Queers of Central Park excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk

In Queers of Central Park, Mykola Dementiuk describes a walk in Central Park … ah, the chirping birds, the thick trees, the ready easy sex. Now who would want to leave that, not a hard-up person, that’s for sure.

Queers of Central Park
Extasy Books (March 1, 2011)
ISBN: 978-1-55487-818-5

Excerpt:

I puffed on some cigarettes and nervously gazed at the men stealthily entering the park, undecided of whether I should run from the shadows I was seeing or boldly go after them. Then I saw him, a man slowly approaching and pausing near the end of my bench. I smiled at him. He moved closer. After a few words, I was rather grateful we’d be going to his place rather than the eerie Bramble. Still I had never followed a man to his home before and I was a bit frightened. He nodded his head and stood up. I was right beside him, but he panicked, quickly looking around.

“Are you crazy?” he hissed, looking to his left and right. “Someone could be watching. Police are everywhere.” He stood a moment looking at me, then said, “Wait till I cross the avenue, then come after me.”

I sat back down and looked after him as he edged away to the other side of the avenue. At the corner, he stopped and lit a cigarette, looking in my direction. I stood up also lighting a cigarette, slowly going after him down 70th Street. Somewhere, mid-block, I saw him entering a building beneath a stairway. I looked around and noticed no one was behind me. I quickly walked to the doorway he was standing in, awaiting me. He let me in through the door and, in the lit hallway, instantly panicked.

“How old are you?” He scowled. “You look like a kid.”

“Eighteen,” I nervously responded, “but will be nineteen in two weeks.” I stared at him in the lit, lower level hallway.

He stared back at me. “And you’ve done this before, in a man’s house?” He was biting his lower lip. “You look very young.”

“I’m almost nineteen,” I said, reaching for my wallet under my raincoat.

“You wanna see my proof?” I held the draft card out to him.

He studied my face, glanced at the draft care, and said, “No, no, that’s alright.”

I followed him into a below street-level apartment. Flimsy locks, I thought, but shook my head, as he shut the door behind me.

An unmade bed, a couch, a table, and a tiny kitchenette were all in that place. It looked like a one-room apartment with covered windows, which faced the street—and countless paperbacks scattered about the room.

“Get undressed,” he ordered, his voice somewhat shaky, but a look of worried thoughtfulness about him.

I nervously removed my shirt, pants, socks, and underwear and lay down on the bed, holding and gently massaging my stiff erect penis. He moved about, and reaching for the table lamp, clicked the light off. A thin stream of streetlights shone about the covered windows. I lay in the darkness, slowly stroking myself and waiting.

What do two naked men in bed do with each other? I wondered, though in a little while, I’d find out, that’s for sure.

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