Mud Sharks

My former roommate often tracked mud onto our spotless hard wood floors.

"Were you out cruising in St. Nicholas Park again last night?" I asked.

"Yes, girl! I almost got arrested. The police are harassing the homos again. Last night they snuck up on us and shinned a bright spotlight on all the activity in the bushes. You should have seen all the sissies scram out of there. Some of them flew up in the tree tops like squirrels."

"What did you do, how did you get away?"

"Honey child, you know my Black ass and these long legs hauled ass like a crack head outta there."

"Do you actually have sex in the park? Haven’t you heard about the queers murdered in Prospect Park in Brooklyn?"

"Yes, but I can’t help it. There’s something about the danger of the chase that turns me on."

"Take me with you next time—I don’t feel comfortable as a white man cruising for Black cock in Harlem. At least if I’m with you, I can pretend you dragged me there and they will not call me a Mud Shark."

"Mud shark? What the hell is that?" asked my roommate while I wiped away the mud he tracked into our cozy two bedroom in Harlem.