Fuck the Police
I do.
I keep an S&M playroom in a city I do not live in. One’s street creds will precede you especially if you play your reputation right. Exploiting yourself or why are you here.
I have written a lot of sex. Both gay and straight. Some people find me through other people who find me through other people who find me difficult to actually locate. Unless you are a drug dealer. That is the way I like it. Remote and most of you cannot afford me. You are all dyeing the sea red with coagulated blood.
Some people just want to know if fucking me is anything like the scenarios I have written about. These boys and men (I use the term boy as an emotional and sexual construct). Not as an age category. You could be 92 and still be very much a boy. You could be 18, and as complicated as a barrel of fishhooks. You are no boy. All this shit is in your head.
Brought down swaggering. The conquerors and their double-think. We are all his prisoners.
I had the walls painted black. I have a silly star machine that turns the playroom into a planetarium. You can watch Sagittarius shoot his arrows at all the other gods. I’m not into violence unless it’s implied. Some tricks want it implied. Other tricks are there because they scare easily. Sex work and performance art are closely connected at the hip.
My favorite trick is a cop who wears a blue kokomo with a butt plug. I’m impotent so I don’t fuck cops with my dick. It wouldn’t interest me, and it has to interest me, or none of this works, and I would pat your little bottom and send you home, bitch.
Someone has to make some fucking money around here. I never made shit as a writer. But Curiosity Fucks aren’t all that bad. “So, what did he do with you.”
I swear them all to secrecy. Which means they will tell everyone they know that they fucked me.
Very few men — sexuality is not involved — want to be seen as a bottom. Perception is everything. I am offering you an hour of perception. What you do with your imagination doesn’t interest me. The scene is never up to the trick. But no. People get hurt that way. I control everything. I make tricks sign contracts. Nothing happens until you have signed it.
Sometimes I write tricks their very own short story. It has to be about them. I ask the trick a lot of questions. I ask them to bring photographs of their lives, and I will write a short story of what I think those lives are about. I charge as much as what Esquire Magazine has paid me.
Why would any male do this. To jerk off to it.
Cops are one thing. They’re just not all that complicated. It’s bounty hunters who are deep dark fucking complicated. Cops are like the trash blowing around a ditch. There are no sanctuaries for cops. Any dog can bite.
Within the context of the playroom, cops want to give up control because they’ve been in control outside of the play room, and it’s intense.
All that power scares them.
I show them the giant dildo that is about to go inside of them, and I make them lick it.
While the cop pleads and pleads with me to not take his photograph, I take his photograph.
I like them naked and humiliated. I’m good at what I do. Most cops want to do it all again. But after an hour of what can be quite visceral, I burn out. You get an hour. That’s it.
I never give them what they want. I give them what I want. I am a cunt, and fitfully arranged.
The cop gets one hour of not being in control. Dominating cops is easy.
Like remnants of time. They call me daddy and the cop’s past cums scratching in. They become sullen little boys who ask me not to hurt them too much.
“Explain to me what too much is.”
They try, but they’re not good at it. Mainly because they have no concept of what their limits are. So I assign limits for them. Usually, these are one, two, or three steps beyond where they, in fact, want to go. Pushing cops to their limits and just beyond is a rush. The sex axe migration of the trick emptying his guts again.
Naked cops scorched blue and huddled down against my black wall of shifting stars. Weeping cops whose lives have always plunged down the rabbit hole of memory and bone.
This is what LSD is made for. Bad cops. Murderous cops. Aimless cops and the wolves of destiny. Ruptured cops who buy me whips to whip them with. Cops whose real armor plating is made from snow. Cops in one exile or another.
A cop tripping on acid is treading the waters of oblivion. This is the cop who wants to talk about the things he has done. Acid gives him this permission. Cops are empty shells and when touched can break and urinate on themselves. I make them clean it up. Every last drop.
I make them tell me all about the people they have hurt. I want them to hurt with it as well, and they do. I give them a mirror and I make them talk about the baggage they carry but holding the mirror up to face themselves. They get terrified I might tell on them, and I might.
They will always fail to make it to the far sunsets juxtaposed against the shore. They want to make the pain of their lives go away. Even for an hour.
Never go home with a cop unless you are suicidal. Cops and sex work are synonymous. They hate sex workers because they hate sex. Even if so many of them are addicted to it. For their part, sex workers know what must be done. Shift the shadows of desire being sabotaged and undone by all the hardened wombs.
I am told that there are some communities that want to get rid of the police entirely.
We are all their prisoners and the dull sleep of their animal counterparts.
Yes. Yes. And yes. Your cops are lost and have crept between the rocks and ruined shrines to steal the fires of segregated, syringe-rich streets. Or why would they beg me to write their stories with my tongue dripping with their cum.
