The Cop

Last week, someone asked me via formspring.me whether I’d had sex with a police officer or not. When I replied I had, naturally I got several people asking to hear about it. Because in these post-Village People days, what self-respecting gay guy hasn’t wanted to have sex with a policeman?

In the summer between my junior and senior years of college, I stayed in the little town where I was attending college. Williamsburg is a Virginia tourist attraction known for both Colonial Williamsburg and the Busch Gardens theme park, and its summer months could be absolute madness. I’d been putting myself through school by working in an ice cream store that was so swamped during tourist season that they were more than happy to have me stick around and work nights.

There wasn’t much to Williamsburg. The college and Colonial Williamsburg abut each other like conjoined twins, tied by a long, straight umbilical cord of a road to the interstate some miles away. Along that road were businesses and hotels, including my ice cream store. And way out past the outskirts of town was the little apartment that I and my junior-year roommate were subletting together.

I didn’t have a car in those days. (I didn’t have a car until I was in graduate school.) I did have my ten-speed bike, though, and a sturdy pair of legs. I’d bike several miles down to campus in the mornings, where I’d hang out in the campus center and whore in the restrooms. In the afternoons I’d head to the ice cream store, where I’d work until ten before biking home and doing it all again the next day.

One night after work I was biking down Richmond Road, the long commercial stretch of fast food chains and old-persons’ cafeterias, when I was hit by a car. It wasn’t as dire as it sounded. When I happened to bike in front of the Arby’s driveway, a tourist from Maryland nosed out too far in the road, rammed my ankle, and sent me sprawling. Luckily there was very little traffic at that time of night, and I had presence of mind enough to fall toward the sidewalk and not out in the middle of the road.

The tourist, apparently feeling she was doing the right thing, slammed on her accelerator and took off. I sat on the curb and checked first my leg, which throbbed a little but which wasn’t in bad condition or anything. I’d just begun to look over my bike when I heard the whoop of a siren. When I looked up, a police car had pulled up in front of me. “Don’t go anywhere!” called the cop inside. Then he, too, went roaring off with his siren blaring.

I don’t think I thought I was in trouble, though the possibility crossed my mind. After all, it wasn’t me that the cop was chasing. Under the streetlights I obediently waited. By the time he returned a few minutes later, I’d determined that everything was fine with my bicycle. The cop blocked the entire right lane with his vehicle and got out to talk to me. “Couldn’t get her,” he said, putting both his hands on his hips.

He was a stocky man in his early forties, tending more to chubby than to muscular. He was also a good foot shorter than I, and wore his hair in that style Virginia men of a certain middle age used to, back in the day—severe part on one side, a swoop of hair over the forehead, trimmed to within an inch of its life. A gold band decorated his ring finger. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

With a little prompting, I explained that I worked at the ice cream store down the street and that I was just biking back to my apartment. “These out-of-towners are crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “You gotta be careful. I wouldn’t want my kid biking on this road. Listen. I’m going to follow you home. Just to make sure you’re okay. Got it?”

There wasn’t really much I could do. I shrugged, struggled back into my backpack, and biked home with a police escort. The entire way back he kept his light flashing and stayed a good ten feet behind me. I pulled off into my parking lot and thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t until I reached my apartment door that he tooted his horn, waved at me out the window, and drove off. I went inside and thought no more about it.

Until, that is, until the next night. Biking home from work again, I passed the same Arby’s and nearly had a heart attack when a car came barreling out of the drive just seconds after I’d passed. It wasn’t a tourist, though. It was a police car, and driving it was the very same cop who’d followed me home the night before. He nodded at me without any real friendliness on his face as he drove by, and then pulled off. He’d drive up to some waypoint and wait for me, then when I’d pass, he’d drive by again and wait somewhere. All the way home he leapfrogged me, until we were in my parking lot. Then he waved, spoke to someone on his radio, and drove off.

I had a night off after that, but part of me wondered if my policeman was waiting for me at Arby’s again. The next time I drove home, he answered the question for me by meeting me in the parking lot of the ice cream store. His squad car had been idling, the entire time he'd waited for me. When I stepped out of the back door, he flicked his lights twice to greet me.

I walked up to the driver's side and said hi through the window. "I'll be okay," I said to him. "Really. You don't have to follow me home every night."

"It's my duty," he said. When he stared at me, it was with an intensity I recognized. He was attempting to be casual, but I wasn't fooled.

He wasn't an attractive man, in a traditional sense. There was something sexual about him, though. With his gruff voice, his barrel chest, his paws, and his air of easy authority, I was kind of mesmerized. He was masculine and protective. All I could really think was that I felt like the prostitute of Blondie's "X Offender," pledging her body to the officer who arrested her: "When I get out, there's no doubt I'll be sex offensive to you."

"I've never had an accident before the other night. Really," I assured him. It was night, so I was fairly confident he couldn't see how deeply I was reddening, but I looked up and away, anyway.

"If I had a boy like you," he said in low tones, "I'd be worried about him. Out at night. On the roads. Alone."

Said in a different way, the words could have come off as creepy and serial killer-like. The way the cop said them, they gave me an instant erection. I laughed it off and unlocked my bike, and began the trip home.

I waited for the officer when I reached my sublet. As I expected, he pulled his car into the parking lot and watched while I locked up my bicycle. "Thanks again," I said, walking over to his car. "As usual."

"No problem. As usual." Though I expected him to pull off and get back to work, he stayed in his car, staring at me levelly. His fingers tapped against the outside of his door. "So," he said at last. "You live with a girlfriend?"

I colored deeply again. My erection, which had withered on the bike home, sprang back to life. "No," I told him. Before he could ask anything else, I supplied, "A roommate."

He nodded, as if he'd expected that. "So the other night, I checked out this place around the back of these apartments," he said, staring still. "It's real quiet. You want to see it?"

My heart beat like timpani. I knew exactly what he was asking, and knew I'd heard correctly. I might even have known it was coming. Still, I couldn't help but respond with stunned shock. "Yeah," I said, with the ghost of a voice. "Sure."

After I'd hopped into his front seat and allowed him to drive me around the apartment complex, the back of which was indeed dark and quiet, we sat in his car staring forward. His fingers now drummed on his thighs. After what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat. "I'm married."

I'd known that, by the ring. "All right," I said.

"Shit, I got two little girls at home." I didn't know how to reply to the confession. "Okay. Here's the thing. I never had no boy before."

When he made that announcement, his voice was as choked with worry as mine had been. I looked over in surprise, to find him trying to assess me. His eyes darted away. I had the realization then that as nervous and excited as I was, his anxiety was even higher. I'd thought we'd come back to this dark spot so that he could ravish me. Now I realized that I was going to have to be the seducer. Once I grasped that notion, my own nerves disappeared. "It's okay," I told him, softly. I reached out and put my hand on his.

He flinched slightly, but let me rub my palm up and down the thatch of hair growing on his forearm. "Unzip," I suggested. After a moment, he obeyed.

His dick was thick, short, meaty, and already hard--a knob of flesh with an unwashed scent. He wasn't dirty, but his tool had obviously been lying unused all day. When I took it all in my mouth and began to suck, he gasped, then groaned. I felt his hand rest gently on the back of my head, almost as if he were afraid to touch me back. With my free hand, I pulled his fingers hard against my skull, to show him it was all right. His digits twined with my hair, and began to control the rise and fall as I sucked.

I slobbered greedily over his dick, aware of the steering wheel digging into my shoulders, and the bulges and sharp corners of the objects hanging from his belt bruising my clavicle. Beneath the fabric, his radio occasionally sparked and flared with noise, but the only sounds he made were of soft sighs and the occasional grunt. I hummed with pleasure as I sucked that dick, breathing in a whiff of masculine sweat every time my nose his his pubic hair.

When he came, which was shortly after I began to suck, he did so with a shout and a cry of, "I'm gonna let it loose . . . you gonna take it? You gonna take it?" I answered by plunging my head down to the root and letting him hold my head there while he unleashed spurt after spurt of semen. He tasted sour, and slightly like lemons, and bleach, but I swallowed him all. For a moment I remained down on his dick. When it began to soften, I sat back up again.

I didn't know what his reaction would be, after his first blow job from a guy. Would he kick me out? Would he call me names? I'd been with straight men before who'd verbally abused me after the act, so that they could feel better about themselves and what they'd done.

The cop didn't do any of those things, though. Instead, he sat there in the dark parking lot with his dick still flopping down beneath his belly, and rubbed his hand over his belly. "Shit," he said at last. Then he turned his head and looked at me. "So. Do you do that fucking up the butthole thing, too?"

The next time we met, which was a couple of nights later in the same spot, we did the fucking up the butthole thing. I had to teach him to get me wet and to slick up his dick, and that he didn't have to treat me as if I were made of glass. After the first few times, he began to get into the man sex—he could pound away at my ass like the best of them. He wasn't much for the dirty talk, but every time he came in my hole, he'd tell me something like, "I'm making babies in you, boy."

This is what I think about when I think about my police officer: those hot and humid Virginia summer nights, the rise and fall of cicada cries, the smell of sweat, and the weight of my cop's body as he pressed hard into me and grunted: "Making my babies in you."