This Post is D.T.F.

Because my entire life was shrouded in varying degrees of secrecy for several months, I never quite got to fill you in on my January California trip. 98% was spent working and eating my way into a whole new size bracket but I did manage to squeeze in a serious weekend with my personal life coach Nicole including a brief but memorable send-off for Jamie, and delightful exposure to Nicole’s boyfriend who I have since started referring to as the Human Good Influence.

We drank honey vodka and perved on hot bartenders, I realized how not okay it is to be hungover in San Francisco cabs on San Francisco roads and hills, we ate inappropriate amounts of cheese, we got in trouble for drinking in public and knocking over crowd-control gates, we ate 2am crepes, and jammed to every mashup ever created while the H.G.I. reminded us to hydrate, take vitamins, and be nicer to ourselves while voluntarily driving all over the city. He’s a saint.

There’s far more than I could ever tell you about our few days together but trust that it was the best 2011 kickoff I could have asked for. What I WILL tell you about is our trip to the Castro – the neighbourhood where gay sex and cardio workouts were invented*.

*Unconfirmed but entirely likely.

What you need to know for starters is that within about two hours together, Nicole and my cycles synced making us a bit of a handful. Our catchphrase quickly became, ‘does anyone have any needs?‘ because we always always always did. And if we didn’t? We made some up. Bandaids? Water? Washrooms? Pepto? Shoelaces? You give us a place that can fulfill needs and we can find plenty of suitable needs to be filled. Most notably and least surprisingly, there were several ‘I NEED TO EAT RIGHT NOW OR I WILL MAKE EVERYONES LIVES AN ACTUAL HELL ON EARTH‘ moments that in retrospect were both unattractive and entirely avoidable.

The worst one was the day after our club night when we foolishly decided to go on a brunch adventure when we should have just had brunch and then been adequately prepared for an adventure. But no – we fooled ourselves into thinking an adventure to the Castro would make brunch a snap because in addition to sex and cardio, The Gays also invented brunch. And apparently ‘let’s have sex RIGHT NOW‘ facial expressions.

We ended up at a cute café that was just what we needed to pull ourselves together. It was the kind of place you could take your nan for tea especially if she loves checking out hot gay men over toast. It was all very quaint, classy, and lovely until we headed to the Spaceshipesque, entirely chrome bathroom and found this poster:

Gratuitous male nudity aside (it kinda comes with the territory) please allow me to direct your attention to the D.T.F. – a nice way of saying, only come to this party if you’re “Down To Fuck.

Now THAT’S a San Francisco gay theme party. In Halifax? We’re tend to stick with Eighties Prom, or Pirates, or mini-golf. Not that I don’t understand the merits of having a Come Get Laid party in sluttyworld theory, but I had literally just finished breakfast and couldn’t really hack the sex-with-strangers vibe quite that early. Which is really why we ended up scrapping our original brunch destination…

Oh yes – the cute café, poster or no, was our watered down gay brunch. We couldn’t hack the real deal since we were all hurting from three hours of dance-partying the night before. Our uninformed first choice turned out to be a big gay ordeal. You’d swear Adam Lambert was serving penis-shapes pastries baked by Olivia Newton-John. You could hear the club music across the street, there was a line up of corseted women, breakfast-drunk gays, and a sign advertising bottomless mimosas.

Just a word to the wise? When your carbs come with Ke$ha and your eggs come with x-rated stories that barely happened long enough in the past for guilty parties to have showered and changed the sheets, you’re probably at a D.T.F. brunch. And that’s so much worse than a D.T.F. club because you can pretty much assume you’re either getting someone’s round two or getting stuck with someone who no one else was D.T.F. with. In which case, you need to take a good hard look at your life – everyone knows brunch > sex always.

Also, I’m going to make D.T.F. something I say on the regular. I like the challenge of pushing the boundaries of its context. Like…”Oh man, I’m so D.T.F. that pizza.” Embrace it.