The Huffington Post recently ran an interesting piece on the best places to be single in San Francisco (a city notoriously sucky for straight people). Guys: If you are looking for love and perhaps someone who shares your affinity for vintage Matchbox Twenty, look no further than the Marina, where the ratio of women to men is highest. Warning: They are probably high-maintenance and if you are into BBW or perhaps a broad knowledge base, you will go home empty-handed.
Now onto the best spots for girls to find guys. Well, I have good news and bad news. There is a neighborhood in the city that is just crawling with single men. And by “crawling,” I mean they can't get up off of the sidewalk and walk home because they are either too loaded, don't actually have a home, or both. Yes, the Tenderloin has been named the best option for single women in S.F. to find their soulmates.
It appears the author just looked at census data and made the leap that wherever the numbers were greater for each sex, the riper the pickin's. So I tried to think about the real parts of the city that are good for singles; places that you won't get mugged or be forced to inhale Sarah Jessica Parker's “Covet” perfume. Granted, a friend of mine just told me that his girlfriend pointed out to him that “The Bouncer always seems like she's looking for a man,” which ruffled my feathers a bit. Who knew my readers were so astute?
Of course as I pondered all this I was sitting at what was probably the No. 1 worst place outside of the Castro to find someone with a penis who is single and likes vaginas: the Miraloma Club on Portola. This red naugahyde strip mall beaut caters to the same 25 people, all of whom live within a four-block radius of this sleepy 'hood. They are all either married, widowed, or lost their sex drive completely somewhere back in 1992. Sure this place gets its rowdy youngsters, but can a lifetime bond be forged with someone who is wearing an Ed Hardy shirt and puts Halestorm on repeat?
The 'Loma, as I am the only one to call it, is a garden-variety watering hole, with sports gimcrack and jovial bartenders (for the most part). Fake wood and deep reds round things out. If I lived over here I could see myself settling in often.
The first time you walk in you might feel like Pee Wee Herman when he walked into that biker bar. Only this time, gentle reader, there will be no “Tequila” on the jukebox. It's sterile (save for that faint smell old bars get), rather bland, and definitely not a “club” in the olde-tymey London sense, but it's dearly loved by its customers so that's good enough for me.
I had on my best “Don't even talk to me” outfit: stretch pants and beat-up Converse, a big fluffy black faux fur coat with a high collar pulled up around my face, and glasses. I also pulled out all my reading material and the ubiquitous crossword puzzle. So imagine my surprise when I was approached by a person, and this person was male, and this person seemed attractive. Just like in the movies, he said, “This seat taken?”
“Go for it,” I replied, jerking my thumb quickly to the right to denote not only where the chair was but my agreement to him sitting there. I pulled my coat further around myself. Didn't want him to get a boner.
I decided to play his coy game. “You come here often?” I asked. Nope, he said, he was just at Laguna Honda and he really needed a drink. Aha. Laguna Honda is that big rehab hospital down the hill from where we were. (In fact, “Miraloma” means “hill view.”) Maybe he was visiting his ailing grandmother, or perhaps he was a doctor.
He took a long pull on his drink and then said, “My bitch wife stays there now after her freak accident.”
I was visibly shocked and repulsed. He assumed, I think, that the look on my face was because she had hurt herself badly.
“Oh, she will be okay; don't worry. She just has to relearn how to walk and stuff.” Something in his delivery brought to mind pictures of him at the top of the stairs, sleeves rolled up, triumphant, and her at the bottom, a twisted, softly moaning wreck.
“Just kidding!!” he said, letting out a whoop. “Do you see a ring?” he held up his hand and wiggled his fingers.
So here we were at a crossroads, gentle reader. Usually I enjoy sick humor. However, when it's the ice-breaker, is that a good sign? The last guy I dated told me, about two weeks into our romance, about a dream in which he was hired by a father to kill his daughter. They were all in a big modern house together, and instead of killing her he decided to fuck her first. Well how can you murder a woman who screws that well? So instead he decided to kill the father, and he chased the man around with a hammer and beat his brains in on the kitchen floor.
We broke up.
My new buddy finished the rest of his drink in one swig and immediately signaled to the bartender for another.
Conclusion: No matter where you are in this town, girls, there are bad decisions to be made. I carefully collected my stuff and backed out of there. He waved at me on the way, with the same finger wiggle he had already used. The finger wiggle of the desperate.