Folsom Street Fair was this past weekend in San Francisco.  It’s a fairly big event — one of those only-in-San-Francisco-happenings — but the consensus is that it’s not what it used to be.  S&M has gone mainstream.  Leather as an underground sex taboo may have peaked as early as the mid 90′s.  No one even has sex at the Fair anymore.  Just a lot of gawkers walking around.  Including Cassandra. 

But there are still parties.  The big party was called Magnitude on Saturday night.  Tickets were $100 a pop.  Add in the cost of drugs, alcohol, and cab fare, and Cassandra would much prefer to spend this much money on food.

But my friends Muscle Mary and Sporty Saab went to Magnitude.  I ran into them at the Fair the next day.  I wanted all the juicy details.  Did people really get fisted in the middle of the dance floor?

Muscle Mary looked at Sporty Saab with a slight grimace. 

I did a little too much G last night, Muscle Mary confessed.  G is for GHB.  I tried it once and it just made me nauseous.  The high off G is supposedly similar to being drunk on alcohol.  Except GHB can kill you if you swallow just a teaspoon too much. 

At Magnitude, Muscle Mary was unconscious.  He couldn’t stand up.  The club’s medical personnel performed some physical tests on him, determined he was in no immediate danger, did not require an ambulance, and then kicked him out of the club.  Poor Sporty Saab had to leave the club also to babysit him.  $200 dollars down the drain.

So, I asked Muscle Mary, Did you O.D. before or after you saw the folks fisting on the dance floor?

He busted out laughing.  Cassandra, the queen of hyperboles.  He told me he took a little too much G and a few minutes later I turned it into a full-blown drug overdose.

I imagined Muscle Mary, crashed out on Sporty Saab’s bed.  His eyeballs rolled to the back of his head.  His closed eyelids fluttering.  Mouth drooped open with saliva foaming around the edges.  The body, writhing with spasms. 

I turned my attention to Sporty Saab. 

It must have been so traumatic for you, I say to him.  I try my best to convey an air of concern.  It’s not about the gossip.  Really, Cassandra cares.

Tell me, I beg him, how did Muscle Mary look as she was OD’ing on G?

Sporty Saab looked at me with the world weary eyes of someone who’s seen it all.  Either that, or he just looked tired from not having slept for two days. 

He said, I kept looking at Mary on my bed and thinking, If he dies, will I be in trouble with the law?

He goes on: If Muscle Mary dies, will my roommates force me to move out?

And this is the best.  The kicker.  You know this was what’s really going through Sporty Saab’s mind as Muscle Mary lay twitching on his deathbed.  There’s no truth serum like being fucked up on drugs.

He says, If Muscle Mary dies on my bed,

does that mean I have to buy a new mattress?

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