Christmas came early this year in the form of a circular on the walls of San Diego Eagle announcing a Sunday bus trip to Palm Springs Leather Pride. “KFC lunch and open bar,” it promised. Never mind the booze; I was sold on the fried-chicken meal alone. The resulting column was to be my Sistine Chapel—albeit with more fisting.
I arrived promptly at the haunt’s parking lot, and all that was missing was tumbleweed. “It got cancelled,” sulked a would-be Priscilla rider wearing nothing but ass-less chaps, a frown and SPF 45. “Only 11 people signed up.”
Sharing his disillusionment, and with my Pulitzer dreams on hold, I opted for Plan B: lube wrestling at The Brass Rail (3796 Fifth Ave., Hillcrest), hosted by the Demi Lovato of hybrid drag queens, Glitz Glam, and featuring “Miami porn stars” vying for a $500 cash prize.
“Don’t share my shot glass or go down on me—I’m coming down with a cold,” the Cookie Monster-haired queen said as she greeted me. From that moment, the waiting game ensued as the anticipated Floridian performers were running late. Later, a hoarse Glam peaced-out before the night’s main draw; either the Santa Ana winds or “a bad dick” she’d had earlier made her ill. Like Titanic’s orchestra, I stayed the course.
Two hours later, the “stars” arrived. Now, take whatever visual you have of male adult-film actors and fax it to opposite land—these performers were apparently from the Island of Misfit Toys subgenre. Gimme some Arby’s gift cards and a roadside rest stop—I can probably assemble a better bunch. As for the wrestling ring, it was a half-blown-up kiddie pool on which a dude spooged a couple of personal-lubricant squirts from a pump-topped jug.
“This is how it’s going down,” the impromptu emcee said. “We’ve got six contestants, battling it out in three rounds. The one with the most dominant sexual positions wins.”
The sad display then started.
“This is bullshit!” a butt-hurt (no pun intended) contestant with an eastern European accent said after being voted off. He then spit on the ring and stormed off.
“You could be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare,” Beyoncé sang through the loudspeakers. This was definitely the latter, sans the beauty.
“Remember now, half the score is audience precipitation [sic],” the announcer warned. Thank God there were no Native American contestants, or “making it rain” would’ve taken a whole new meaning.
Before calling it a night, I paid a visit to the boy’s room, where something of a rematch was taking place.
Having almost glided to my death from the door to the urinal, the time had finally come to jump ship.