From the rolling hills of downtown Union Square to the cosey cell blocks of Broadway on 'the Rock' we trekked with gay abandon, as the saying goes 'When in Rome...' and of course we are in San Francisco. Well we didn't quite trek to Alcatraz, more caught a ferry but we trekked to the ferry itself and off it as well, you get the point. Perhaps the greatest trek of them all though was to big red herself (no not Lance Whitnall) the Golden Gate Bridge. Her rustic tones enticed us from afar, but she was the ultimate paradox, the closer we got the closer we felt to her yet the further away we realised we were. Just one more mile so we can touch her. Another hill, more chaffe, shin splints, light rain, yet we pressed on with her menstrual magnificence constantly in the foreground like a bridge in heat wafting her pheromones underneath our very noses. And finally we arrived and it was all worth it. To touch her in all her glory, the Golden Gate, a magnificent vestibule entering the womb of the bay area. We marched right to her very center and stood in awe. I 'the Pirate', her 'the Bridge' and he 'the Robber' together finally. And even after I arrive home and place my legs in stirrups, pantless, after liberally applying Bepanthen to my 'gooch', it will still all seem worthwhile.
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