Meth Eyes

My friend Greg and I are deep in conversation in Golden Gate Park when she spots us. Little miss public service approaches with long, triumphant strides and attempts to engage the enemy: did we know that gay men have sex in this park? Like a mouse playing dead in hopes the cat will get bored, I go into ignore mode. "Please Greg," I siliently plead, "don't talk to this witch"...but it's too late--his tender heart has already been hit by her faux-friendly fire. She goes on about the gay menace in the bushes, and he smiles and nods. Finally, as her speech reaches an almost orgasmic climax, she points a finger at me. Apparently, the dark circles under my eyes are not merely, as I had thought, ugly, but rather constitute proof of my drugging and sexing ways. In that moment, a look of smug congratulations sweeps over her pinched features. She has intervened masterfully: there would be one less blow job in the park today.