They threatened rain, the meteorologists did…they threatened wind…and of course the day before and the day after brought both. But yesterday morning was a blissful respite, a climatic (not to say climactic) oasis in the desert of low temperatures and high precipitation. And we reveled in it.
Visiting one of our favorite haunts, the rooftop sundeck of a nude-friendly, gay-friendly, everything-friendly boutique hotel, we stripped down and gorged ourselves on Prosecco and Tropicana, fresh-baked croissants and brioches and madeleines, and reading material ranging from hardboiled crime yarns to ancient-astronaut tracts to the indescribably glorious ABRAHAM LINCOLN, PRESIDENTIAL FUCK MACHINE. Conversation ensued. One of our number demonstrated an uncanny ability to imitate the call of a loon, surely a useful urban survival trait. Another regaled the company with a reading of one man’s description of what it feels like to be bitten by a variety of different insects. (“A rare, piercing, elevated sort of pain. Someone has fired a staple into your cheek.“) Photos were taken. Relaxation was had. Why can’t every Saturday be a naked-with-friends-in-the-sun Saturday?