A confession from a weird European: when I ride my bike for a longer distance, I will stop at a nude hangout and rest while my clothes are drying out. I did it at Baker Beach in the City today, and obviously it was not only my personal idea.
The currents are strong, and the waves still hit the beach halfway to the rocks. That means there was no real estate to be had, and I had to sit in the midst of testosterone laden muscle men. It felt a little uncomfy, naked as I was, still with the comments of one of my friends in my ears.
“You know,” he said, “cycling must be the gayest sport of all.” I stared at him and asked: “Why?”
“Well,” he started thoughtfully, “do you know of many other sports in which men hang out in groups, shave their legs, wear skintight spandex outfits, and the only possible benefit you get out of it is a nice, firm butt.”
Oops. I thought about that sentence all afternoon long, while the action was going on around me. and you know what I found out? That even the testosterone laden muscle men are sweet as marshmallows, coy and shy beyond means. They will sit there and talk raunchy, but they won’t even get the courage up to walk over to you and say something nice.
Well done! I can tell you right now: there is no homosexual agenda!!!