BEST PARK IN TOWN

I haven't been to the dog park since Tuesday, when Rupert knocked me on my ass in front of half a dozen gay guys. My elbows are still smarting from the fall. So is my pride.

Gay men are some of the most compassionate people on earth, so I'm not sure why I felt so embarrassed. Maybe because I buy into a few stereotypes and couldn't shake the feeling that their empathy for my pain was commingled with criticism of my outfit.

For those of you who don't know, the off-leash dog park is also the gay cruising park. It was the gay cruising park first, then the city decided to sic the dogs on the queers. That's one theory. Another theory — mine — is that it's a fucking beautiful park, as well as a beautiful fucking park, and the city recognized that it was perfect for dog lovers, as well as man lovers.

Problem is, I'm the only dog lover who goes here. Everyone else is afraid of the pervs. Everyone else takes their dogs to the park way out west, which is nice and all, but not gorgeous like this; not lush with river-bank growth and ancient cottonwoods and giant vines; not alive with the sounds of lapping water and buzzing insects and singing birds and twigs that snap underfoot; not full of sandy paths that meander through dense shade into little sunny clearings.

One lady I recently ran into here — she had two beautiful German shepherds — told me she came here only rarely and only at certain times of day because of the "unsavory characters" who frequent the park. I wanted to say, "Hey, I'm an unsavory character," but I didn't think I could really pull off "unsavory" — and besides, I knew what she meant and sort of agreed — so I just nodded and admired her dogs.

But back to my shame. I had just let Mabel and Rupert out of the car, and Mabel immediately starts terrorizing Rupert by dragging him around by his ear and barking in his face and chest-butting him, until he gives chase. Then they're off at 90 mph, like one beast with two heads, nipping at each other, running circles within circles, tripping each other up. I'm just peacefully walking toward the river, knowing they'll catch up with me when they tire of their folie a deux. I stroll by several cars that are backed into the spaces for a better view of newcomers and, presumably, the police. Each car contains one man (that I can see). Some are holding newspapers. Some are smoking. They are the picture of WAITING. I almost feel guilty that I'm not some hot young stud, but a mere frumpy woman with two literal dogs on a literal walk through the literal park. I am the picture of LITERAL, I think, when — WHAP! — out of the blue, my legs are knocked out from behind me and I am in midair, then — PLUNK! — on my ass, with my arms locked up behind me to unsuccessfully break the fall. What the heck?! The thought crosses my mind that I have been attacked, that I'm going to be asked for my money next, but then, in a blur, I see this big black ball of fur rolling out of a tumble and racing toward the water: Rupert with a Mabel chaser. Those assholes! They picked me off like a bowling pin. "Rupert!" I yell, in a menacing, punishing tone, but he blissfully ignores me. I hear him splash off the boat ramp into the river. I pick myself up and wonder who saw. My conservative estimate, based on my location: everyone. No one, though, gets out of his car to ask me whether I'm OK. It's like we all reached an unspoken agreement as soon as my ass touched earth that an offer of help would only add to the embarrassment. Better to pretend it didn't happen. Later I can nurse my wounds at home, and they can chuckle over the dumb broad who thought this was literally a dog park. OK. Fine. Except I can't find my car keys. They were in my hand but apparently went flying as I instinctively tried to brace myself. I brush off my pants and "nonchalantly" peer through the weeds. They can't have flown far. But they're not here. Or over here. Or here. I start to panic a little. Then aha! Here they are. I stuff them in my pocket and slink away toward the water, where I find two dogs frolicking in the muddy porridge that's the Kansas River.

The park's trails begin near the boat ramp. The one to the east is where most of the "unsavory" activity seems to take place. The one to the west is where I usually go. But I prefer the other one — it's more romantic somehow, the path is more like a labyrinth, with little passageways shooting off over hillocks into little green groves with benchlike tree stumps. I knew this was the preferred destination of Unsavory Characters (UCs) because (1) I am a UC and know how they think; (2) I have seen the UCs entering and exiting the woods from that trailhead; and (3) I have ventured on recent trips over the hillocks, off the beaten path, and found plenty of evidence of unsavory activity. I showed George some pictures I took: condom wrappers, men's underwear, reading material. When he and I went to the park last weekend we saw a container of gel lubricant and what looked like used bedsheets. I won't post those pictures here, except for this one, which I took on my first adventure into the backwoods. Emboldened by the absence of cars in the parking lot, I climbed off the beaten path into this little cove and spied what I thought were some red wildflowers, but when I got closer I saw that they were an assortment of condoms. Someone, after a tryst, had arranged them like little flowers — or little flags. Part of me was repulsed, and part of me was fascinated.

I don't know why people like to meet strangers in a park for anonymous sex. The thought of it really sickened me at one time— when Beth first told me about the cruising park — all I could imagine were truly Unsavory Characters in emotionally brutal situations; no affection, no joy, no names, no reciprocity, no SNUGGLING, for crap's sake, no nothing, except sheer animal satisfaction in the "closet" of the park. I had the notion that cruising parks originated because homosexuality was illegal and shameful and such places, along with public toilets and porn houses and seedy bars, were historically the only venues for gay men to meet. But those days are over, mostly. It would still take some cajones to walk downtown arm in arm with your gay lover, to be sure, but you don't have to resort to public parks, do you? You don't have to give gays a bad name, do you?

Then I realized I was being a huge, judgmental ass. If this park were a hangout for straight people, it would have some enticing sobriquet like Lover's Lane or Makeout Point. And the more I think about it the less I find it repulsive. I personally have zero desire to have sex with a stranger in the great outdoors (barring a chance meeting with my fantasy park ranger at my favorite national park who saves me from a mean bear and then ... oh wait), but who cares what other consenting adults do? Do your thing. Have fun. Life is short.

But pick up your damn condoms! And your underwear and your lube containers! Please. This is a public park.

And another thing, don't look disappointed when I get out of my car and you realize I'm just a girl and not the afternoon delight you had planned for your lunch hour. I have every right to be here, as do my dogs, so don't pass me on the trail like I'm some alien intruder.

And finally, to the Republican A-holes with the Bush/Cheney stickers on your cars with Johnson County plates, use your own fucking park. This fucking park is for gay fuckers who pay taxes here and agree with MY politics — not married assholes who vote against gay marriage while traveling here twice a week for a gay romp in the woods.