It’s 9am and I’m pouring double bloody mary’s for me and a girl friend as we check our work emails at the SFO lounge. And by working, I mean sorting through messages to find potential dates for the handful of days we’d be in the city. This wasn’t a business trip; we planned this trip purely for dating.
After fucking every stereotype in LA, the leftover prospects all seemed to have the charisma of a rubber band. But I was very curious about the talent in San Francisco. I always knew that my LA 7 standing roughly translated to an SF 8.5 due to how good look in cool weather clothes. After all, my best look involves leather moto jackets and leather boots.
Plans are penciled in for late Friday night. My motivation to venture anywhere waes. I am naked and tucked into bed after returning from dinner & drinks. Single Malt Scotch in hand, I would be satisfied by the prospect of staying up late texting my lover back home but my friend convinces me to go out. I manage to put on enough clothes to make it downstairs to the bar, complete with moto jacket and boots.