On Baker Beach in San Francisco's Presidio Park, Jim Manzi, wearing a casual T-shirt, floral beach shorts, and flip-flops, squatted between two lounge chairs with a licentious expression on his face. He was simultaneously applying sunscreen to two young women who were lying on the chairs and had undone their bikini tops. His hands glided over their shiny, oiled backs and buttocks, eliciting pleasurable sounds from his mouth:
"If heaven really exists, then it's definitely got to look like California, man. I should've chosen Stanford University instead of that damned Tufts University."
Other beachgoers looked on with either envy or complex gazes at this thirty-something-year-old Caucasian man biting on a cigar, not understanding why these two women, who looked like models sunbathing at the beach, would leave the task of applying sunscreen to such an unattractive man without strong muscles and even with a clearly visible paunch.
