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With the possible exception of the hatching chick, the puppy emoji is the cutest emoji - and the nine members of the Fog City Pack know it. That’s how it pretty much used to be, anyway.
GAY MEN WRESTLING TO SUBMISSION IN SAN FRANCISCO CODE
Leathermen, latex lovers, piercers, electro-freaks, and the like - nearly all of them denoted by their own colored-bandanna-in-the-rear-pants-pocket identification system known as the hanky code - have what’s known as an Old Guard, the generations that built everything up when the erotics of a gay existence were entirely in the shadows. Many gay male fetish subcultures abide by variations on the same principle: Be he daddy, master, alpha, or sir, the one in charge makes the rules, and the subs obey. Coming from an alpha to a beta pup, it indicates that, parliamentary procedure notwithstanding, the pup world doesn’t necessarily adhere to a rigid hierarchy between dominants and submissives.
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To smooth things over, the alpha apologizes, twice. There is talk, much of it at the granular level, of which DJs from Alpha to retain, the color palette (silver-blue) for the Fog City T-shirts they’ll be selling at the door, the socks-and-jocks outfits each pack member will wear, and whether Eventbrite’s cut necessitates a discount for early-bird tickets or not.Īs at a nonprofit board meeting, discussion of every item and even the interruptions stick to Robert’s Rules, but things get a little heated when one pup feels slighted during the decision-making process, as if things had been agreed upon in advance and this pack meeting wasn’t so much a discussion as a perfunctory ratification. (Plus, they’ve fed me dinner, a flavorful meat ragout over pasta.) Beta, the party, is a follow-up to Alpha, and it is to take place from 10 p.m. I’m not permitted to join the pack’s circle around the table, but nobody objects to my sitting in. Another bio-pup, a miniature pinscher named Dakota, runs around the room, yelping at the commotion. (“They’re very adorable and very horny,” he says.) Someone else talks about having acquired a new “bio-pup” - which is to say, a Canis lupus familiaris. Someone mentions that two beta pups are coming to the Up Your Alley Fair. Another got engaged to his boyfriend (who is not a pack member) in Amsterdam. One pup has gotten an internship with Scott Wiener and laughs about needing a step-stool to negotiate the six-foot, seven-inch supervisor’s office. The meeting began with check-ins and personal updates. They’re hashing out the details for Beta, Fog City’s second event, to be held at a subterranean club in SoMa in the weeks to come. I’m sitting on an armchair in The Kennel, a two-bedroom apartment in the Castro that doubles as the lair for the Fog City Pack, a group of nine gay men who identify as human canines, or pups. Abiding by the parliamentary precepts in Robert’s Rules of Order, the agenda turns to how many glory holes the sex party should have, and how many slings.