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Who’s the evil genius now?
14
ALL THE NAKED GLORY
Everly
On a red mountain bike, a man sits tall and proud, his furry chest on full display, a pair of bright green bike shorts painted on his thighs as he pedals in the city. He rides next to a woman on an electric bike, who’s dressed in only a pink bikini, which is painted on her breasts and pelvis.
A pack of men with Superman logos on their chests and tight red thongs painted on their penises cycle along Hayes Street in the Naked Painted Bike Ride.
I can’t believe this is where Max took me today, but I’m begrudgingly admitting to myself that he’s good. He’s damn good at this game. But I will never let on to him. “So this is one of your favorite things?”
“Big time,” he says, resting his muscular arms on the parade barricade on the sidewalk as we join the other onlookers here on Sunday afternoon, now that we’re back in town. After a quick stretch of away games—the SeaDogs won in Vegasandin Denver—we’re back home in time for what’s become a San Francisco tradition each fall. “Come here every year. It’s a great cause, don’t you think?”
“Sure is,” I say, meaning it. This bike ride—where cyclists wear nothing under their painted on costumes—raises money for more bike lanes in the city. It’s one of the city’s green initiatives funded in part by the city’s best-known billionaire, the football team owner Wilder Blaine, who’s also a noted green philanthropist. “I didn’t realize you were such a supporter though.”
“Definitely. I donate to it every year, and I walk the walk,” Max says, laying an easy target for me.
I fire away. “Why aren’t you out there riding then?”
If he’s going to sabotage my date to take me to a naked bike outing for our makeover project, I might as well wind him up.
But he’s not a ferocious competitor for nothing. He scratches his jaw carelessly. “My body painter was busy this year. Such a shame. I was going to go as a Sea Dog. That would have been great for the team’s image, right? Me, naked, with only a painted dog tail covering my dick?”
This man. I’m thinking of his cock now, and that is not fair. He shifts his gaze to me, his eyes sparkling with trouble. So I give it right back to him. “Absolutely. A naked hockey star raising funds as heflies freewith his wiener,” I say.
“Next year. That work for you? The whole ‘try new things’ mantra and all.”
“Why wait? You don’t need a body painter. You can just go au natural,” I challenge. “I’ll go grab someone’s bike for you. Feel free to strip down.”
He sweeps out a hand toward the bike parade. “Let’s do it. I’m all for trying new things.”
I walk toward the edge of the barricade, calling his bluff, when he darts out a hand, and tugs me back, right next to him.
“I’m joking,” he says, his hand still covering my arm. His chest, close to mine. We’re inches away, and for a few silent seconds under the midday sun, I swear he’s going to kiss me. He’s staring at my mouth. He can’t seem to look anyplace else. And I don’t want him to.
But then he shakes it off, reorienting perhaps, as he says, “Next year for sure.”
“Definitely,” I say, with a feathery breath. “I’m putting it in my calendar now.”
A group of riders dressed as woodland creatures pedal past us, colorful leaves adorning their bodies. My gaze lingers next on a particularly eccentric rider sporting nothing but a rainbow cape billowing in the wind. But what’s also billowing in the wind? The guy’s balls.
I appreciate the fundraising and all, but how do they do it? A woman with flapping breasts, painted like peaches, pedals by. “How the hell does she sit like that?”
“No idea,” Max says, like it hurts him to watch.
Same here. I wince a little, thinking of my lady parts. I would not want my free-range vagina perched on a bike seat anywhere. Let alone in public. But more so, I wouldn’t want to show…my scars to the world. I reach for my shoulder, briefly touching the one that won’t fade.
Max must notice, since he lifts a brow my way in question. Perhaps concern too. “You okay?”
“Of course.”
He tilts his head, his sharp eyes that see everything onthe ice cataloging me now. “Did you…hurt your shoulder at some point?”
The man is a hawk. He misses nothing. It’s literally his job, but still I’m thrown off. “Why do you ask?”
“You touch it sometimes,” he says gently. “Like maybe you injured it. That’s happened to me. I’ve had a couple hits in the past—elbow, knee. And it’s like I’m always checking to see if it’s still injured.”
