A haunting dream....

1968 San Francisco, evening, catching a glimpse of the evening star above the street sign that says Ritch Street--I hadn't realized there was a "t" in it.  I'd been walking fast  down from Market Street. I stopped to catch my breath and reflect.  God, I was alone.  I'd never been in this part of the city at this time of night before.  And a flush of good feeling suffused me as I realized that being alone didn't frighten me in the least--I was so lucky to be a good-looking young man out on the prowl, about to find those steam baths at 330 Ritch Street of which I'd heard such tantalizing tales, and I was about to have promiscuous, anonymous sex with God knows how many other good-looking horny young men. Life was sweet.

Somebody started whistling K. 465, and a half dozen or so joined in, and the Mozart faded and turned into a sort of impromptu Boccherini--delicious.  Laughter.  And somebody said, "So where were we?"