The gay cruise section of Prospect Park is infested with mosquitoes this summer, but thanks to Nivea firming body lotion, I have been sucked just a few times by these terrible creatures that seem to thrive in this part of the park. The European body lotion does more than prevent wrinkles and sooth chapped skin—it works better than Off, and I am walking proof.
Due to the recent surge in traffic to my blog, (thanks to the search engine Google and all the sissies on the world wide web seeking information on the best places for alfresco love making) I have taken it upon myself to write an article on this notorious slice of Babylon in Brooklyn.
Due to the thorough research conducted this week, my legs are as sore as an ass without lubrication. I ruined my favorite pair of flip flops, but someone needs to furnish this information to the general public so that gay children of tomorrow who grow up in an accepting world understand what it was like for those of us who were reared in the jungles exclusion.
It amazes me still, after all these years, how male homosexuals in public cruise areas never talk. We walk aimlessly for hours, scurry from bush to bush, trample down thorny ravines, and leap across fallen logs like white tails, but never as much as say hello to the ones whom we hope to receive instant gratification from.
While conducting research near what is known as the Three Fountains in Prospect Park, I found myself in a three-way mating ritual with two of the species. There we were with shifty eyes, pants unzipped, and fearful of police lurking nearby when suddenly I decided someone needed to make some sort of move. I couldn’t stand the silence. One of the gentlemen was sweet enough to press the back of my head as I feasted upon the sweet nectar of these woods. I grew tired fast and quickly returned to standing on two feet. We quickly separated, pretending not to have ever met one another, but before heading towards the lake, the man who was pressing the back of my head stated—
“Why’d ya stop for? I was about to make him pay to watch me fuck you.”
“Oh really?” I asked. “How thoughtful.”
I managed to strike up a conversation yesterday with a younger gay black man in the park. We crossed paths along the fence that separates the ponies and alpacas in the Prospect Park Zoo from the notorious cruise section. I was so surprised after he called me sexy that he decided to sit on a log and carry on a real conversation with me—
“Any action over there?” I asked, pointing to the wooded area across the road that runs through Prospect Park.
“Not a damned thing happenin there. Where you heading?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Hoping to stumble upon someone else having sex, I guess—I can’t do it out here anymore, not after my youth and the bad things I did in places like this.”
“Oh—you wuz sellin’ that pussy?” He asked.
“You’re from South Carolina, aren’t you?”
“How’d ya know.”
“I can tell by your accent. So tell me—is it still possible to feed oneself by hunting in these woods?”
“You’re damned right. I made $700 in one night. Why do you think I’m wearing these green pants. These is my hooka pants, like the ones they wear in jail. You gotta be careful who ya talkin’ to though—undercover cops out here. You sure is sexy though. Are you chewing tobacco?”
“No. Why? I asked.
“It looked like you had snuff in your mouth for a second there.”
“What are you doing to that tree?” I asked, for he was peeling the bark from a large tree under which we sat.”
“I’m just like that,” the southerner explained before offering more advice to me as I continue to suffer during this economic crisis. “You might as well sell it. Why give it away for free? All these bastards are still making millions. I tell them to do something nice for me—buy me dinner or take me a ride in their car or somefin! The truth is, most of them are too fucking busy or feel so important to be bothered with such formalities, so fuck that.”
“You sure are handsome, but I can tell you’re a bottom,” I said before heading deeper into the woods.
“Don’t ever judge a book by a cover,” he remarked by quickly flashing me sitting on the log.
“Ain’t that the truth,” I said just before smacking a mosquito on my left arm harshly.