Robert Steele drew back the custom-made curtain from the outer edge of the large bay window and glanced up at the billowing clouds that hung overhead as a jagged fragment of lightning crackled and lit up the sky in the distance.
"Damn," the trim thirty-something lawyer muttered to himself.
"It looks like torrential rains are on the way. Again."
Not one to step gaily into the bustling city street with dreaded umbrella in hand (hated 'em) the foot-loose-and-fancy-free bachelor made a point of making a pact with himself that he would flag down a cab if necessary.
After all, it wasn't a smart move - by any person's standards - to stride into the office late first day or looking for all-the-world like a drowned rat.
Bolton, Bartholomew and Franklin was a staid business concern.
Although, there weren't any practical perks - such as health insurance, expense accounts, or even the luxury of a private parking spaces on the premises - there was a potential for advancement according to one Senior partner who took Steele under his wing for some inexplicable reason.
The rag-tag gang of activists could be heard chanting their mantra a half-a-block away, as they marched up Castro Street waving ubiquitous signs with heartfelt slogans emblazoned on their face, protesting the plight of the poverty-stricken.
"Stop homelessness now," the boisterous mob cried out to all within earshot.
Butch, one of the organizers of the weekly street demonstrations - hummed the notes of an old Joan Baez folk tune under-her-breath - as she sporadically approached pedestrians on the sidelines for donations when the mood struck her.
"I'm a walking cliche, I know" the die-hard romantic cackled to one middle-aged gent, who smirked on the sidelines amused.
From the get-up - she was comfortable in a pair of slightly-faded khaki cargo pants, teamed with a loud red plaid shirt fashioned in soft brushed cotton, and sensible black tie-up boots with sturdy heels to anchor her to the pavement when she walked - Butch gave the appearance of a no-nonsense down-to-earth diesel dyke through-and-through.
It wasn't always the case, though.
In her formative years, she was essentially a fragile porcelain doll, thanks to a dotting Mother anxious to shower her only daughter with all the niceties of life that eluded her after she took flight from the warmth and security of her parents once-comfortable home.
When Grandpa lost his first fortune in the crash of 1929, the once-fabulously-rich threesome barely survived the hardships, that descended out-of-the-blue one God-forsaken day.
While under hypnosis, a psychiatrist later dredged up a truckload of troubling childhood memories, that had been lurking beneath the surface of her consciousness for years - which ultimately - had been traumatizing her without her being none the wiser.
When her favorite uncle - Todd - jumped to his death from the top of the Stock Exchange, she was forced to recall that socialite friends cruelly wondered aloud if it was proper etiquette for the troubled man to commit suicide on public property.
Dixie - Butch's dear mother, bless her heart - made a vow to herself that fine day that her own precious children would never suffer the insults of cold unfeeling in-laws if she had to beg, borrow, or steal to accomplish that end.
If necessary, she'd throw caution to the wind, and marry into money!
In spite of the loathsome task at hand, Butch's thoughts drifted to "Chad" - her long-time confidante who was suffering through a sex change that was proving to be a highly emotional and physical challenge.
The winsome twosome met at an AA meeting in a run-down old Church situated on the less trendy end of Robertson Boulevard in West Hollywood (affectionately known to the locals as gay gulch) and quickly became fast (loose?) buddies!
Film buffs may recall that WeHo was once a outlaw hang-out way back when, which was depicted in scandalous colorful detail in the Russell Crowe flick "Hollywood Confidential".
Although, Chad's mother (a dance-hall Diva with a bevy of pop hits to her name) was behind her daughter (son?) at least one-hundred-percent, the shy misfit couldn't help but be leery about the outcome of the remarkable sexual transformation fast-approaching.
Obviously, there was no turning back.
Needless to say, Chad pined for an intimate relationship with a pretty female companion - a lipstick lesbian - perhaps?
But, because of the traditional values she was exposed to during her child rearing, Chad was forced to go under a surgeon's knife to make it "right".
Was it possible to fall in love, and find bliss away from the prying eyes of hurtful naysayers in Hollywood, in spite of the odds against it?
Butch, though capable of understanding her dilemma, didn't envy her friend troubled friend.
Chad was undergoing such a radical identity change, after all.
"As long as you're happy," Butch found herself lamely lamenting soulfully to her pal one day.
No matter how you cut it, Chad was heading down the road less travelled, for better or worse.
Would she survive the ordeal?
Danny turned on his right side, let out a loud yawn as he clawed the air playfully, then flexed a muscled leg beneath the designer sheets.
He found himself rubbing-up against the silky smooth skin of a well-defined muscled bod, next to him on the big comfy Queen-size bed!
Out-of-the-corner of one eye - it did not escape his attention, Sir! - that he was in the company of a hunky son-of-a-gun, alright.
Then, as the cobwebs of sleep took flight from the early-morning fog that once-enveloped him, the events of the night before fluttered into his consciousness image by image.
Ah, now all the delicious pieces were falling into place, to complete the puzzle.
After a rough day at the studio, he was inclined to dash off to the local pub - a popular watering hole by the hilarious unlikely name of - The Rooster & the Jug - for a brief respite from the pressures of a strenuous day toiling over a handful of tedious drawing boards.
Within a half-hour-or-so, Danny (a self-styled bisexual) found himself trading quips with a handsome blond surfer-type, squeezed into a dusty pair of faded blue jeans topped with a skin-tight black "T" with the words "pump it" etched on its face.
The kid - from Utah, if he recalled correctly - had an infectious grin.
And, the studly dude was packing a thick inviting tool between his muscled legs, which triggered pangs of sexual desire in the randy depths of his very soul right-off-the-bat.
Gosh, it was about two weeks or so, since his last erotic encounter in a back alley in the Mission District.
Though the dude was obliging when it came to a quick blow-job, he begged off when it came to the question of jotting down the number of his cell.
"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly, as he zipped up his fly and flashed a wedding band dangling on a glittering gold chain around his masculine neck.
"Slut," Danny thought to himself, as he strode off licking his wounds.
For a week or two, he was off men, after that humiliating brush-off.
What do they say?
Forget the romance.
Whip it in!
Wipe it out!
Wipe it off.
Wonder what Brad's story was, Danny wondered to himself, as Prince Charming suddenly moaned and stirred to life.
Danny reached under the quilt (Martha Stewart, of course) and grabbed a-hold of his junk.
Within minutes, the stud's cock was sporting a roaring hard-on - at which point - his hunky bed mate jumped him for another round of sizzling hot sex.
"Wow, that's quite a spectacular view," Brad gushed, as he pulled on his Calvin's and fumbled with his open fly.
To the left, Grace Cathedral hugged a pristine blue cloudless sky.
Below, the picturesque city by the Bay, beckoned in all its stunning architectural (and scenic) beauty.
"And, that's quite a cock 'ya got there, too," Danny blurted out, bluntly.
"They say it's the girth that separates the men from the boys," Brad chuckled, as he turned a little flush in the face.
"You're hot enough to be an Abercrombie & Fitch model," Danny quickly responded, on the uptake.
"Aber - who?"
"How refreshing," Danny smirked to himself.
A hottie who doesn't have ambitions to be grace soaring billboards around the country half-naked.
"Do you own this pad," Brad quizzed Danny, off-the-cuff.
"I lucked out. It's a sub-let. I'm kind-of a glorified house-boy," he chortled, as he hungrily ate up the delicious striking image of manhood at the foot of his bed.
"Shall I get all sentimental and jot down my phone number," Brad teased.
"I'll do 'ya one better. I''ll treat you to breakfast at Hugo's, kiddo."
(to be continued)
Scandals of the Privileged Few!