Ron Naples’ second novel is a gay, erotic, fictionalized memoir based on his coming out experiences in San Francisco in the ‘80s. Return to Polk Street, The Castro, and SoMa, during their heyday. Take a peak into the gay porno world and the illicit bathhouse scene. Indulge in drugs at Trocadero Transfer, and sip cocktails at the Midnight Sun. Step inside the walls of San Quentin and view life as an inmate as witnessed firsthand by a prison guard. Be at the forefront of the AIDS crisis when visiting SF General's Ward 5B, creating a panel for the AIDS Memorial Quilt, and protesting with ACT UP. My Last Dance with Auntie Brie 2 delineates the ‘80s. A full-circle journey completing the legacy of Auntie Brie.

                                                                                              Chapter 1

                                                                                        THE WAREHOUSE

     The place was old, dark, and damp─an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere. It was a secret refuge of  forbidden pleasure, and it became legendary to all of us who knew it. What I found there shaped my destiny…

     1978

     Derek dropped his ’67 Karmann Ghia into low gear and rumbled up the driveway. I ran out of the house to his car; afraid I’d change my mind if I didn’t get into it soon. He barely came to a stop, when I opened the door and jumped in. I saw Mom watching us from her bedroom window, her hand holding the curtain, probably trembling at the thought of me going out with Derek, suspecting we were up to no good.

     We headed down an unlit road that wound through the woods of Mansfield, Connecticut. Flashes of light from neighboring houses winked behind the trees as we raced out of safe suburbia and onto the interstate with Donna Summer’s “Once Upon A Time” album blasting on his cassette deck.

     “Are you ready for the time of your life, my dear?” Derek asked, with a naughty grin on his face. I was nervous as hell and didn’t respond.

     Derek’s midnight forays were his way of rebelling against his parents. He needed to uncover his innate personality, interests, and capabilities, as well as his limitations, and he encouraged me to do the same. He had a secret life, a life that not even I, his best friend in high school, had been exposed to.

     Until tonight.

     He had asked me to go out with him on his after-dark expeditions before, but I flat-out refused. Despite my severe skittishness, curiosity finally got the best of me, so I decided to take this tentative step and enter his clandestine world.

     We drove down I-84 to Hartford, took the Sigourney Street Exit, and ventured toward Woodbine Avenue, which brought us to an abandoned factory site. The asphalt parking lot was cracked and overgrown with weeds. Strewn about, were various tools, and discarded machinery. A chain-link fence was around it, falling apart, like the industry it no longer served, dead and forgotten. The moon-lit silhouettes of tractors, and other demolition equipment, surrounded Derek’s car, like mechanical monsters waiting to attack their prey.

     We bumped our way over potholes and found a place to park. As we exited the car, traffic sounds rattled the nearby overpasses that pierced the misty night. The pungent smell of gas, oil, and exhaust fumes, added nausea to the butterflies in my stomach. It was a frightening place to be, and I questioned if I should have come with him.

     We walked toward a brick warehouse with all its windows boarded up. We entered the building through a door that was illuminated by a single red-light bulb, the kind one would see outside a Warning Zone, keeping pedestrians away from danger. I held my breath and followed my high school chum into the unknown.

     The Warehouse wasn’t as spacious inside as it appeared from the outside. Only a portion of it had been reserved for public access. The odor of damp basement air, mixed with cigarette smoke and booze, greeted me, as I followed Derek, who walked in as though he owned the place.

     We stopped, to let our eyes adjust to the darkness, before approaching a bar on the right side of the room, with half a dozen drinkers hunched over their cocktails. With as much confidence as I could muster, I stepped up to it with Derek.

     We sat on two vacant stools, and Derek ordered drinks. The bartender popped open a couple of cans of Bud and placed them on the bar before us. Derek gave the scruffy man in an AC/DC T-shirt some money. He pecked on an old cast iron register with a cash drawer that wouldn’t stay closed. I didn’t dare look at the bartender, Derek, or anyone else. I was petrified. I focused on the row of booze bottles, in front of a hazy mirror, instead, sipping my illegal brew in silence. I hoped I wouldn’t be caught for underage drinking. I then realized he couldn’t have cared less.

     “Why’d we come so early?” I asked Derek.

     “To avoid being carded,” he whispered, and then it made more sense.

     While we finished our beers, people began drifting in. Most came alone, a few in pairs. Some of them were dressed like they’d just come from the office, others wore T-shirts and jeans. A couple of them were in formal evening wear.

     I gazed around the room. A group of guys were conversing with a woman who resembled Bea Arthur from Maude. Two men were making out in the corner by the bathroom. A fat lady in a pink taffeta prom dress was yelling at the bartender for another drink; she looked like a truck driver who desperately needed a shave. This was not an ordinary bar. The Warehouse was an underground gay nightclub and its unusual crowd scared me half to death.

     Turning on my stool, I saw a three-tiered platform that served as a dance floor. Buried in the rafters, were dozens of loose wires, strung between lights that flashed to the thumping music from the loudspeakers chained to the ceiling. Color-changing lights created random patterns on the floor, as though someone was running a slide projector and lost track of what they were doing. No one was dancing.

     The DJ cued up “Supernature” by Cerrone. The tune had an environmental theme, an imagined future in which all the animals took revenge against humankind for mistreating Nature. The song was hypnotic, eerie, with synthesized minor chords and a lot of percussion. The drum solo at the end of the song flashed me back to a time when all I wanted for Christmas was a drum set: a shiny chrome snare, red sparkling tom-toms, a bass drum, hi-hat, and three shiny cymbals. How I fantasized about playing in a band like the ones I had seen on Don Kirshner’s televised rock concert. My parents eventually bought me a drum kit, and I played them in the high school band. It was the one thing that helped me get through my senior year; I detested all my classes. Music was my only means of survival.

     I looked at my Timex glow-in-the-dark watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. I hoped my parents had gone to bed and wouldn’t notice I was out past my curfew. Derek was always out late and got away with it; he got away with everything.

     “Derek, I think we should leave?”

     “We can’t go now, the place is just getting started,” he said, and ordered another round.

     The clicking of stiletto heels announced the presence of a woman who approached the doorway. She wore a Valentino mid-length black ruched dress, with a mock collar and a diamond-shaped center bustline. Elegant sleeves gracefully veiled her shoulders. Her dark curly hair, swept into a French braid, exposed a pair of sparkling earrings, that caught the light above the entrance.

     She pecked the doorman on the cheek when she turned to hand her mink to the coat checker, a chubby tomboy. I saw her dress was backless, with a dramatic cape-style drape. She turned and placed the thin strap of her delicate rhinestone purse over her shoulder, so it rested on her hip, then strutted over to the bar. The bartender gave her his full attention. She took out a cigarette, stuck it in a jeweled telescopic holder, and breathed, “Light my fire, Sweetie.”

     He flipped open a cigarette lighter, and when the flame shot up, I had a clearer view of her facial features. She was beautiful; her make-up was flawless. After taking a deep drag, she let the smoke seep from her nostrils while the bartender poured her a vodka, neat, and didn’t charge her for it.

     Derek nudged me and whispered, “That’s Brianna Gabriella Dominguez; the Queen of Putnam Heights. Isn’t he fabulous?”

     He? This perfectly coiffed woman was a man in drag. He didn’t look like the stereotypical drag queens I had seen on Donahue. Instead, Brianna was meticulously put together and carried himself with style and grace. I stared at his strange elegance with intrigue. His appearance was so unexpected to see in this old warehouse of darkness and destruction. It was as though a peacock had walked into a dungeon.

     All eyes were on Brianna as she made her way around the room, sauntering from person to person, until she reached the burly transvestite at the end of the bar. She straightened out her wig─which had shifted over one eye─gently kissed her on the cheek, then left her side.

     “Disco Heat” by Sylvester began to tear up the loudspeakers. The energetic song was infectious, with a gospel influence, that gave it a more unique sound than the usual Disco songs. Brianna put her empty glass down on the bar and made her way onto the dance floor. A few flamboyant boys circled her, showcasing her as the main talent. Together, they paraded around the floor like a Broadway act that was well-rehearsed. Brianna, and her entourage, twirled in the blinking lights to the pulsating music, capturing everyone’s attention. No one in the group was paired up. They danced individually; rapt up in worlds of their own. I had never seen that kind of dancing before. Their movements were uninhibited, energetic, free-flowing expressions of joy─a sight that drastically contrasted the stiff cardboard moves I had seen at high school dances.

     “Come on!” Derek drunkenly hollered, “Let’s join them!”

     He grabbed my hand and pulled me off my stool. I tried to break free from his grip, but before I knew it, we were on the dance floor surrounded by the prancing drag queen and her choreographed boys! With loudspeakers hovering above our heads, the boom of the bass reverberated through me. The music was so loud I couldn’t hear myself think.

     A fog machine emitted vapor across the floor, and I lost Derek in the mist. Suddenly, I was within an eyelash distance of Brianna! “Get into the groove, Sweetie!” she shouted, spurring me on. I began to mimic her moves and laughed at myself for daring to compete with her. I was thankful the artificial fog helped camouflage my amateur dancing feet. The music─earth-shattering, primal, and contagious─became the fabric that wove us all together. I experienced a mystical unity; an unspoken bond. It was as though I had always known Brianna and her fan club, total strangers who were at that moment, inviting me into their lives.

     No one was paying any attention to how I danced─they didn’t care who I was, what I did, or where I came from. The important thing was that I had joined them. An acceptance enveloped me; the kind that could only be found on the dance floor. I began to understand why Derek raved about The Warehouse. It was a very special place, and it was becoming a legend right before our eyes.

     Derek suddenly appeared by my side and gave me a wink. We boogied to the next few songs while taking in the scene around us. I’d no longer have to walk down that lonely dark corridor of the mundane. I had discovered a brand new horizon, and my fate was guiding me to it. My life would never be the same.