Sometimes I miss San Francisco, even though the three years I lived there I was too young and callow and lonely and broke and chickenshit to take advantage of even five percent of its true charms. Despite being the most populous place I’ve ever resided, some of my better memories of SF are of its natural spaces; one vivid memory is the Halloween night I spent wandering in the moonlight on Ocean Beach, enjoying the surf air but lacking the social mojo to crash any of the bonfire parties scattered up and down the beach. I always did enjoy Golden Gate Park when my hikes took me over that way, and I often mourned the lack of frolicking naked people that my father reported were prevalent when he frequented the place some thirty years before me.

The great wheel turns, or I didn’t keep my eyes open wide enough, or the times they are a-changin’…again. Violet Blue knows how to run a picnic:

Then we meandered home, where we made afternoon cocktails and put all the produce and fresh bread into a picnic basket and headed off to Golden Gate Park. We spread out a packing blanket I stole a few SRL shows ago and sat in the trees, on grass and little tiny white flowers, along a secluded stretch of winding duck pond. For a few minutes a couple and a photographer wandered through out little corner of bliss, taking their engagement photos. We sipped Campari and soda with lemon, and nibbled on everything in and out of the picnic basket. At one point, I even took dessert in the form of a quick and nasty blowjob while Hornboy writhed on the blanket — a very daring thing for me, to do this in public. A first. Such a huge turn-on, too; but how can a girl resist seeing a nice hard knob in a pair of pants and not want to take a sample? A girl just can’t.