Slot Machine

Midnight, after stepping outside of my first bar experience, a naked bicyclist rode by. Then more. Packs and packs of them, flashing by like cherries and bells on a slot machine: male, female, flab flapping, sun-shunned white--my eyes would avert a single naked person, but they were drawn to hundreds. I didn't know whether to look or not, whether spectacle's sake justified its infinite crudeness. Some wore helmets, most wore shoes, a few rollerbladed and one man unicycled. They reached for high-fives as they flew by, asking us to join them. We turned off the street before we saw any end to them. Last I saw they were headed uphill on their sweaty, rubbing seats. I was captivated by their discomfort, and by my own.