Mike tumbled out of their B&B on 17th Street—an old Victorian with creaky floors, floral wallpaper, and a kindly lesbian couple named Linda and Sharon who ran it with military precision and bottomless mimosas.
“We’ve only been in San Francisco twelve hours,” Billy said, adjusting his sunglasses, “and I’ve already cried twice, flirted with a drag queen named Drought-Tolerant Dahlia, and been offered glitter in a tube.”
Sam grinned. “Welcome to Pride.”
They started their crawl at The Lookout, perched above Market Street with its breezy balcony and panoramic people-watching. They sipped pineapple jalapeño margaritas while cheering on dancers in harnesses and body glitter below.
“This place is like a caffeinated gay bird sanctuary,” Hal observed, watching as a man in a Speedo and angel wings flitted past.
Next up: Beaux, where the music was louder, the lights more strobe-heavy, and the go-go boys defied gravity and basic physics. Mike, normally reserved, found himself pulled into a dance circle by a man in thigh-high boots and a mesh shirt.
“Oh god,” Mike laughed breathlessly, “I’ve peaked. This is it. Everything after this is downhill.”
Jake leaned in toward Sam. “Not downhill. Just... down Castro Street.”
By the time they made it to Badlands, things had gotten delightfully fuzzy. Billy and Dominic were deep in an earnest debate over whether Cher or Madonna had contributed more to queer culture. Someone handed them matching rainbow fans. Hal disappeared briefly and returned with a temporary tattoo that read “Yas Queen” across his forearm.
As the sun began to slip toward the horizon, they wandered down to The Mix on 18th Street—a low-key, unpretentious neighborhood bar nestled between a taqueria and a vintage bookstore.
Inside, it was dark and cozy, the kind of place where the jukebox still mattered and nobody judged your drink order. The boys grabbed beers and took turns playing pool while Stevie Nicks crooned through the speakers. Out back, the patio was strung with fairy lights and the smell of grilled burgers wafted through the warm evening air.
Jake nursed a beer while leaning against Sam, their knees touching under the picnic table. “Tomorrow’s the big day,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” Sam said, eyes soft. “But this—today—this is kind of perfect.”
Nearby, Billy was trying to explain Wisconsin-style Old Fashioneds to a bartender who clearly did not believe in muddled fruit. Hal had befriended a pug named Harvey Milkshake. Mike and Dominic were laughing over photos from the day, all arms-around-shoulders and flushed with joy.
A cheer rose from inside as someone sank the eight ball. Music throbbed faintly beneath the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses.
Jake looked around the table at his friends—his chosen family. They were sweaty and slightly sunburned, a little buzzed, and totally alive.
“We should do this every year,” Dominic said, to no one in particular.
“We will,” Jake replied. “Even if we’re old and grumpy and wearing orthopedic rainbow sandals.”
Sam laughed. “Speak for yourself. I’m going to age like RuPaul.”
Another round arrived. Someone made a toast—nonsensical and heartfelt. They clinked glasses again, the way they had in Milwaukee just weeks before.
But this night was different. This was Pride in its wildest, freest, most joyful form.
Tomorrow they would march in the parade. They would wave flags and shout until their voices cracked. They would remember the history, honor the fight, and celebrate the beauty of love in all its forms.
But tonight?
Tonight they were simply together.
And that was everything.
~Wylddane
The fog had lifted by late morning, revealing the sun-drenched, rainbow-draped streets of the Castro. Pride flags fluttered from every window, crosswalks blazed with color, and the neighborhood pulsed with music, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of freedom.
Jake, Sam, Billy, Dominic, Hal, and Mike tumbled out of their B&B on 17th Street—an old Victorian with creaky floors, floral wallpaper, and a kindly lesbian couple named Linda and Sharon who ran it with military precision and bottomless mimosas.
“We’ve only been in San Francisco twelve hours,” Billy said, adjusting his sunglasses, “and I’ve already cried twice, flirted with a drag queen named Drought-Tolerant Dahlia, and been offered glitter in a tube.”
Sam grinned. “Welcome to Pride.”
They started their crawl at The Lookout, perched above Market Street with its breezy balcony and panoramic people-watching. They sipped pineapple jalapeño margaritas while cheering on dancers in harnesses and body glitter below.
“This place is like a caffeinated gay bird sanctuary,” Hal observed, watching as a man in a Speedo and angel wings flitted past.
Next up: Beaux, where the music was louder, the lights more strobe-heavy, and the go-go boys defied gravity and basic physics. Mike, normally reserved, found himself pulled into a dance circle by a man in thigh-high boots and a mesh shirt.
“Oh god,” Mike laughed breathlessly, “I’ve peaked. This is it. Everything after this is downhill.”
Jake leaned in toward Sam. “Not downhill. Just... down Castro Street.”
By the time they made it to Badlands, things had gotten delightfully fuzzy. Billy and Dominic were deep in an earnest debate over whether Cher or Madonna had contributed more to queer culture. Someone handed them matching rainbow fans. Hal disappeared briefly and returned with a temporary tattoo that read “Yas Queen” across his forearm.
As the sun began to slip toward the horizon, they wandered down to The Mix on 18th Street—a low-key, unpretentious neighborhood bar nestled between a taqueria and a vintage bookstore.
Inside, it was dark and cozy, the kind of place where the jukebox still mattered and nobody judged your drink order. The boys grabbed beers and took turns playing pool while Stevie Nicks crooned through the speakers. Out back, the patio was strung with fairy lights and the smell of grilled burgers wafted through the warm evening air.
Jake nursed a beer while leaning against Sam, their knees touching under the picnic table. “Tomorrow’s the big day,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” Sam said, eyes soft. “But this—today—this is kind of perfect.”
Nearby, Billy was trying to explain Wisconsin-style Old Fashioneds to a bartender who clearly did not believe in muddled fruit. Hal had befriended a pug named Harvey Milkshake. Mike and Dominic were laughing over photos from the day, all arms-around-shoulders and flushed with joy.
A cheer rose from inside as someone sank the eight ball. Music throbbed faintly beneath the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses.
Jake looked around the table at his friends—his chosen family. They were sweaty and slightly sunburned, a little buzzed, and totally alive.
“We should do this every year,” Dominic said, to no one in particular.
“We will,” Jake replied. “Even if we’re old and grumpy and wearing orthopedic rainbow sandals.”
Sam laughed. “Speak for yourself. I’m going to age like RuPaul.”
Another round arrived. Someone made a toast—nonsensical and heartfelt. They clinked glasses again, the way they had in Milwaukee just weeks before.
But this night was different. This was Pride in its wildest, freest, most joyful form.
Tomorrow they would march in the parade. They would wave flags and shout until their voices cracked. They would remember the history, honor the fight, and celebrate the beauty of love in all its forms.
But tonight?
Tonight they were simply together.
And that was everything.
~Wylddane
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