Summertime in Central Park is a queer boy's dream come true. Everyone knows the Ramble, that deep forested area that's been hosting naughty gay men for nearly a century, but when it comes to testosterone-coated eye candy almost any nook or cranny of Frederick Law Olmsted's landscaping masterpiece delivers tasty morsels that are usually at least half unwrapped and ready to be licked (like a lollipop, nothing dirty, I swear.)

On a recent spectacular summer Sunday, humming bits and pieces of Sondheim's brilliant musical Sunday in the Park With George, trusty camera clenched tightly in my eager fist, I set off for a stalking in Central Park. I do believe that Central Park in summer is to a gay stalker what an unlocked hen house is to the fox. (I could have said chicken hawk but then you'd get the right wrong idea.)

You can see it all on Fire Island or the beaches of Mykonos, but there's something about the accidental find of Central Park that is uniquely New York and deliciously forbidden. Surely, part of the thrill is all this shirtless wonderfulness smack dab in the center of America's largest and most sophisticated metropolis--that special pheromonic scent of combined concrete, taxi exhaust fumes, male flesh and giant flower pot.

Please join me in exploring the fruits of my stalking and other various and sundry pleasures of summer in Central Park. Of course, my model was a handsome blond jogger rather than Bernadette Peters and my medium is digital photographer rather than oil paints. Nonetheless, I think you'll enjoy the results.

Sunday In The Park With George: Photo Tour