Park fantasies
This morning on my habitual walk by the river I was startled to encounter two handsome policemen cycling through the park. They wore shorts. One was dark and beefy, the other short and dapper, chatting obliviously with his partner. No one else was there. I was too shy to take a picture.
Don't they have anything better to do than go around titillating solitary gay men in remote wooded areas? This is not a cruise park. I hope they were embarrassed by my big, blushing grin.
I also passed my first blooming lilac of the spring. It was helpless and alone. I couldn't resist touching it, pulling down a branch to smell and taking photos. Lilac is my favourite fragrance. Afterward I felt guilty and debauched for making love to someone else's vulnerable bush in a back alley. That's what happens when people like me have to live in apartments without gardens of their own. I'll blame society for cutting me off from the land, and the policemen for provoking lust.
In other park news, the toads have finished copulating. When I took my daughters for a walk on Monday morning, the river was full of amphibious couples doing nasty, disgusting, warty things. The air was full of their trills. Now the place is silent and the shallow water is full of egg strands. Slimy highways trailing around and clumping together in mounds like submerged castles.
The place is rampant with public sexuality, but no one seems to care. Those lazy officers should stop bumming around and arrest me in the undergrowth.