And finally: We constantly hear about the possibility of innocent people—think of the children!—happening on cruisers mid-buttfuck/blowjob, but we hardly ever hear from people who've actually happened upon cruisers mid-buttfuck/blowjob.

Here's one and a half for you, Dan.

The 1/2: Sunday morning, as I'm on my way to your house, as it happens, for the infamous blood-matzoh debacle. (The memories this job has given me... ) It's a sunny day, all is right with the world, and I walk through the park and stop at the restroom. Inside is a smiling, roly-poly African-American man in nice slacks and a bright sweater, the kind you see on men in church in springtime. Probably in his soft 40s, wearing glasses. I assume he's taking a stroll after the Sunday services.

He's at a urinal. I piss at a neighboring urinal, then go to the sink. He clears his throat and says: "Sunny day, isn't it?" I agree, turn, and he's facing me with his half-erect dick in his hand and a smile that was almost... beatific. Like he's a little kid who's just so proud of the half-erection he made that he had to show it off. He doesn't say a word, just smiles like a six-year-old in a cookie factory as I compose myself, say "uh, no thanks," and step back into the sunshine.

I couldn't have imagined a non-creepy flasher, but the man just wasn't creepy. A little eccentric, maybe a little retarded, but not so creepy.

The 1: Every few months, a salubrious fit takes my better senses hostage and I spend a few mornings jogging around the park. (The same one; I live three blocks away.) A hooker sometimes hangs out there on a certain bench, a guy with short, spiky hair and a white track suit. He always looks red-eyed and red-nosed and miserable, like he's been up all night, working hard on a combined cocaine, ecstasy, and alcohol hangover. Which he probably has. I always feel bad for the guy and bad for his johns. The poor man looks like a beaten hunk of calamari wrapped in white nylon. Though the spikes in his hair seem to survive all right.

Anyway.

One morning, I'm jogging by the bench and see a small dog, the yappy kind, standing alone on the path. As I get closer, I see the dog's lead disappearing into some shrubbery. As I pass, the dog starts yapping and two startled figures jerk violently in the shadows: a man standing with his back to the path, holding the yap-dog's lead, his pants down. Another guy kneeling in front of the stander, peering around at me, his eyes bright and startled. I knew him by the spikes in his hair. He looked terrified.

But the yap-dog! A public-sex-detection alarm—an ingenious system.