Filed under: SF | Tags: manventure, naked lesbians, really? naked lesbians! yes.
Once upon a time, there were five men who moved to San Francisco for love. From Oklahoma, Ohio, Michigan, and New York, each travelled to San Francisco for a woman. They became friends along the way, partly because their respective ladies were friends. One Saturday they conspired together to throw off the chains of feminine tyranny. They set sail on a glorious man-only adventure with two dogs (both males). They called it a Manventure.
A beautiful thing about The City is that once you cross that big orange bridge north into Marin County, you enter a wilderness. A 20 minute car ride will leave you in solitude with the rolling waves of the beach or the fresh smell of a Redwood forest. One of the Men knew of such a romantic locale, perfect for Male conquest. It was a black sand beach, tucked underneath the broad and arrogant Marin headlands.
The men collected their gear and dogs and piled into a diminutive Acura Integra from the late 1990s. Across the Golden Gate they drove, turning after the span to climb the steep roads that hugged the side of the Marin cliffs. Finally, at the beach. There were goths milling about and two women clinging to each other in the back seat of a Ford Focus. One of the men said, “Sometimes there are naked people here.” This observation was disregarded by the others. It was a cloudy day, slightly chilly, and it would be uncomfortable for some old gay man to run naked on the shore.
The dogs ran free, like the men themselves, free from the city and responsibility and women. Dogs love beaches.
The men climbed on rocks.
They strolled from one side of the beach to the other.
As they walked past the entrance they noticed a woman lying face down in the sand. Their hearts filled with dread. What if she was dead? That would really spoil the manventure, a dead woman. Just like a woman, to kill the manventure. One of the dogs smelled her butt. She shifted her head, her eyes barely open. She was alive at least, if groggy. The men sauntered on.
At the very end of the beach, standing before the slick cliff face, they saw plants. Succulents of perverse character. Strange and unidentified. A short plant guide stuck in a backpack gave no answers. As they photographed the plants one of them turned.
“There are naked people over there. Naked women.”
“Holy shit. Naked lesbians.”
And they were. Nubile, pure. Nymphs frolicking in the surf, born from it like Aphrodite. Dancing and giggling, far enough away that the men saw only two luscious pink shapes leaping into the cold water. A faint squeal drifted across the space in between.
“What do we do, we obviously can’t go over there. They are blocking our way to the entrance.”
“What do we tell the girls when we get back?”
The women eventually left the water and stood, holding each other for ten minutes without moving. In time, they put clothes back on and played a game of catch. Except they did not have any footballs, baseballs, or frisbees. They were playing catch without balls. Making athletic leaps in the air to pull down an imaginary sphere.
“They have to be on mushrooms.”
The men steeled up the courage to leave, which required passing the once-naked lesbian couple. The women reclined in a spooning position next to a rock. Perched at the rock were two ravens. Ravens mate for life. The men pretended to be interested in the birds to avoid the awkwardness when the dogs smelled the once-naked butts of the women. The women glared. Their eyes were glassy, their minds attempting to process the existence of the men. Where had these men come from? They had not existed five seconds before, even though they were in plain view a few hundred yards away! How dare they violate this private moment of tenderness. The men stumbled past.
The men left, finding a new beach. This one had surfers. “Point Break” is the greatest movie ever.
Then the men had beers at their clubhouse.