I was never one for the “free” service OneDrive offers for photos “On This Day.” I couldn’t have cared less. I had other things to think about besides strolling down memory lane with photographs of happier times. Moments when my life wasn’t consumed by chaos. However since my husband’s death I have taken each opportunity with renewed excitement. One, because it’s been nice seeing photos that wax and wane from sentimental to bizarre. (“Why the fuck did I save this?”) And two, because every one of them has included a dick shot from the bf. Which I find hilarious. Today’s photo set did not though. Which is serendipitous because it put the spotlight solely on Charlie, my husband.

This trip was one of our favorites. We recounted it up until the end because it is what got us hooked on “spur of the moment” and “unplanned” adventures. It’s also where we got some of our best stories.

Charlie had been given his inheritance from his grandmother’s (or grandfather) passing. After purchasing a video camera he had intended to use to film his own adult entertainment (a la Corbin fisher or Sean Cody) for his own website, he decided that we should take a trip up to San Francisco. We needed a vacation. We needed time to reconnect and mend our fence.

Prior to this, in March 2005, was when he had discovered the emails that proved I was cheating. After a very tense fight we broke up for a couple hours before he called me back to his place. It was then that he told me what it would take for him to earn his trust again and I agreed. I would do anything to rectify the hurt I had caused him. And it was serious trauma. For both of us.

This trip brought us out of the funk that had lingered around the brief break up. We reconnected and found what made us work. It was our openness to adventure and the possibility of the unknown.

During it we made a stop at the Winchester mansion, one of my more favorite locales in California. Not because of the spooky nature of the home, but because of the absurdity some people place in their beliefs of death and dying. (Me being one of them by the way.) We didn’t get anything spooky on film however I got some pretty neat photos. I’m surprised they didn’t show up in yesterday’s email…

Later that night we walked from our hotel into China town and down to the wharf. We immediately regretted it on the trek back, which was almost entirely a steep incline.

The following day we took a trip to Alcatraz (as shown in the photos) and after a rest from scouring “the rock!” we went to a male strip club located around the corner from our hotel. It is THE STORY I love to recount because of how bonkers it was. (And just know there are minor details that add to the flavor that unfortunately didn’t make it into the narrative.)

The “strip club” was called Knob Hill Theatre, located next to “Charlies inn” which my mom had said was a funny coincidence. We paid entry and walked in to find a man blowing an entirely naked hunk to our right, in the top row of a set of theatre seats. Caught off guard we hurried down the hallway to where we could see the start of a stage through another doorway. As we got closer we saw no one was there. Stepping into the entryway we looked back and realized that the completely naked man was the dancer. This was before the announcer could let us know that “the bigger the tip, the bigger the thrill.”

We ventured on due to the discomfort of the scene and found a set of showers, equipped with booths to view in, and a room filled with televisions playing various pornographic video clips. In that room was a man with his pants around his ankles jerking off. Startled we hurried out of that room and back into the hallway.

“Do you think he works here too?” I asked my husband.

“Nope. I think he’s just some guy.”

We go back to the theatre and it’s empty. We take a seat along the aisle, midway in the audience. The next dancer comes out, Rico. He has a samba soundtrack with a Latin beat to match his outward exterior. He removes some clothes and ventures out into the audience to ask for a tip. My husband and I shake our heads to politely decline and he goes to the back where the one other gentleman had been blowing the previous dancer. I assume he also declines and “Rico” goes back on stage and removes everything else but his socks. He strolls once again into the audience to us. He leans against the back of the chair in front of me, props up a leg and opens up the top of his tube sock to say “do you want to give me a tip?”

I giggled and said, “I’m good.”

He does the same to the guy in the back who, it appears, to have also said no.

Rico storms to the stage, grabs up his clothes and leaves the stage in a huff. The music playing loudly overhead to no one in particular.

Next comes out a dancer who looked as though they literally took him off the street. He was wearing cargo shorts, vans, a t-shirt underneath an opened, button up shirt, and a cap. His chosen dance tracks Fiona Apple and Madonna songs. Slowly he starts to dance this reserved, insecure collection of body movements, while looking back at the music booth with the most pathetic expression, as if to say “don’t make me do this.”

He continues to dance through each song reluctantly taking off items of clothing. Finally, I lean over to Charlie and ask for a $5 and rush up to the edge of the stage. I hold up the folded bill between two fingers and say, “Please don’t cry.”

He laughs and takes the money. I return to my seat followed closely by (who we would forever refer to as) the crying stripper. He was totally naked at this point and as he’s standing in the aisle, stroking himself, as he has a totally mundane conversation with both my husband and me; asking us where we’re from and what we’re doing in the city. Shit you have with someone in a hotel lobby and not at all while someone is masturbating before you. Finally he ends the conversation and goes back on stage to collect his things and leaves.

“How is it that you can have an easy conversation with him but you’re shy around my family?” Charlie had asked me.

I shrugged.

The next dancer was a no show, so we make one final round through the place before leaving. That’s when we see someone in the “shower.” It was our crying stripper! I rushed into the booth and knocked enthusiastically on the glass. He turns and I excitedly wave at him.

He laughs and I pop in a $20 through the slot in the window. He holds up his index finger.

The crying stripper pumps some soap into his hand and then strolls over to the glass and starts jerking off. After a few moments he cums on the window and I clap while I say “yay!”

He blushes, chuckles and then mouths, “Thank you.”

I am sad to inform you that the theatre is no longer open. It was one of the many casualties of the Covid epidemic. However, I’ve heard rumors of people trying to preserve and reopen it. Fingers crossed. It was a fun place! This story alone got my friends interested in going, which also resulted in another story for the book.

I’m glad I have these photos. If it wasn’t for my persistence in taking them (at this time) I wouldn’t have them now. He hated having his picture taken. He would ruin any photo with a weird face or by blocking the lens. So I had to get clever of when and where I took his picture. My techniques followed me throughout our relationship. My preferred choice was on the sly, when he was distracted with something else. To me he had a natural handsomeness in his “observations.” If he were to do the same to me I would just look bitchy. I have some intense R.B.F.

I am genuinely sad that we will not have any other misadventures. They were what made our life unpredictable and fun. Not only that, he made them better to experience them. We pushed each other into the most bizarre of scenarios, just because something off-the-wall sounded kind of fun. And those were always the stories we loved to tell.

Side note, he would be mortified that I posted this one in a public forum.