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Originally published in PlayGuy magazine — July, 2001
     

I didn't identify as "gay." I discovered the park by accident when I was barely 18, and started out just getting sucked off or letting one of the guys play with my dick. After a while, I was okay with touching a man's body and giving blowjobs. It wasn't as big a deal as I'd thought it would be, so three or four times a week I'd go on patrol in the park late at night, after my mom had gone to sleep, and sometimes fool around with other guys until five in the morning. There was hardly ever any talking. I'd sit on a bench on one of the dimly lit paths and spread my legs out, squeezing my bone whenever somebody I liked walked by. We'd nod and circle each other until we'd eventually steer each other to a secluded wooded area and then go at it. Sometimes a third party would join in if we both agreed to it. There was something dreamlike and disconnected about these encounters that made them hotter than any other kind of sex I could imagine. One night, I saw this older guy who I'd fooled around with whenever we met up approaching my "home base bench" and indicating that I should follow him. We took one of the less-used trails to a dark clearing that we'd used before. He undid his jeans and pushed them down, his huge hard cock stretching the fabric of his skimpy white briefs. I licked and chewed at his protruding meat slab until the underwear was completely saliva-soaked and even in the dark I could see the dark skin showing through the white material, then I pulled the saturated cotton down and filled my mouth and throat with his massive cock. The guy grunted when he shot his cumload into my sucking maw. He started jerking me off but I let him know that I wasn't ready to finish up the night by cumming early, I wanted to hunt for someone to fuck. "Listen," he said, "keep your eyes open and be careful. You know that redheaded, the one that always wears the red young buck baseball cap? Yeah, you know who I mean, I seen you with him. Some guys jumped him and fucked him up good. They beat him so bad, I heard he lost an eye. So, keep your guard up out here." He headed in one direction and I went the other way. It was weird him telling me about Rusty. That's who I was saving my nutcream for. It was weird thinking something like that could happen to someone basically my age, or maybe a few months older.

That Monday after baseball practice, I was headed off to the showers when some of my friends started bragging about attacking that "fucking fag" in the park so I lingered in the locker area. Henry rummaged in his gym bag and pulled out a red baseball cap stiff with brown splotches and twirled it on his finger as each of the guys detailed their brutal treatment of the anonymous "park homo." Tears came to my eyes and I felt my whole body tremble with rage. Pete addressed my turned back and told me that I should come with them the next time they went to "clean up" the park. I didn't answer, just shrugged and went to the showers. I called the hospital first thing when I got home. Then, I called the police. That Tuesday, I skipped my morning classes and went down to City Hall to keep my appointment with the D.A. and tell her what I knew about the queer-bashing in the park. Another woman took my statement, occasionally looking up at me. The D.A. told me that there was no real reason to include references to my being in the park as all they needed was the bat and overheard conversation in the locker-room. It didn't have to be part of the record, she stressed. "Yeah, it does," I said. I wanted to be identified as gay.
 

 

  

 

 

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They may not be: redistributed; sold; altered; enhanced; modified by artificial, digital or computer imaging;
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