My Mother, who in her own Opinion, had held her own at giving Teas in her Sorority in College,

Was nonetheless not a little intimidated by the posh, old-money glitz of San Francisco in the 1940's, which then, as now, barely concealed a sardonic hardness towards middle class values behind its welcoming friendliness and charm.  She had, without a doubt, never seen so many well-dressed women--and men--in her life.  It never occurred to her to just dive in and have fun--to go to the opera, or maybe shop at I. Magnin's, or have lunch (with zabaglione for dessert) at Original Joe's, or crab cioppino on Fisherman's Wharf.  She didn't get it.  I, on the other hand, had been getting it from the moment I first saw it, and maybe I helped her, just a little, to understand what San Francisco is to a gay man:

It was our next-to-the-last day in the City, and we set out early to visit Golden Gate Park (which in those days was free of dog shit) and Fleishhacker Zoo.  But, as we were a little early before the zoo opened, we stopped at the children's playground, with its heavenly spiral slides.  There suddenly appeared a handsome stripling youth of some seventeen years--just the age I liked them--who asked my mother and was given permission to play with me (those were innocent times).  And play we did; most memorably, sliding down those celestial spiral slides--me before, between his muscular thighs; him behind, wrapping his arms around me.  On the last ride down, I said, "I wish we could do this forever."  And, smiling, he said, "Never ask forever."  Afterwards, looking at me strangely, my mother said to me, "He was a very nice young man."