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He is wagging a puppy tail butt plug. Welcome to heaven. Or the closest thing to it — the Folsom Street Fair, an unapologetic, clothing-optional outdoor celebration of leather, kink, and BDSM. Regardless if this is your first Folsom or your 50th, we all could use a primer on proper etiquette. Every time I go, I learn more.

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in. The harness framed my smallish but quite noticeable breasts. A few friends said the crowds felt thin, while others thought it was too packed and bailed early. Still, the distressingly long tail of this raggedy pandemic has us all in different phases of social ease.

And I wanted to drink champagne in the street and feel the sun on my chest. After quite a while on hormone replacement therapy HRTthe body I have feels closer to the body I want, every single day. My nipples are constantly sore.

Going through what is effectively Puberty 2. You have to celebrate all the many firsts, public or private, however large or small. Or like how it felt to read my chosen name as a byline for a story in The Guardian last December. And now my nonbinary body has caught up to my nonbinary name.

Photos: folsom street fair (nsfw)

T he fair and I have a pretty long history. Inon my last visit to San Francisco before I became a resident, my then-boyfriend and I came to Folsom and had the time of our best lives. That year was a warm one, and the sight of a guy dancing 70 feet in the air, inside a cage supported by a crane — back when they used to do that — and across the street from a deconsecrated Catholic Church felt so fiendishly hedonistic that I was transfixed.

I went home with a boy who later cut my hair for several years. Folsom was outstanding that year, too. When I started getting into various fetishes and wrestling with questions of gender identity, I would breezily refer to myself as a freak. All-male erotic environments felt extremely liberating to me once, but they feel ordinary now… with a tinge of exclusion.

After the fair wrapped up at 6 p. The guest list was private.

You had to be fully vaccinated. It was explicitly very welcoming to all kinds of bodies. But, like all of these things, it was mostly attended by cis gays. T rans people are constantly in the news, and a of gender-variant people seem to have used the pandemic as a pretext to come out, but still, you realize there are very few of us.

While waiting for the bathroom, I was amiably chatting with the guy in front of me, a beefy cis guy in his 50s.

He asked my name. Lots of syllables: Peter-Astrid.

Welcome to fetish heaven, or the closest thing to it. below.

So I spelled it out, as I have learned to do through my mask with every single barista. I found that triggering. The bathroom opened up, and the casual misogynist went in.

We had a good laugh to break the tension. The air was thick with pheromones, and in the next room, the sling was getting some good use.

I bared my tits for the first time ever at ‘megahood’ this past sunday

N obody died that day, and I had a fun evening. I kept my shirt off until it was too cold to do it another minute, and there were no further microaggressions. The next afternoon, we had a dozen people over for post-Folsom champagne and oysters and a bit of rowdiness.

A few of those friends call me Pete; others call me Astrid. I kind of like it that way.

1. do come with an open mind.

I wore a caftan, boots, and a smoky eye. It felt great to hold court and go to a moderate amount of trouble entertaining for a group.

The last friend to leave, a muscly chef visiting from Hawaii, bear-hugged me so hard that my nipples were in true agony. Believe me when I say that that was the best feeling. Get started. Open in app.

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