Window Shopping for Dick at the Francis Pool

July is my least favorite month. All of June's promise and potential burns away in a haze of aloe and cheap beer. It becomes abundantly clear by the midway point that I was not going to attend a Fort Reno show or even write a novel. But it does make me appreciate my small victories. Like finally making it to the Francis Pool, the "gay"pool at 25th and N. A combination of new tattoos and lethargy had kept me away until last Saturday, when I spent two hours sweating out my Homo/Sonic hangover.

Francis Pool gets its reputation as a gay watering hole for its proximity to Dupont Circle, and the resulting ostentations of under-dressed boys. Checking out the goods is half the reason for coming — if you forget a book, you can play "guess who's Jewish" through all their speedos — and I know I'm not alone in my leering.

Francis Pool sits at the edge of P Street Beach, a notorious cruising park. The denizens of these woods frequently come up to the chainlink fence separating the trees from the concrete and stare inside. Hands in the links, eyes under baseball caps. I once saw a panting Irish Setter chained up outside the same fence, and the similarities were striking. But who am I to judge?

The funny thing about Francis Pool is that it represents an eerily accurate microcosm of its surrounding neighborhood. A hot grey-haired daddy with nipple rings sits a yard away from a scrawny twink in a yellow square-cut swimsuit. Behind him a dumpy 45 year-old man reads the newspaper, smiling occasionally at the straight couple with the smiling toddler. And then you have the literal other half. Separated by a fence. Outside looking in. Choose your cliche.

But what's the difference between the men of the pool and the men of the park? Gay life is one long hunt for dick. Some find it at bars, some find it online. Some guys have a permanent wellspring of dick that they share a mortgage with. But one thing's for sure — we have all put a hell of a lot of work into the dick we've gotten. Hours at the gym, hundreds of dollars spent on drinks, nights waiting by the phone to see if some particularly memorable dick will call you back. And all this — after all that effort, all that disappointment — its been growing wild in the park.

They say that when it rains in DC, condoms flood down the slopes of P Street Beach into Rock Creek. So the nature boys are safe. Just as safe as anyone else.

So what's the taboo? Some of these men might be lonely and some might be selling it, but some are just going after what they want. So why all the window shopping? Why don't these guys just put on a swimsuit and walk through the turnstile to ogle the speedo boys from a closer range? They're either just enjoying the view, or waiting for one of those cutely staid swimmers to come out and join them.