"Wanna freak out the tourists?"

I'm walking to work today, just passing the cable-car turn-around where all the tourists gather like pigeons around half-eaten bread, waiting for their turn to ride the infamous San Francisco treat, when I spot N. N is someone I dated very, very briefly a year ago. He's oh-so-cute and we hug and smile.

Then I stare into his beautiful eyes and I jokingly query, "Wanna freak out the tourists?" by which I mean kissing with passion and lips locked and tongues lashing, right in front of the flock of midwesterners lost in the big Gay city.

We smile. It's Pride in a few days, the city is rainbow draped and flags are flying, millions of Gay people are here or coming here for the weekend, and tourists are the voyeurs of americana, so it's safe to say we felt the power to freak people out without repercussion.

Knowing that we have the power to freak is sometimes enough. And we smile at each other. I grab his soul patch between my thumb and my forefinger as I dart off, smiling once again at the thought of the us having any power at all, in a larger society as close-minded and troubled and discriminatory as it is. The little things can mean so much, even when they're just for fun.