Ken Follett wrote (he knows when and why) about an encounter with a red-headed Rebecca, who stamped him for life:

~Peaking under her dress as she climbed up the slide,
~ I was trying to do everything exactly perfect, went stiff, fell
~and landed flat, breaking the sword into two pieces.
~... I prefer solo performances now, and that only on a rare occasion. 

That's understandable, Ken, but it did not stop you from a perverted exhibitionism, did it?  You go on:

~I once dressed all in white and stood behind the audience
~surrounded by plaster Grecian statues. The audience entered the area, 
~not noticing me standing out of position, then I started
~causing them all to turn around and figure out
~which one of the objects was making all the commotion.
~ I was into mixing geese and crow sounds with strange
~ images, but the performance did make an impression.
~We had been messing around for about a year.

...I can imagine, Ken. What one red-headed vixen can do to a man!  And you wonder why,  "When another set of people takes over, usually with more obvious roles, we are not allowed access for any reason."?

As much as I feel compassion for your deviations, I would not let you into ANY public place, be it a playground, a building or an agora.