If you walked down Bush Street in San Francisco anytime between the late sixties and 2018, you couldn’t miss it. The marquee was legendary. It didn’t just list showtimes; for years, it famously invited passersby to "Touch Our Junk."
Honestly, the Nob Hill Theatre San Francisco was one of those places that made the city feel like, well, San Francisco. It was gritty. It was unapologetic. It was a 74-seat time capsule of a "smut capital" era that has almost entirely vanished under the weight of glass high-rises and tech campuses.
But it wasn't just a porn palace. Not by a long shot.
More Than Just a Marquee: The Layers of 729 Bush Street
Most people who talk about the theater today focus on the adult films and the live male revues. That’s fair, but the building at 729 Bush Street has been around since 1910. Before it was a haven for gay erotica, it was a grocery store. It was a butcher shop.
In the 1940s, it transformed into Melody Lane, a jazz club that some say was co-owned by Joe DiMaggio. By the 50s, it was Club Hangover, where legends like Louis Armstrong and Earl "Fatha" Hines played to packed rooms. Imagine that transition. From the trumpet blasts of Satchmo to the thumping disco beats of a male strip club.
The pivot happened in 1968.
A businessman named Shan Sayles bought the place and renamed it the Nob Hill Theatre. He started with European art films. They were fancy. They were also boring, at least to the locals. Business tanked. Sayles, being a pragmatist, switched to gay porn.
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The line went around the block overnight.
Inside the "Fantasy Land" and "Adventure Land"
Walking into the Nob Hill Theatre San Francisco was an experience in sensory overload. The lobby was a tight squeeze, packed with DVDs, "stamina pills," and freshly folded towels. It felt like a neighborhood convenience store, if that store only sold lube and poppers.
The main floor was nicknamed Fantasy Land. It was an intimate 74-seat theater with art-deco lighting and a disco ball that had probably seen more than most therapists. There was a mirror running the length of the wall at eye level. Why? So you could see exactly what everyone else was looking at.
Then there was the basement. Adventure Land.
It was a maze of 20 small video booths with a red-light/green-light system. Green meant go. Red meant occupied. It was the kind of place where the "hanky code" wasn't just a piece of trivia—it was a functional language.
The Daily Grind of the "Jizzmopper"
It sounds like a punchline, but it was a real job. Former employees have shared stories about the "light janitorial" work required to keep the place running. It wasn't glamorous. One staffer described the role as feeling like the boom-mic operator in a movie you aren't actually starring in.
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The dancers themselves weren't on a standard payroll. Instead, the theater ran a weekly cash incentive prize. To win, a performer had to score a "Perfect 10" from the staff. This meant:
- Showing up on time (harder than it sounds).
- Spending at least 15 minutes of a 30-minute set on stage rather than just doing lap dances.
- Getting fully nude.
- Reaching a "climax" on stage.
It was high-pressure performance art.
Why the Lights Went Out
By the time 2018 rolled around, the landscape had shifted. Larry Hoover and Gary Luce, the couple who had owned the theater since 2010, were ready to retire to Palm Springs. They tried to find a buyer who would keep the theater as it was.
No one bit.
The reality is that the internet killed the adult theater business long before the developers arrived. Why pay for a ticket and a bus ride when you have the same thing on your phone? In August 2018, the theater took its final bow. The marquee's last message? "Touch Our Junk One Last Time."
What’s There Now?
As of 2026, the building at 729 Bush Street looks a lot different. After the theater closed, it was sold for $2.7 million to a doctor, Frank Chen.
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The plan wasn't just to tear it down, though. Because the building was designated a "historic resource," there were strict rules. The redevelopment involved adding floors for residential units (including a five-bedroom home for the owner) and turning the bottom levels into a medical and surgical center.
Basically, the place where people used to go for "Adventure Land" is now where you go for foot surgery. Life is weird like that.
The "Nob Hill Theatre" sign actually stayed. The city and the new owners worked on the Nob Hill Theater History Project to preserve pieces of the past. They kept the facade and some of the red signage, though the "Touch Our Junk" part is long gone.
Where the History Went
If you’re looking for the soul of the old theater, you won’t find it on Bush Street anymore. Before the doors locked for good, Hoover and Luce donated a massive collection of artifacts to the GLBT Historical Society.
We’re talking:
- 20 linear feet of posters and photos.
- A video viewing cubicle (yes, with the hole).
- A leather sling.
- A wooden sculpture of a male torso.
It’s all preserved for researchers and historians who want to understand the queer subculture of 20th-century San Francisco.
Actionable Insights for History Buffs
If you want to explore this chapter of San Francisco history, you can't buy a ticket anymore, but you can still engage with the legacy.
- Visit the GLBT Historical Society: Their archives in San Francisco hold the physical remains of the theater. You can book research appointments to see the ephemera that defined the Nob Hill era.
- Check the Facade: If you’re in Nob Hill, walk past 729 Bush Street. The neon sign is still a landmark, even if the business inside is now clinical.
- Support Local Queer Spaces: The closure of the Nob Hill Theatre was part of a larger trend of "gay spaces" disappearing. Supporting remaining venues like The Eagle or Oasis helps keep the city's unique culture from becoming entirely sanitized.
The Nob Hill Theatre was a relic of a time when San Francisco was a little more dangerous and a lot more scandalous. It wasn't for everyone, and that was exactly the point. It was a sanctuary for a specific community, a playground for the "gay erotic arts," and a neon-soaked reminder that the city's history is written in more than just code.