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A Letter From (Some Are) Camp

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Dear Stuart,


Camp’s been great! The last rays of languid orange light dapple a fright wig bobbing in the R3‘s pool like a gentle blood clot in a sea of Hypnotiq. Ay, Stuart, the last day of camp is always bittersweet, and indeed my heart feels as heavy as the waterlogged body stocking melting into the deck chair to my right.

As I ponder my tight, reptilian skin, it seems like only yesterday that camp began. So close and yet so far! Could it be due to the unparalleled performances and the fraternal bond of my queer community?

The bracing health of the forest air??

Then again, perhaps it’s the eleven mai tais I’ve consumed since this morning?   Or, maybe, it is simply the fact that I only did arrive here 24 hours ago.

And yet, what is time when you are singing Al Jarreau’s theme to Moonlighting to a complete stranger in a bar because your rolling your tits off? What prompted that majestic moment in my life? Was it Miss Rhani’s flawless choreography? Vivvy’s rapier wit?? Honey Mahogany’s intoxicating movement?? Did I think myself too, a star, in this celestial company?

Some thing...walk by night.

Some…walk by night.

It’s so easy to get carried away in dreams of grandeur when you watch Glamamore limp on stage with an ashtray for her grand finale. No, honestly, I mean that.

Eventually, though, a night of waxing poetic about Cybil Shepherd and bathtub dog piles all set to a valley wide chorus of squishy duck calls gave way to a glorious Sunday heralded by a log cabin church full of Catholic hippies next to my tent in the Highlands, where I passed the night using a polyester tunic as a sleeping bag.

All the comforts of home.

All the comforts of home.

Now, here I lay like the crispy chicken in the Safeway across the road overrun with boys tottering in stilettos and checkout clerks ready to snap like twigs after a week back to back with Lazy Bear and now this tempest in a teabag.


Soon it will all draw to a close, dear Stuart. What will befall me in these last few hours? Will I be grabbing my ankles in some strange room or will a random boy in a speedo pour poppers all over my moustache? Will this body stocking reveal itself to be an actual body?  Only the spirits know for sure!

I’ll tell you what- I shall consult the mai tai, old friend. It shall have my answer!

But, judging by these large, pretty birds circling above me like angels, I think it’s safe to say that things are looking up!

Wish you were here!




P.s-I’ve enclosed some photos taken by Josh before he ran away from me and jumped into that speeding car. – S.T.

P.p.s- Send poppers. -S.T.











The ring mistress of the midnight carnival greets her public.







All photos R3 poolside by Joshua James Abeyta.


Some Are Camp
2nd Weekend In August Annually
The R3
16390 4th Street (@Mill)

Some Thing
Every Friday 10:00 p.m.- 4:00 a.m.

The Stud
399 9th Street (@ Harrison)
[South of Market]

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Stephen Torres - Threadbare-Fact Finder (Editor, San Francisco)

Stephen Torres - Threadbare-Fact Finder (Editor, San Francisco)

Stephen's early years were spent in a boxcar overlooking downtown Los Angeles. From there he moved around the state with his family before settling under the warm blanket of smog that covers suburban Southern California. Moving around led to his inability to stay in one place for very long, but San Francisco has been reeling him back in with its siren song since 1999.
By trade he pours booze, but likes to think he can write and does so occasionally for the SF Bay Guardian, Bold Italic and 7x7. He also likes to enjoy time spent in old eateries, bars and businesses that, by most standards, would have been condemned a long time ago.