Included in Hot Cops: Gay Erotic Stories

It was impossible to escape the gravitational pull of the rest stop on the highway. My Uncle Angus had warned me off the place since I was a kid, reciting cautionary tales of the degenerates he routinely busted there. He had a folder as thick as his waist of all the perps he’d sent up to TheBlock, and shared them as examples of how I was not to grow up. I devoured each case file, memorized their criminal achievements and histories of sexual abuse, both given and received. I stared at their mug shots for hours, internalizing those grainy black and white men, trying to uncover their secrets and compare them to my own.

I made weekly pilgrimages to my temple, hiking the five-mile path through the woods separating Kingdom from the highway. I was terrified of being arrested by my own flesh and blood, so I kept my distance, concealing myself behind a screen of trees. I’d watch the men come and go and imagine what clandestine activities occurred behind the innocuous walls. I’d masturbate through my pants, fantasizing about them forcing me into rough acts of sodomy, then squirt in my shorts and run home flushed and guilty, hollowly promising myself that I’d never return.

When I found out my uncle was taking his two boys to Florida over winter break, I nearly came on the spot. I jerked myself raw planning my seven-day orgy, anxious to end the chronic celibacy of childhood with those dangerous men from Uncle’s archives.

The night my uncle departed, I begged my father to let me leave work early, noting how slow the funeral home was before the holidays. I ducked out without waiting for an answer, snagging dad’s old parka to help conceal my identity. I jogged down the snowy path, my stomach clenching like a fist. I anticipated a crowd of half-naked men loitering within the men’s room, waiting for innocent boys to stray into their path; I’d make a willing accomplice to their crimes.

I ran up to the concrete structure, my shallow breath pumping impotently into the frigid air, and cursed my luck. The parking lot was a tundra of frosted asphalt—there was no one there but me. I clutched my frustrated crotch and inched towards the restroom, holding out the futile hope that it bulged with other men who couldn’t afford a cars. No surprise that the joint was deserted.

I sidled up to the urinal, unzipped, and awkwardly tugged my erection out of my jeans. I stalled for fifteen fruitless minutes trying to piss. Eventually the cold wilted my cock and my stream rebuffed the silence in staccato bursts. I lingered with my dick out, but only the distant hum of traffic joined me.

I gawked at the elaborate graffiti decorating the walls. There were dozens of images, a how-to guide of homosexuality: a gigantic penis speared another man’s mouth, crude legs spread open to reveal the black dot of an asshole, and rocket-ship dicks exploded across the chipped paint. The text introduced the terminology of my imminent sex life: jack off, blow job, hard-on, jizz, bottom, rim job. I ran my eager fingers over the tapestry of male sex, inducting myself into the club.

Unable to resist any longer, I hid in the last stall and jerked off quickly, coating the soiled toilet rim with my virgin seed. The idea that my cum joined a history of male ejaculate got me hard again, and I sent a second smaller volley to join the first. I fought the temptation to wipe it up and hide the evidence, but decided to leave it as a calling card for the next man.

I left unsated, but the promise of the week to come lured me forward and made me wish it was already tomorrow.

The nights evaporated while I sat in the last stall waiting for something to happen. Men would come in, fill the rest room with their noise and stink,; sometimes, though rarely, wash their hands, and depart. I’d grown tired of looking at the same penciled drawings on the wall, and brought a pen the third night to add my own plea for contact. As the week trickled away I feared I was destined to die a virgin, and the orgy that had taken place in my mind was never going to be my reality. I flushed the toilet repeatedly and cried out my frustration.

A deep cough from outside sidelined my despondency. “Is that you in there?”

I froze and stared at the graffittied boy’s head skewered by the gigantic cock. Was that what this man would force me to do to him? Was I ready for this?

The man moved inside, his shadow inking the concrete floor like an accusing finger. “That you?” He cursed under his breath like Crazy Moe, the town drunk. “Dammit, I’m fucking freezing. Are you in here or what?”

The mug shots raced through my mind; hard and dangerous men with tattoos, greasy hair and missing teeth. I prayed silently for him to go away.

The man moved forward and banged open every stall door; I cringed with each solid report. His reflective shoes appeared beneath my door and his hand slapped against the stubborn surface, straining the cheap lock. “Who’s in there, god dammit?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but didn’t have enough spit to manage a sound.

“Come on, fucker. Open up.” Fingers appeared at the top of the stall, then the tan hat of a cop sunrised over the edge followed by the twin moons of aviator sunglasses. “What the fuck are you doing in here, kid?”

All I saw was cop. He’d know my uncle and tell him everything.

“Did he send you?”

I shook my head, no, because I’d been told specifically to stay away. He ordered me to open the door, and I complied instantly. His tan uniform filled the stall, radiating winter. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Sev, sir.”

“What’s that?” He closed in until all I saw was my tiny face reflected in his glasses, echoing my fear.

“Sev, sir. Seven Philips, the mortician’s son.”

The cop coughed out a laugh. “Waiting for someone, Seven Philips?” My name was a dirty joke in his mouth.

“No…nobody.”

The cop dropped his huge hand onto my shoulder and leaned his face into mine; we shared one breath. “Listen you little homo. You wanna get outta this alive?” I nodded compulsively, trying to remember Uncle’s advice on dealing with cops. I scanned the guy’s uniform.

“You from The Block?” I managed to utter.

He grabbed my coat and tugged me to him. “You want any trouble, faggot?”

“No, officer.”

His lips jerked into a lopsided grin. “That’s right.” He touched the rim of his hat with a firm nod. “I should haul your skinny ass in, you fucking pervert. Lookin’ for cock in this here public shit house.”

“No, sir, I was just…”

“You were just lookin’ for cock,” he mocked my whine. He grabbed the front of my coat and dangled me against him like a rag doll. “A buddy’a mine was supposed to meet me here, but you musta’ scared him off, cocksucker. You’re gonna give me your car or I’ll haul your ass down to The Block. Pretty kid like you’d be real popular down there. How’d you like that?”

“No, officer.”

“No to what?”

I started to droop out of my coat and grappled against his meaty chest for support. “Please don’t arrest me, sir.”

He snorted over me, spraying me with fetid breath. “You’re gonna do what I tell you, right boy?” I nodded as best I could. “Good.”

Trouble on the horizon; the distant caterwaul of sirens. More cops who would witness my disgrace. Dry swallow. “Is that your friends coming?” He dropped me and I toppled onto the toilet seat and smacked my head against the wall.

“Fuck. Where’s your car?” He scoffed when I told him I didn’t own one. “How’d you get here? Fly?”

“I walked. From Kingdom.”

He hauled me up and out of the stall, ushered me back into the winter night. “Okay, kid, let’s go there.”

I led him around the building to the path, retraced my own steps through the snow.

“How far is it?”

“Only a couple of miles.”

“Only a couple of miles,” he minced. He wrestled me for my father’s coat, but I jerked away. He drilled into me with his steely eyes and I stripped off the coat and handed it to him. I crossed my arms over my chest and dodged into the woods, moved as quickly as I could over the familiar route. He shouted at me to stop and crashed through the trees to catch up. “You’re not losin’ me, buddy.” He slapped his meaty arm over my shoulder and lashed me tight against him, his bearish breath in my ear. “Now walk.” The two of us struggled forward, a four-legged parka on the lam.

After an interminable time, punctuated by the cop’s litany of curses and the fading wail of sirens, Kingdom’s lights swam into view. Though I felt no safer, returning to familiar ground eased some of my fear and allowed me to think.

“Why are you running away?” I blurted.

The cop tightened his grip on me, his voice an explosion in my ear. “Where the fuck,” he pulled me into a half nelson and choked off my breath, “are we going?”

I blinked away green stars and pointed to the funeral home at the end of Broad Street. He relaxed his grip and I leaned forward, barking out bullets of stale air. We moved slowly along the scrubby brush, scouting out the building on our approach. All of the interior lights were off except the electric candles my mother had put in each window for the holidays. The parking lot was empty save for the hearse. I pointed to the side door and we shambled out of the woods and across the deserted back lot.

We stopped just short of the door, the cop urging me to get inside while scanning the woods behind us. I reached back to grab the keys out of the jacket pocket, but he latched on to my hand gruffly. “What are you…?” The keys fell to the mat with a defeated jangle. I bent over to pick them up, my ass halving over his crotch; I broke out in a cold sweat.

I fumbled with the keys and scratched the white paint around the lock before finding the slot. The door opened and he rushed me in, toppling us onto the dusty carpet. My breath squashed out in one huff, my body crushed into the floor. He inched our tangled bodies inside and slammed the door closed with his foot.

His words came hot and low against my neck. “I need a change of clothes and a car to get the fuck outta here.” He reached around my waist and dipped two fingers into the loose top of my jeans; my cock reached out to meet him. “Ain’t no way I’m fittin’ into your skinny shit.”

I stared at the square of light on the wall across from me, the carpet’s bristles warm gravel against my face. “There’s a suit,” I said, mouth dry. “My dad’s.” The cop pressed down harder, his heat burning away the winter chill. Sweat beaded down my back and ticked between my legs.

“Where is it?” His voice was slow and wet.

“In my dad’s office.” Something ground into me as he arranged his legs to trap mine. He lifted his torso up, then quickly squatted on my butt. The copshed my dad’s parka like excess baggage. He leaned down over me,. “Where’s the office?”

“Downstairs. By the morgue.”

Fresh sirens screeched down Broad Street, coming closer. The windows flared with red and blue lights. The cop exhaled roughly, a low whistle through his teeth. “This is a fucking balls-up. No tellin’ how many of them’s after me now.”

The weight of him vanished and I floated, my body cooling where his used to be. He stooped over, grabbed my hand and yanked me up into his arms; we stood like a couple waiting for the music to begin. The cop cuffed me on the back of the head and pushed me down the hallway. “Suit. Now.” I led him into the darkened interior.

“Turn on a fucking light.”

“Don’t want to let your friends know where you are,” I snipped. He snagged my shoulder and wrapped me into his familiar embrace, and forced me down the back stairs. I savored the heat of his body surrounding mine as we descended into the pitch black of the stairwell.

The cop’s breath was fast and reedy with panic by the time we reached the basement floor. He relaxed his grip momentarily to wipe his face. I stepped back hard and slipped the lasso of his arm, and dashed around the banister. I flew into the office, his feet pounding a second behind me, and then slammed the door behind me; it reverberated with the impact of his body. “You little motherfucker!”

I inched my way across the office, tracking his slow progress by his breath and curses; he opened the door and fumbled across the wall for the light switch. The fluorescents popped on and blinded us both. I pushed back into the wall as he stomped over to me, arms hard at his sides. Without warning his fist connected with the side of my face, rolling my head. An arc of blood flew from my nose and patterned the white wall. “Don’t you ever pull that shit again.”

I slid down to the floor, freshly terrified of this powerful man and what he might do. Blood dripped over my lips, my mouth filled with the flat copper flavor.

“Where’s the fucking suit?” His brown tie wilted to the floor, his shoes were shucked.

I pointed to the closet where my father kept his spare navy blue suit. He crossed the room, unbuttoning his tan shirt. He opened the closet and dragged the clothes out with a bullish laugh. “What’s your dad, an elephant?” He tossed the suit across the back of the desk chair and yanked off his belt.

Someone knocked at the door upstairs; the bark of a police radio produced a chorus of pumped-up voices. The cop eyed me, daring me to make a sound. I stared back at him, wiping the blood from my nose. “Hey, Archie? Arch, you in there?” I shook my head slowly; my father was safe at home. The banging repeated on the side door, which wasn’t locked. It was Officer Moon, my uncle’s deputy; he’d come in if he had just cause.

“The light,” the cop cursed, and dashed out the overhead. Gravely steps ran forward; a flashlight flared in the basement window. The cop grabbed me and pulled me to the floor, his hand covered my mouth. The salty oil of his skin tainted my lips; his sharp odor filled my lungs. The flashlight beam danced around the room, settling on the suit on the chair, then flicked away.

Another volley of sirens Dopplered past and Officer Moon’s radio blared with overlapping shouts. He ran off and we were left in booming silence.

The cop settled his weight into me, breathing hard; his fingers forced my lips and teeth apart. I bit down, and he smacked me with his other hand. The side of my head swarmed with stinging stars. His saliva-slicked fingers returned, dug deeper and forced my jaws apart. “Sweet little mouth,” he said, daring me to bite him again.

His rolled off and his shadow merged with the darkness, and I lay there as he crossed the room and flicked the light back on. I blinked painfully and he peeled off his shirt to reveal a hairy chest, big pecs and belly swell. He dropped his sunglasses onto the pile, his left eye a purpled halo.

“You’re not a cop,” I whispered, feeling stupid and in grave danger. I sat up and retreated to the corner.

The man unzipped his pants and stepped out of them, leaving only his socks and white boxer shorts so threadbare they were transparent. The head of his cock peeked out of the slit, then retreated.

“Never taken a punch before?” He looked incredulous, as if I’d missed a rite of manhood like drinking or fucking.

I shook my head, eyes burning with humiliation. I swallowed a plug of mucous. “You escaped from The Block.”

He turned away and rifled through my father’s desk. “Got any cash in here?”

“You got what you wanted. Just get dressed and get the fuck out.”

He snorted, “Faggot’s got a pair, after all.” He turned and took a menacing step forward. “I ain’t going nowhere till the cops move on, stupid. You better get used to havin’ me for company.” He returned to my father’s desk and upended the drawers, creating an avalanche of paperwork and office supplies.

The man dug through the pile and rescued a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “Here’s to your dad,” he mock-toasted. He uncapped the bottle and took a long, hard swallow. The whiskey gurgled into his mouth, spilling a trickle down the side of his face. He held the bottle out to me, bridging the gap between us. “Have some.”

I remained in the corner, refusing his gesture. He thrust the bottle at me. “Take a fucking drink, kid.” I crossed my arms over my chest and approached him carefully, ready to dart back if he tried to hit me again. I took the bottle from his hand, noting the rose tattoo curled in the web of flesh between his thumb and index finger. “Drink it,” he insisted, as if dealing with a difficult child. I lifted the bottle to my lips, took a mouthful of brown, and choked it down. A wet cough exploded from my mouth, fire burned a path to my stomach. He laughed heartily. “Nothin’ like the first time.”

He dropped a hairy arm around me and grabbed the whiskey out of my hand. He filled his mouth, then twisted me around and pressed his lips against mine. He pushed the warm liquid into my mouth; it spilled down my face and neck. He backed off, laughing. “You’re something else, kid.” He paced around me, sizing me up. “Never drank, never fucked, never been in a fight. Smoke?”

I lie and nod.

“There’s hope for ya’ yet. Take off that shirt and shit. You and me’s gonna fight.” He set the bottle of JD on the floor and approached.

“What?” I backed up into the wall.

“Skinny faggot like you’s gotta protect himself.”

“You’re what I need protection from.”

He ran at me and slammed his hands against the wall, trapping my head. “Scared yet?” He jailed me with his blue eyes and tore my shirt; the buttons scattered. He yanked the front of my jeans forward, popping the top button. “These too. Skin on skin. Fair fight.” He unzipped my jeans and the loose fabric spilled down my legs.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I stared at the purple bruise cradling his eye.

He backed off, indifferently scratched his nuts. “Let’s go, kid. Jeans and sneakers off.”

I faced the wall and kicked off my sneakers, shamefully stepped out of my jeans—there was no hiding the diagonal of cock in my Fruit of the Looms. I turned to face him.

“Shirt too. Skin on skin.”

I dropped the remains of my shirt onto the floor; the cold bristled my pale skin.

“Come here.” He raised his fists into a boxer’s pose. “Try to hit me, faggot. Just once.” He bounced around, his movements athletic but without grace. I shuffled over in my socks.

“No, man. You gotta mean it if you’re gonna fight. Get pissed. Then it’s just you and him, only two guys in the world. Come on at me, fucker.”

I approached skeptically, certain he was setting me up to trounce me, but the more I looked at his smug face, the more I wanted to freshen up that shiner for him. I mirrored his side-stepping dance, my hands up in front of my chest. He threw a gentle jab at my unprotected face. “Keep your hands up, stupid.”

He shifted his weight, kept me orbiting around him. I punched air and backed up, moved in and grazed his arm. He replied with a hit to my chest, knocking me back a step. I clenched my fists and dove forward. He deflected my thrusts with his arm, then delivered a killer punch to my stomach. I doubled over and retched.

“Don’t stand there like a fucking sissy. Fight back.”

I stared up at him through slitted eyes, wanting to pulverize every bone in his body. He continued his verbal barrage; my breath was rapid and shallow, my chest an explosive seconds from detonation. “You little pansy-assed…” I flew at him, punching everything that got in my path—skin, bone, air—a low growl burned through my lips to score the melee. He punched me hard, I hit him back with all the strength I had. Hit and return; pummeled and smashed.

He stumbled back, then leaned in and knocked his head against mine, grabbed me around the shoulders and squeezed so hard I couldn’t move. We stared at each other, panting, breathing in each other’s sweat, skin on skin.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, man.” His voice a rough whisper.

Blood pounded through my body, pumping so hard I could feel it moving beneath my skin. Drops of sweat and blood littered the floor between us. My face burned, my lip and nose were swollen, my stomach knotted like I’d done a million sit-ups. His hands locked on my shoulders, pressed down and forced me to the floor. He weaved his hand through my hair and pulled me forward, burying my face in his heated crotch. His dick lurched up through the slit, sweat-slicked and thickening against my face. “Yeah,” he exhaled.

I twisted my head and opened my mouth; he stabbed blindly until he found wet warmth. I closed my lips over him, sliding down his shaft, the copper tang of him muting the taste of blood. His odor invaded my nose, filling my lungs with a wet-earthy stench. I bobbed up and down awkwardly, unable to match his thrusts. His hand on the back of my head set the pace. “Watch the teeth,” he said and rode my face, my spit slicking my chin and knees. “Shit.” Thick fluid filled my mouth, choking me. He withdrew and I fell forward, his cum dripping out of my mouth to join our sweat and blood.

He fixed his shorts as I lay there, feeling guilty and used, conflicted and painfully erect. “Get dressed,” he said. He stepped over the debris from my father’s desk and picked up the suit. He put on the pants, gathered the loose fabric and tied it off with his discarded belt. He donned the gigantic shirt and the larger jacket, which hid the ill-fitting pants.

I stood and wiped the blood, spit and cum from my face and squared off against him. I approached, stopped short to dig through my father’s belongings, and ferreted out a pack of Marlboros and a book of matches. I lit one and coughed, the acrid flavor unable to drown out the taste of his spunk. I tossed the half-empty pack to the man and he caught it with a deft movement. He took one out for himself and lit it, the flame dancing in his flat eyes. We stared at each other, listening for sirens; the world only silence and smoking.

The man dropped the smoldering butt to the floor and crushed it with the toe of his shoe. “There’s a car outside…” he said, half questioning.

I took one last drag and flicked the cigarette at him; it fell short and burned alone in the center of the room. “Keys by the door.”

He turned and left, no thank you or threat, no warning of repercussions should I report him to the real cops. I listened to him creak up the stairs, then tracked the heavy tread of his weight across the floor. The side door banged open, slammed shut. I heard nothing for a long time, thinking he wouldn’t want a witness, would return to shoot me down in cold blood. Kill me or keep me.

The engine purred into life, revved and idled. I wondered where he would go, who it was he was supposed to have met, what he’d been arrested for. The car jerked forward in a scattering of pebbles and tire squeal, moved out of my range of hearing into the world outside of Kingdom.

I stared at the debris he’d left in his wake: desk items, our discarded clothes, crushed cigarettes. I touched my mouth, the memory of his smoky lips on mine, the spill of whiskey. His slick skin against mine, his cock in my mouth. I jerked off to the smell of his sweat, the muscular arm gripping me, his fist in my face. I came violently, spraying the floor with mute bullets.

I dressed slowly, my body a foreign country of odors and pain. I grabbed the flask of JD and a fresh pack of cigarettes and climbed upstairs. The mess could damn well take care of itself. I picked up my father’s parka and pulled it on, feeling that it belonged to a stranger, had been worn by a child.

I stepped into the winter night; it was quiet, deserted and completely mine. I shivered, the cold settling over my bruised skin. I pressed my frozen hands against my face and tried to shift it back into place, remove the damage tonight had wrought there, but it was already too late.

I trailed the black tire marks he’d left behind and crossed to the center of Broad Street, balancing on the tightrope of the faded double yellow lines. He was out there, riding in the night,; the flavor of his cock was still alive in my mouth. I ran forward, the pain in my face flaring with each step, frightened I’d never catch up.

© 2007 Sean Meriwether

 

Read the conversation between Sean Meriwether and his partner, photographer Jack Slomovits

Sean Meriwether has been trying to live up to his moniker as "The Naughty Harry Potter". He has been working his own brand of magic on the page, drafting immersive fiction and erotica and transporting boys and girls into the tumultuous landscape inside his head. He has published over thirty short stories in venues including Best of Best Gay Erotica 2, Best Gay Love Stories 2006, and Lodestar Quarterly. "Raise Your Expectations" will be included in forthcoming collection, The Silent Hustler (2008).
Visit Sean Meriwether online at: www.penboy7.com