Save for the flip-flops and one birthday hat and a sign that read vote for someone for supervisor, imagination wasn't needed. The dimpled-pock mark on the thinner man's right butt cheek; the only crinkle in his pale skin.
Mothers shrouded children's view with coats. Little boys were whacked in the head for roaming eyes. Teenage girls reeled back and laughed. Old women smiled with gentle memories. Men jeered with "Hey pencil dick" and "At least my tally-whacker is in my pants" and "There's kids out here!"
Cameras snapped, Twitter tweeted and for me, I walked behind the behind with the pock-mark on the right-cheek and noted both men's fine physical shape. Not a wrinkle or sag.
Cloaked in our inhibitions, an exchanged glance of "I wish I could do that" spoke volumes. The social barrier of ties, pants, and summer dresses hiding our desire to prance naked down the streets of San Francisco.
"You know you want to," I whispered to a man and his dog.
Block after block, they sauntered. Me, too. On the same route to different journeys, soon the nakedness became normalcy. The reaction of the people stood out in the crowd and drew the attention.
Side-by-side at the signal light, I confess, I peeked. As the light turned green, I walked ahead and spoke softly, "If that was a pencil I want an entire box."
Ah, the days of summer and a cool bay breeze.
But wait, just who was I to vote for? Guess I'll have to go back...
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