I could tell thousands of stories about the smallness that is San Francisco. And I probably will. Here is one to start.
Got home last night from work and was exhausted. I haven’t slept in 3 days and I’m beginning to look like the walking dead. Last night was no exception and I quickly found a couple of like-minded souls to hang out with. when I arrived at the Mission Street condo, the gaysian that came to greet me promptly announced to the ret of the building lobby that we had already slept together three times. I, of course have no recollection of any of these times but as he describes the events that evidently happened it sounded much too much like me for me not to accept that it wasn’t me.
He wasn’t at all my type, which means nothing but the chances of me hooking up with someone 4 times and not remembering any of the previous encounters seems possible but unlikely.
Anyway, we hang out. Nothing happens. I go home.