The road to Lady Bird Park is fraught with danger and excitement.
When the root rot from using too much peroxide on my hair is not aggravating my mad cow disease, I can remember one warm summer night many years and about 100 pounds ago. Now, I’m a “traditional values” queen, from another age and a different culture; Paleolithic if my chronology is accurate.
I learned to cruise the old fashioned way, to hunt for the North American Homosexual Male in his natural habitats such as in parks and rest stops. Remember, this was a time before the internet, or very many other community organizations for gay people, for that matter. In Logan where I lived then, there wasn’t even a gay bar. We did, however, have the Lady Bird Park rest area at the Mouth of Logan Canyon, which became a legendary cruising venue. On some occasions it was so busy that the dedicated cruiser would have to wait in line for his turn at debauchery. It was the era when a slower pace, fleeting eye contact and body language could speak volumes and words were hardly ever spoken. Back then, cruising was a complicated “dance” more intricate and nuanced than anything they can come up with on Dancing With The Stars unlike today’s form of the art, being able to type quickly is the most important asset.
By the way, I regret not having retrieved a souvenir toilet seat when they tore this place down. I could have used it to frame my portrait.
But back to my story. It was a dark and steamy night. One of those summer nights when it’s difficult to sleep, and your mind wanders to those naughty places. On this night, I was excitedly opening the brown paper package I had received earlier in the mail earlier. Nestled inside the bubble wrap was my very first sex toy purchase, a butt plug, which for the remainder of this story will be referenced as “the B.P.”
I was just a little bit disappointed that no instructions for use of the B.P. were provided. So I let my instincts as a “Natural Bottom” guide me into divining that “shaft B was to be inserted into hole A.” Oh my! What an improvement in comfort this was over the carrots and potatoes I had back on the farm.
So, being adventurous and horny, I decided to initiate my new toy and go “hunting” at Lady Bird Park. In addition to wearing the B.P., I was also wearing some skimpy nylon running shorts (fluorescent pink, of course) and a T-shirt. It was about 1:00 a.m. and warm enough to open the windows in the car.
Unfortunatley, there was no one at the rest area. As I sat there waiting in my car, my horniness overcame my better judgment. Then and there I decided it would be exciting to “go commando” in my car while waiting for potential prey. I stripped off my shorts and T-shirt, leaving only my shoes and of course the B.P. It was so exhilarating to let the canyon breeze flow over body parts that were usually confined.
Eventually, a car pulled into the rest area and parked on the far side of the parking lot. My anticipation of a steamy encounter increased. I waited with baited breath and clenched sphincter. Soon a cute guy got out of the car. I was even more energized. Then to my mortification, a second guy got out of the car. As a rule, two in a car predestined trouble, so my exhilaration quickly transformed into apprehension. The two guys started to trash talk gays. I tried to ignore them hoping they would go away. My “Midsummer Night’s Dream” was quickly morphing into the “Nightmare On Elm Street.”
And then, they yelled to me: ”You’re probably sitting there naked in your car with a dildo up your ass.” I sat there in stunned silence. How could they have known? Was I unconsciously conforming to some stereotype of which I was unaware? Do all gay men sit naked in cars with B.P.s up their asses? With that oh so true statement left floating in the air like a fart in church, they reached inside their car, retrieved baseball bats and began advancing toward my car.
At this point I was not about to get into a scholarly discussion about the semantic yet practical differences between butt plugs and dildos. The primal fight or flight instinct started to engage. Since I was naked, I didn’t think I would look very menacing in a fight, so I chose to start my engine and drive like “a bat out of hell,” spinning up a shower of gravel on the two guys. I proceeded down the winding highway, jumping pot holes while outrunning the basher’s car, all the while reaching down and trying to pull up my running shorts.
It’s very complicated to keep your foot on the gas pedal while trying to put the same foot through a leg opening in a pair of shorts while maintaining escape velocity from pursuing thugs. But luckily, I was fast enough to out run the bashers. On the way home, I swore that I would never go cruising again.
Of course, succumbing to the indomitable forces of nature, I returned to the scene of the crime the following week for more “hunting.” Go Figure!
As always, this story leaves us with many important questions:
1. Could cruising be considered a sport?
2. Do all gay men sit naked in cars with B.P.s up their asses?
3. Will pink nylon running shorts ever come back in style?
4. Will any short shorts ever come back in style?
5. Should we teach the skill of getting dressed while driving in Drivers Ed?
6. Would my portrait look better when framed with a toilet seat?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of “The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.”