On Folsom Street — the heart of the city’s leather-and-nightlife Golden Mile — the Hungry Hole Saloon stood like a warped neon sign for desire, danger, and downtown freedom. A place where the music pounded, bodies brushed, and inhibitions got left under the black-light haze. As one of the many gritty dive-bars in the SoMa leather scene, it lived fast, loved harder, and left barely a paper trail — but the memory still smells like smoke, spandex, and something a little sweetly illicit.
