There's a little space in Golden Gate Park, a paved section off the main road no bigger than a tennis court, where rollerskaters and rollerbladers practice and groove. Someone brings a boombox, and some of the skaters dance, but mostly they just take long, lazy circles. I rode my bike down there, to chill out and watch the happy skaters. I love the variety of people: this day, there were a couple in 70's disco style, big chunky roller skates, a couple of graceful young gay men with literal capes fluttering after them, an array of regulars in everything from hippie casual to a business suit--and today there was someone I hadn't seen before. She was gorgeous, glossy black hair falling to mid-back, olive skin, a big smile as she took a corner a little too fast and had to swerve a bit to miss another skater. She was also pregnant, her t-shirt bowed out by the round swell of her belly, and I felt a distinctive thrill at that; something about her curves and the curve of her pregnancy resonated so well.
I parked my bike, took my towel, and lay down on the little grassy hillside next to the little skate alcove. There were plenty of other people on the hillside too, some of them skaters taking a break, others, like me, who just liked the chill vibe of the place. The music playing from the boombox was Diana Ross, and the sky overhead was blue as could be, the air warm. Idyllic. And today, the added pleasure of this black-haired girl, shining with beauty, doing little routines as she skated, switching direction, doing quick little side steps--nothing showy, it seemed more just about having fun for herself.
About ten minutes later, the pregnant woman came off the pavement, and sat down on the hillside near me, unlacing her skates. Her belly impeded her a little in that, but she looked pretty damn adorable doing it, too. However, she misjudged the force needed to yank one roller skate off, and sent it flying back, skidding next to my head. She started to scramble up, and I said, "No worries," jumping up and grabbing up the skate. I walked a few steps down to her, and put it down for her.
"Thanks," she said, smiling at me, "How did I look out there?"
Was that a softball, or a sinker? I was just honest, "You looked amazing, and like you were having a lot of fun." She put on her shoes, some chunky white sneakers, and said, "Thanks. My mother used to tell me how she danced while she was pregnant with me, and how it was a really great way for her to connect to joy during that," she shrugged, looking maybe a bit embarrassed, "Anyway, I like skating, so I'm going to skate."
I nodded, "The little moves you did there reminded me of the way I am when I ride my bike, like, when you just suddenly swerve just because you can. To find a little rush of motion."
We talked easily for another hour or so, until the sun began to brush the tops of the trees in the park. She was really charming--in her mid-twenties, in graduate nursing school. Not from the Bay Area, but had visited it while a child and always been enchanted by it. I got to do my older-San Franciscan routine, and tell her a few of the rarer gems, like Cayuga Park, the guerilla sculpture garden. I let her know I was thirty-nine, and saw no dismay. Her eyes were so captivating it was easy enough to keep mine on them, but her body was a constant distraction of the most pleasurable sort. Her breasts pushed against the tight fabric of her t-shirt, set off by the swell of the belly beneath.
At the end of the hour, regretfully, I had to go to a friend's to help with a project. I asked if she'd like to stay in contact--to give her more San Francisco guidance, and she accepted that with a wry smile. I gave her my number, and was pleasantly surprised when she texted me immediately, and said, "Cool."
