![]() Reigning over all, at least to my starstruck eyes, was a motley crew of surly twentysomethings resembling Peter Pan’s Lost Boys if the Lost Boys were girls, the sort of girls who look like the sort of boys who might break a beer bottle over your head at a club. ![]() The Mission District in the ’90s was a promenade of fierce young dykes, each more shorn, more intriguingly pierced, more gender ambiguous than the last. Soon enough she would be my girlfriend, but that night I made out with a different girl entirely, when the centrifugal force of a broken mosh circle sent us flying into each other. Up in the DJ booth, a scrawny punk with a bright blue Mohawk spun Nina Hagen. I didn’t know the town was a hotbed of these two particular and generally separate subcultures-queer and punk-and I didn’t know how badly I needed this particular hybrid in order to discover myself, but when I walked into a club called Junk, housed in a gay bar called Paula’s Clubhouse, it was like I had walked into my own best-case scenario of life. Throughout most of the 1990s my evenings were split between working at a nonprofit call center where I bummed money off strangers for good causes, and getting drunk and dancing at any of San Francisco’s queer punk clubs.
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