If San Francisco Were a Lover...

She's naked right now. She always sleeps naked. Hot breath on your neck.

If San Francisco were a lover, she'd be fervid, insistent. Always naked, always pressed close and hot against you. With the experience and passion of an older lover, but the defiance, the carelessness of youth.

Barely an hour after dawn, she'd have you barreling down Lone Mountain, cold wind biting your face, sunlight glaring off the ocean. Shifting gears, climbing up to Seacliff.

The sheen of sweat covers your chest, your arms. Bikram yoga, nearly two hours. She'll work up your appetite, then take you by the hand down Clement. Fill you with dumplings and crispy noodles and sticky rice and green tea. "Lobster wontons? Please, more."

After dim sum, pedal to Cow Hollow for day drinking and college basketball at Bus Stop. The rivalry. Your Hoyas juice the Orange. More beer, ride 370 feet up Pac Heights.

Meet friends in the park to picnic the sun to sleep. Watch her skyline turn golden just above the Painted Ladies while nibbling on brie, salami, chex mix, fig newtons. And of course drinking PBR.

Now she's sultry and soft. She calls you to bed, for a nap. You'll need your strength later for independent theater on Sixth and Howard. Some musical with talking dolls and living fantasies. Jive-talking dolls. It's fucking weird and you need a tamale.

Just walk down Haight. "Do you have pork?"

The Tamale Lady reaches into her cart, sinks her hand into double garbage bags, pulls out a steaming corn husk and douses it with sauce.

She has you right where she wants you – belly warm and full, crazy thoughts in your head, fantasies seem real. The day feels like a fantasy. She's naked, goddammit, this city is always naked.

As darkness beckons, her bosom heaves, and you surrender, knowing she'll have her way with you again tomorrow.