‘HANDS ON THE PRIZE!’                ’         

 

Making my way north from the #1 train at 242^nd Street, Van Cortlandt Park, I notice lots of black and yellow school buses parked along its periphery, - some are double parked. ‘Oh shit!’ I mutter: ‘How can I forget! Yoooow!’ Looking at my watch, as if noting the time of year, I realize, ‘t’is the early fall; the inter-collegiate/high school ‘track and field’ metes are on. Yow I didn’t even tink; rass what have I gotten into? It’s gonna be maddening.’ Knowing there is nothing to do about it, except abort my exercise, which is unlikely, I enter the park determined to articulate another orgy if it occurs. 

With my bladder challenging me, I jog along the driveway to the ‘can’. At its entrance, classes of adolescent college/high school freshmen, and sophomores spill their pubescent vocals over each other’s: A bass sound outdoing a counter-tenor’s slurp: Lyric tenors noting: ‘Aaahhh; meeen, gonna be a long way to graduation; 9 frigging months’. 

“Such temptations, too much caution, unreal!” I bemoan. Some athletes lounge along a fence/hedge; others squat on rumps; - a leg or so semi-lotus sort of, carelessly exposing dangling pubic, ‘hanging-chads’. One would think that seeing an older person, their senses of decorum would mitigate modesty. Instead, I am allowed to look and lust.

Finding an empty urinal in the men’s room, challenges me. Was it not for the stimulating session sweating the three users at the urinals, an accident would have happened: - Ceemos, pre-occupied, is in no hurry. He and mate, Reynaldo, in the next stall, while pretending to stare at the wall, fixate on Florizel, agitating bubbling drips from his head. Florizel, flicking his largesse, teases the others. Loosening his pants, - the belt buckle flapping and jingling provocatively - he slides them below the cheeks, exposing white Ralph Lauren briefs: Tenderly shoving his private, - semi-hard, - into his boxers, he sneers at us. Leaving the urinal, another ‘jock’ takes his turn there.

The private commodes also are occupied. The athletes, sloppily thrown over the room, sit on the damp stinky tiles, squat on basins, slink against any available support, debating among them. Finally, while exiting the room, some of them shout; ‘sorry sah, didn’t mean no distress.’ Others yell; ‘Ceemos, Reynaldo, wassup up faggots? Takes that long to piss? Get on wid it, odders waiting’. They too, ‘vamoose’. I then urinate. Gaseous musk of defunct deodorant, disinfectant, and funky sneakers circulate liberally throughout. Aroused from this mix, I leave quickly. Entering the cross country route, start of my 21 miles run, a plethora of  youths, and cheer-leaders, gyrate to jumping jack-flashes, somersaults, tae-Bo’s, tai-chi’s, and yoga on the field.    

Crossing the bridge at Cemetery Hill, I track the short mound parsing through the woods. The thick landscape mingles impressions with sounds: One is never quite sure which is illusory or real. Eventually, the trampling on the ground is unmistakable: It’s the ‘swaaash, swiiish, swooosh’, of runners in their sensuous sneakers hitting the air, and gravel, - their dainty feet mingling with fleeing/petrified organisms; crawlers, gophers, starlings, swallows, squirrels/vegetations, - sprinkling stinky sweat into the thick ecology.

Their legs dribbling, pirouetting, sliding over pebbles and rocks make me wish I could sprint as fast as they can. ‘Then they all disappear!?’ If all things are equal, as the past has shown, ‘I shouldn’t think so’!

On my final 4 miles, a sturdy tenor whispers in my left ear: “Hi sah! Don’t mean to startle you; hope I didn’t sah.” “Oh, oh, oh, ah, ah, umh, hoh”, I murmur. Looking lost momentarily, our eyes meeting each other’s, I stammer, ‘oh, no, no, no, iiiitits’s okay; guy, no harm done’. “Oh, sah my name is Jocquie/J-o-c-q-u-i-e sah”. ‘My pleasure Jocquie.’ “Yes, sah name’s Jocquie Struppe; please to meet you; see you around sah”. Running ahead, Jocquie stops suddenly. Waiting for me, he asks: “You a’aight sah?” ‘Yes, I’m fine’, I reply. “Sah sure you’re?  You red all over sudden: Need a hand”? Tempted as I am to feign helplessness and hold him, I answer, ‘no I’m fine’. He moves on. ‘Man!’ I say, “what a  Goddam prize; den yu cry you can’t find nobody”.

Dimensions of Jocquie’s breasts, cheeks, sitting snuggly in his spandex, - a g-string guarding his fat, hairy, muscular crotch, - send sweet talcum to me. Slowing to a crawl while negotiating the ragged slopes, imagining a rendezvous with Jocquie, I am aware suddenly of someone running with me. Again, glancing left, another youthful runner in his opaque tunic catches up to me.

Convinced the youth is catching his breath, and should be overlapping me momentarily, my pace slackens. Working our way along the fenced path where the track narrows, nearing its end, a figure, slight and slowed; - stationary is more like it, - turns in our direction. Apparently, he is waiting for something. My peer shouts, “Wassup Jocquie”? “Yow Biggie wassup?” Jocquie shouts. “See you hanging wid mi mate. Guess you meet each other?”. “No Jocquie we haven’t met; we just running together,” answers Biggie. “Really, we’re mates now”? I ask myself. “Maybe history is repeating itself”.

Biggie’s and Jocquie’s sturdy sprints somersault them forward. Allowing me to catch up, Biggie says: “Sir how much miles you run?” ‘It’s my 6^th lap; their’s one to go for 21 miles,’ I reply. Jocquie: “Sah you’ve been running all dis miles an’ you still keeping up? Dat’s cool paps”. ‘Excuse me’, I say; ‘I know you mean no harm but don’t call me ‘paps’, thanks’. “Forgive me sah don’t mean no harm; don’t know your name sah; don’t think you tell me”. ‘Sorry if I didn’t tell you; name’s Litton; Litton Large; guys look like we got company; another runner approaches; which school he represents?’ Before an answer is forthcoming, our latest edition is chatting with Biggie and Jocquie. “Hi ya wa’up?” He says, eyeballing me “Oh! Meet our distance runner, Litton Large: Litton, Bulgie, Bulgie Crotchette,” introduces Jocquie. “Hi”! I return.

Continuing running, we reach John C. Muir’s Square. There, in the corner surrounded by thick shrubs is the men’s room. I head towards it; Biggie, Bulgie, & Jocquie, following. Lining up against the exterior wall, we slide our spandexes to the knees.

Calmly, methodically, we ‘wank’; each ‘wank’ moistening our lips/tongues. Libidinal sensations swooning us, we ease on the jerks, slowing our orgasms. As we flick our ‘hard-ons’ at each other, we move nearer, measuring our dimensions. No one has ‘bragging rights’ here. We all are endowed equally. As the blood rushes to our fluttering eyelids, we stagger; then!!!

 Spontaneously our senses vacate us, - sperm sprinkling about. “Guys”; I say; - it’s some time after, one has the energy to speak; - “see ya!”