It’s hard to imagine now, but there was a time when a specific stretch of Bush Street in San Francisco wasn’t just a pass-through for commuters or a quiet residential pocket. For fifty years, the Nob Hill Adult Theatre sat at 729 Bush Street as a neon-lit defiant middle finger to the gentrification and sterilization of the city.
Honestly, if you walked past it in its final years, you might have just seen a weathered marquee and some faded posters. But for the people inside? It was basically a living museum of queer history, sweat, and community.
People think it was just a porn shop. They’re wrong. It was a social hub, a time capsule, and—towards the end—the last of its kind in a city that was rapidly losing its soul to high-rise tech offices and $15 toast.
The Nob Hill Adult Theatre: More Than Just a Marquee
The story doesn't start with adult films. That building has lived a hundred lives. Back in 1910, it was a grocery store and a butcher shop. Later, in the 1940s, it transformed into Melody Lane, a jazz club rumored to be co-owned by Joe DiMaggio. By the 50s, it was Club Hangover, where legends like Louis Armstrong played Dixieland jazz to packed houses.
It wasn’t until 1968 that a guy named Shan Sayles took over and renamed it the Nob Hill Theatre. He tried showing European art films first. It didn't work. Business was slow, the seats were empty, and the bills were piling up.
Sayles made a pivot that changed San Francisco history: he started showing gay porn.
Overnight, the line was around the block. This was a time when being gay was still largely criminalized and definitely social suicide in most of America. The theatre became a "safe space" long before that term was a corporate buzzword. It provided a darkened room where men could exist without looking over their shoulders.
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The "Touch Our Junk" Era
You can’t talk about this place without mentioning Gary Luce and Larry Hoover. This married couple ran the theatre for its final eight years, and they actually lived in the basement. Think about that. Their "living room" doubled as the green room for the performers.
They were the ones responsible for the infamous "Touch Our Junk" tagline on the marquee. Gary once told a story about being at an airport and hearing a passenger yell at a TSA agent, "You're not gonna touch my junk!" He thought it was hilarious and put it on the sign the next day.
It stuck. It became the theatre's calling card.
Why the Closure Left a Hole in the City
When the Nob Hill Adult Theatre finally closed its doors on August 19, 2018, it wasn't because of a police raid or a landlord dispute. Gary and Larry were just tired. They were in their 60s, ready to retire to Palm Springs, and the world had changed.
Internet porn killed the "all-male revue" business model. Why pay for a ticket and a drink when you have a supercomputer in your pocket?
But the internet can’t replicate the atmosphere of the Nob Hill. This wasn't a cold, clinical place. It was "Fantasy Land," as the main floor was called. It had a disco ball, 74 seats, and a mirror that ran the length of the room so you could see who else was watching.
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What happened to the building?
After the closure, the building was sold for $2.7 million to a doctor. The plan? Turn it into a podiatry and surgery center. There’s a certain dark irony there—a place once dedicated to the worship of the male form becoming a clinic for foot surgery.
However, the city didn't let the history vanish completely. Because the building was deemed "eligible" for the California Register of Historic Places, the developers had to keep certain elements. The iconic "Nob Hill Theatre" sign was saved, and the permastone cladding was preserved.
Still, a doctor's office isn't a community center. The loss of the theatre was, as one long-time employee put it, "another nail in the coffin of gay San Francisco."
The Legacy Beyond the Filth
If you look at the archives of the GLBT Historical Society, you’ll find 20 linear feet of stuff from the theatre. We’re talking about:
- Original posters from the 70s.
- A wooden sculpture of a male torso.
- A "gloryhole" cubicle.
- A leather sling.
It sounds tawdry to some, but to historians, these are artifacts of a subculture that survived the AIDS crisis, the "smut" crackdowns of the 70s, and the tech boom of the 90s.
A Space for the Marginalized
In the 1960s and 70s, police would often raid these theaters and arrest the patrons along with the owners. The Nob Hill survived a major raid in 1969 where the vice squad tried to shut down the "proliferation of porn."
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They failed. The community was too strong.
The theatre was a place where "businessmen on lunch breaks" sat next to "tourists and local amateurs." It was a leveling of the social playing field. Inside those walls, your salary or your job title didn't matter.
Lessons from a Shuttered Cinema
Looking back at the Nob Hill Adult Theatre reminds us that cities need "weird" spaces. Not everything needs to be a clean, well-lit Starbucks or a luxury condo. When we lose these grittier landmarks, we lose the textures that make a city worth living in.
If you're looking to understand the real San Francisco, you have to look at these vanished spaces. They tell the story of a city that was once a refuge for the different, the daring, and the "dirty."
Actionable Insights for the Curious
- Visit the GLBT Historical Society: They hold the physical remains of the theatre. If you want to see the "Touch Our Junk" era up close, that's where the heart of it lives now.
- Support Local "Weird" Business: The Nob Hill died because the market shifted. If there are local independent cinemas or performance spaces in your city that feel a little "out there," go to them. Buy a ticket.
- Research the "Smut Capital" Era: San Francisco in the 60s and 70s was a wild frontier for free speech and sexual expression. Reading up on figures like Shan Sayles or the Mitchell Brothers gives you a much clearer picture of how we got to the modern day.
The neon is dark now, and the disco ball has likely been sold at an estate sale, but the Nob Hill Adult Theatre remains a ghost that still haunts the corner of Bush and Mason. It’s a reminder that once upon a time, San Francisco wasn't afraid to be a little bit "junky."