P is for Park, and Pervert
Dear PP (Park Pervert),
I'm not sure if the video will be for your private collection, or one of those voyeur websites I've seen, with videos of unsuspecting women on beaches in bikinis (and maybe a little nipple here and there), but I'm quite sure you'll be winning no awards for today's footage. If I thought you might, I'd ask for a cut of the profits. Or, a "thank-you" at the very least.
I knew it was risky to blog in a city park in a bikini, or to do anything at all in a city park in a bikini, and that's why I chose the predominately homosexual section, and sat away from the crowds. And I didn't shower or do my hair, but all that succeeded in doing was filtering out the sort of men that care about hygiene. Prime example of how practice can defecate all over theory.
After weighing the risks, there weren't any I thought I couldn't ignore for the luxury of a little vitamin D, not catcalls, drunken lurkers, nor UV warnings would deter me. No, I was going to indulge in one of nature's sweetest lunch combos, a sunny afternoon in the park, warm skin and a cool breeze. How relaxing, I thought, until you arrived. I was instantly and instinctively suspicious, something about the way you greased your man-boobs and splayed yourself under the sun like a giant fuzzy "X" just wasn't quite palatable, but I wasn't bothered enough to consider relocating. I was enjoying my sandwich.
Your awkward spy tactics gave you away and called attention to me. You did your best, but your best caused a ripple of concern to unsettle everyone in the vicinity and ultimately, I had to acknowledge you and gesture for you to stop, for the sake of social norm and my peace and quiet. No one actually believed you were videotaping yourself, not with the camera aimed high over your shoulder, the viewfinder turned so you could see what you were recording, me on your right, and that girl in short-shorts on your left. It would have been more convincing had you said something, as though you were making a video for a far-away relative or had you smiled as though you were taking still shots.
When you knew you were caught, you pretended to be surprised to discover that you'd "accidentally" turned the camera backwards, oh silly you, and that wasn't especially convincing either. I've baby-sat sneakier third-graders.
Going paparazzi on me, and running off, would have been a more considerate approach. Then, I could have gotten on with my day after little more than ten wasted minutes. But no, you opted for stealth too early in your career of "park pervery", and your skill-set doesn't complement your raison d'être.
I know it must be hard for you, perving out all by your lonesome in the big scary city, but I'm sure there are plenty of great women looking for a man with no allure, no tact, no respect, no hope at all, just a pant-load of frustration. Or has that not been your experience?
Either way, if you're wondering where you might be going wrong with the ladies, I may be able to offer a few pointers.
You could have at least stuck around long enough for me to take a successful picture of you (with that little camera in my laptop), taking pictures of me. But, alas, my skill-set does not match my sense of humour.