Every year since 1996, Eros Zine editor Thomas Roche and a San Francisco sex club, dungeon, art gallery or dive bar full of his closest friends, bitter former heartthrobs and viciously hated rivals gather together to explore all the darkest themes of love and romance -- psycho girlfriends with nutty exes, boyfriends with skid marks, and heartache, heartache, heartache!
My Sucky Valentine host MC Roche.
I know, I know -- for this, you want we should pay ten dollars? But what makes this event slightly different than your run-of-the-mill group drunken crying jag at the Zeitgeist is that My Sucky Valentine peels back the rotting rose petals of romance that cover the fragrant bud of sleaze. Many of San Francisco's best-loved erotica writers step away from their usual sex-positive selves and mingle their appreciation of the nastier side of sex with bitter and downright admissions about how wrong it can go. This year's event is a benefit for the Women's Community Clinic and the St. James Infirmary.
Past years have featured stories and poems about star-crossed romances, ill-conceived sexual encounters, crockery-smashing breakups, mistaken identity, dates with serial killers and of course, entries in that tried-and-true subgenre of modern literature, known as the "You Suck Fuck You I Fucking Hate You!" story -- proving, as the poets have said, that "Revenge is a dish best served live on stage in front of a hundred people, preferably wearing black leather." In, you know, a literary fashion.
People attending are encouraged to wear their sexiest, skimpiest, kinkiest sleazewear. This year's event is unthemed, meaning you should wear whatever sleazy sexwear turns you on, while keeping with the barest shreds of propriety -- no nipples, y'understand, or at least keep 'em under wraps and/or electrical tape. The silent auction will take bids on special packages of sleaze, from hot erotica to overwrought gonzo porn and more.
If your Valentine's Day promises to be as depressing, disappointing and/or annoying, make your way to Artwork SF, where the kind souls of My Sucky Valentine will rip the band-aid right off of your heart and take that soul-crustin' scab right with it.