Franchi, Francesco

Ringold Alley, about 1985 or 1986; a seemingly endless procession of admirers tailing you from the Campus Theatre where you danced and entertained in your jockstrap; a procession trailing your beautiful persona as you marched from the Campus to SOMA in search of some connection. I was flattered when your smile melted my heart and you said in your beautiful, thick, aristocratic Italian accent, is late . . . you have a place to go where I can cook pasta? One of the fondest memories ever. A total stranger from across a distant ocean embracing me as a real brother and friend. So much love expressed in such a brief time. I love you Francesco. Your masculine beauty and your unabashed directness, your zest for all things now living . . . My life so enriched from out brief but intense encounters.