Many years later, Scott recounts this night with regret. He’d rolled up the car window and high-tailed it home. This yinzer was too much for Scott’s fussy roommate, whose desire could not override his bourgeois, judgmental impulses. ![]() One of the watchers approached, friendly and direct: “J’need blowed?” ![]() When the roommate returned, Scott, who had never gone cruising himself, despite spending many nights looking out the window of his apartment into the park, longing, or at least curious, asked how it went, expecting a raunchy story.īut the roommate, scowling, recounted a distasteful exchange that had turned him off: Making a slow turn about the Fruit Loop in his car, watching and being watched by the men at the edge of the woods, the roommate rolled his window down. ![]() One night in the mid-1980s, Scott* tells me, his roommate went to the Fruit Loop - a secluded stretch of roadway in the southwest corner of Schenley Park - hoping to catch some dick.
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