Does anyone want to read a plain-vanilla story about a fuck in Central Park? As my profile reports, I live in East Hampton, on Long Island, also in Manhattan. But back then, I lived only in the city in a fifth-floor walk-up on East 78th near First Avenue.
It was the dawn of the age of running. Sure, I knew guys in high school track who chose long-distance running. But then, it was a specialized sport—not exotic, like Aikido, but maybe like wrestling. And then, running burst upon America in the 1980's, and had not let up when I arrived years later.
Come on, if you lived in Manhattan in the depression of the 1970's, paying rent and all the other expenses, it was appealing to choose a sport that required nothing more than shoes, shorts, and a headband. No athletics club. No golf course fees. No tennis racket and balls. Put on your shorts—very short, in my case, because my long legs are my best feature—your T-shirt—no bra because I am high, compact, and jounce minimally—and a headband—I have bangs.
Finishing a run, you sweat as though nailed to the bed and getting it good and hard. Why am I saying this? A lot of running was, and is, about sexual feelings. One guy told me he rented a summer "share" in a group house in East Hampton and, when he arrived one hot Friday in June, and met the babes who were his "group," he promptly put on his shorts, no shirt, tied on his shoes, and began to run in circles on the sand-edged, treeless roads that are the Amagansett Dunes.
As he ran, he fantasied, got harder, chafed his dick against his shorts—and ran on, quivering, throbbing, nuts with arousal. He kept thinking that the chafing would rub him off in one of those agonizingly slow, drawn out jerks and ran on, waiting to come. But however much the rough cloth sanded his hot, swollen glands penis, he just could not come.
We leave him running through the blazing sun in a wild daze of lust, a spreading patch of pre-cum on his sorts... Imagine if some fleet woman with long legs of gazelle, bouncing blond ponytail, full lips parted to pant in the stifling air has come toward him and, smiling, said: "Hey, wait, you're in a bad way! Wow, I never saw such a stiff one!" And stopped him, and knelt, and dragged down his shorts, so the bright-red tormented, unbearably stimulated prick sprung up and back...
Where the hell was I? Right. Most weekends, I ran the whole Central Park loop. I had time. Evenings, I ran Carl Schurz Park along East End Avenue and the walkway beside the East River from the heliport at 61st all the way to the Triboro Bridge.
Of a Saturday morning. though, I entered Central Park at around East 86th on Fifth Avenue and hit the circuit, which, if you do it, is about six miles—all the way from 110th Street at the edge of Harlem down to 59th Street--where the park ends in the high-rise, soaring cliffs of midtown—and back. I competed against myself, pushing, because for me—as for many of us--this was our first experience with athletic training.
I was aware my long, slender, pale legs had become muscled, my nipples rose and fell, brushing my shirt, my belly and thighs were sweating, and my lips parted, sucking air. It felt distinctly sexy running like a gazelle, hair streaming, sweat stains between my breasts; but it also emitted signals to predators, the lions of the veldt.
Nothing had happened for years, since the horror of the rape of Trisha Meili in a mild April of 1989, which left a slight 28-year-old woman, less than 100 pounds, in a coma for 12 days. She was "brought down" like prey by young black and Hispanic men who to prepare her for rape slammed her head over and over again with a rock. When she awakened in the hospital, the long saga of her irreparable brain injury came to light.
I easily could have been Trisha Meili—and I know it. I entered the park at 90th Street, turned north toward the upper end at 110th Street, ran around the lake, and headed south on the west side of the park. Oh, I was running so well; I felt I could do two laps, today—a brilliant, warm day in early April before the heat hits you like a wall. It was a day when new leaves were their greenest green, which is gold. I streamed along in running high, innocent as a baby antelope.
But there are the young lions, too, with their springtime surge of life, of irrepressible energy. Four guys--black, tall, but, as I discovered, probably not even twenty. Their prey was an older animal at twenty-four. I didn't even notice them; the gliding step of running shoes is not a racket. And they did not speak because they were hunting.
At some small sound, I turned, suddenly, jerking my head, and he was leering at me. A guy maybe eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, clad in black sweats, black headband, keeping pace very close and checking out my bod.
I waved, smiled, tried to speed up. But I was doing my max, already; to try to run away, and fail, seemed provocative. Then, two were on my left, and I was panicking. Strange: just well-built, hot young guys on a spring day. What if I had decided: what luck, I'm so ready for this?
And then, a hand grabbed my hair from behind, so I almost fell. If my attacker had not also been running, my legs would have run out from under me and I would have crashed down on my back.
On my right, the guy was shoving me toward the edge of the road. On my left, two had seized me and were dragging me left. And from the rear, it felt as though someone were tearing out my hair. What has been said, so often, but is hard to grasp, is how fast it happens.
In my panic, I thought only of keeping my feet. I did not want to fall, be "down," helpless. Yelling, yes, or loudly protesting, lashing futilely with my arms, crying out: But on my own momentum, my own power, I was veering off the road, over the edge, toward the woods.
It was just a few yards into the woods when I sprawled, pushed maybe, in the dirt, kicking out. But lots of panting hands were jerking down my shorts and shirt, pulling and tearing, stripping me open like a Christmas present. I flipped over, flipped back, trying to protect myself. Nothing worked. I just lost every shred. I was a naked white girl squirming in the dust.
Sometimes, you get one of those surges of energy, or terror, and I gained my feet, punching and kicking, broke away, headed for the road. Funny, in a way, because I was stark naked, but the road represented safety, sanity. And I nearly made it, clambering up the slight embankment, so my hands scrabbled at the pavement—and then, they all piled on me, flattening me, so my bare breasts, my belly, rasped on the tarmac's rough edge.
As though from nowhere, or heaven, I heard: "Hey, yo...What the hell are you doing?"
My head shot up. Another black guy. Really tall, long legs sweating with his run, chest and shoulders massive under a brown T-shirt that said "Have A Great Day, Love," and, at that moment, a face that seemed heartbreakingly beautiful.
And then, "Hey, back off, brother. What's going down, here?" And he was reaching down for me and I was weeping. This was a full-blown nightmare and I was stark naked, covered with dirt, my face streaked with tears and probably snot, my tits scratched...
With fearful speed, two of my attackers were on the road, and I heard one yell, "Fuck off, none of your fucking business..." And they were in front of me, blocking my view of my savior.
An abrupt, sickening "thud" and a body was flying over my head into the woods. Next, a scream, flailing of legs, a protest, and a body flew totally over my head. I heard it land sounding way behind me.
