Tracey Parker is a gay cruising fanatic who travels around the world, always sharing stories of hot hookups and anonymous sex. Tracey takes us to another gay cruising park in Bogotá, Colombia where an encounter with a hottie leaves him hot and bothered, and lips dripping in cum.
Parque Nacional clings to a steep incline at the base of the massive mountains that wall in Bogotá, Colombia’s high-altitude capital. At night, the darkness plays against infinite shades of deep green—the result of the city’s relentless rainfall.
When I arrived in the city, I updated my Squirt gay dating app profile to ask for local cruising spots. The consensus was unanimous: Parque Nacional. By the time I arrived, the sun had long since vanished. The park was vast, and I felt the familiar thrill of the unknown, mixed with the unease of a foreigner who doesn’t quite know the local rules of safety.
Paved roads wound upward through the brush. Occasionally, the silence was shattered by the rhythmic hum of skateboards—bands of ten or twenty young men gliding downhill, their baggy fashions and metallic piercings glinting like coins under the moonlight.
Lone bikers passed in both directions; some descended like shadows, while others pedaled upward with a slow, agonizing effort that made me tired just watching. Occasionally, the fluorescent yellow uniforms of the Bogotá Police drifted by—unmistakable even in the gloom.
I wandered between the pavement and the deep shadows of the trees, careful to remain invisible whenever the police passed. In Latin America, every police force follows its own internal compass; they can be guardian angels or the city’s most efficient scammers. Usually, I rely on the presence of bystanders to keep them honest, but out here, I was on my own.
Finally, I spotted a young man standing by the roadway. He wore an urban camouflage of worn denim, a black jacket, and a skullcap against the Bogotá chill. His skin was darkened by a heavy five o’clock shadow, and his breath bloomed in white clouds under the streetlamps.
A car rounded the mountain bend and slowed to a crawl. In one fluid motion, the passenger door opened, the man vanished inside, and the car accelerated toward the glowing grid of downtown.
That exchange gave me the “green light” I needed. Behind where he had stood was a steep drop-off. I took his place at the ledge and peered down, checking for any obvious dangers before committing to the descent. I wanted to disappear into the dark before the next patrol arrived.
As my eyes adjusted, the valley floor revealed itself. It looked like an ant colony of activity: a dozen men displaying themselves, and a dozen more circulating among them. Stone monuments were scattered across the landscape, and small groups huddled behind them for an extra layer of privacy, though the valley itself felt like a world apart.
It was 8:00 p.m., the peak of the nocturnal rush. Men stood to my left and right—some gazing into the valley, others waiting for cars to approach. I began my descent. My slow, cautious steps turned into a heavy trot as the gravity of the hill took over. I reached the bottom and looked back to see others “falling” down the hill behind me in the same controlled descent. We stared at one another with eyes that had adjusted to more than just the dark; we were looking for the spark of shared desire.
The air was thick with a quiet, circulating energy. We moved in slow circles, hands hovering over or inside our jeans.
Many were college-aged, likely coming from the universities at the mountain’s base. One man kept crossing my path—tall and thin, wearing baggy jeans and an unzipped green overcoat. I followed his gaze, watching his rhythm. He was “flashing” selected people, leaving them in a trance-like state as he moved on.
I decided to intercept him. I stepped directly into his path, locking my eyes onto his. When we were face-to-face, he pulled back his coat.
The scent hit me instantly: a heady mix of morning soap and the salt of a hard-working body. He was shirtless beneath the coat, his jeans hanging low enough to reveal the goosebumps on his skin and the neat line of a shaved waist—a common preference among Colombian men.
He seemed to like the “hit and run” style of flashing, but I wanted more. I placed my hands on his warm waist and began to explore his torso with my tongue. He had a thin line of hair tracing down his chest toward a fit, rugged abdomen—he looked athletic but unpolished, which I preferred.
As I moved lower, he unbuckled his belt. His jeans dropped to his ankles as suddenly as he had opened his coat. His boxers held the distilled essence of his scent. When he finally stepped out of them, his length felt like a foreign object in the cold night air. I took him in with my eager mouth, circling the tip and the foreskin with my tongue,sucking hard, trapping him with my wet lips, determined not to let him run off to his next target.
He surrendered to the sensation, letting my blowjob do the work; my mouth, tongue and just a little teeth teasing and moving gently then hard on his man meat.
He leaned back against a large tree. His arms fell to his sides, and his coat draped back against the bark, leaving his body exposed to the moonlight. In the freezing air, his body heat created a fine, shimmering sheen of sweat on his skin.
He was making noises as my mouth met the tip of his dick to the bottom of his shaft, but soon, he let out a low moan, his hands finding the top of my head as he orgasmed, some of it dripping onto my wet lips, but I savored it all. When he finally came, the taste was sharp and salty, a jolt to the senses. I swallowed, still energized by his heat even after he had finished.
He caught his breath, pulled up his clothes, and without a word, vanished into the shadows toward the river where the city begins. I stayed for a moment, reorienting myself. Nearby, a group of four men were engaged in a circle jerk. I joined them, reached my own peak, and then continued my circuit. I stayed for two more hours, unable to shake the instinct to see what else the mountain might reveal before the night finally thinned out.
