Ever since I can remember, I wanted to be a cop. I know it may sound strange, but it's true. And, it's not cause my dad was a cop and my granddad was a cop or any shit like that. I was just always drawn to it. Occasionally, friends and family would discourage me from becoming "the man" or give me strange looks, but I persisted. The one person that never tried to change my mind was my mom.
I did alright in school. Grade point average was a B-minus. I played some ball and ran track. I wasn't some super stand out athlete or nothing, but I held my own. I parlayed all of that into a free ride at a community college and then transferred to a small H.B.C.U. Got a degree in criminal justice with a minor in forensic science. I wasn't the first person in my family to graduate college, but that doesn't lessen my achievement. You feel me?
At any rate, I digress. I'm Bo Mitchell. Twenty-eight years old as of today and I'm a beat cop in a mid size city. I'm a good catch. At least that's what my cousins and my momma tell me. Don't laugh muthafucka. He-he. I'm average height with a ripped, slim build. And I got dark brown skin, hazel eyes, and a hella curly low-top fade. I ain't no ugly nigga.
The problem is the economics of dating. It's like all the females I might be interested in only want a doctor or lawyer or engineer. That's not me. Don't get me wrong. I've gone out on dates, but I think many of them consider my line of work too blue collar if they work in marketing or healthcare or whatever.
I was really feeling this chick, Krystina. Real smart lady. Doing a post-doc fellowship in food science. Pretty too. Chocolate skin. Big ass eyes. Slim waist. Phat ass. She was all that. We had fun together. Good conversations. I just don't think she her peoples to know she was with some quote unquote dumb cop. It's all good. I enjoyed my time with her.
And then, this fucking pandemic set in. Hard to take anybody out in these circumstances. Add to it the protests over police violence. I'm not high on anybody's eligible bachelor list at the moment. Even though I don't mistreat alleged criminals. I'm not complaining. Just keeping it one hundred. Ya feel me?
At any rate, I've become pretty good friends with a guy named Paris. He's a good bit geekier than me, but we're both into comic books, sci-fi, gaming, and shit like that. It's all good though. He's a digital forensic examiner. So, he be going through computers and cell phones and stuff to figure out criminal activity. It's mad cool if you ask me. He's Black too and a couple of weekends ago I put together a spades game for some of us from the department. I figured I'd ask him. The other two were patrol officers like me.
We had a good time overall and of course we drank, talked trash, and discussed ladies. Only one of us was married. The other three had much the same story going on at the moment. But, it wasn't like any other us could not just get some pussy. I did get the feeling Paris wasn't as much into vage part of the conversation. But, we all agreed that women make life way too complicated.
We broke up the game just before eleven. The married guy hopped on his chopper and rode off. The other beat cop called a rideshare, Paris had driven himself and said he'd drink some water for a minute before heading out. He fixed a tall glass and sat on the far end of the couch opposite from me. I was still sipping on my brown liquor.
I said to him, "You know you could just crash on the couch if you wanna drink a li'l more, mane."
"I don't wanna impose," he told me.
"Nigga...I wouldn't have offered if it was a problem. Like we was talking about. Ain't no bitch on her way over here right now."
Paris laughed and said, "Why not?!?"
I smiled and slid the bottle across the coffee table. We continued drinking and that's when Paris started.
"You know, Bo. Have you ever considered the odds and economics of getting pussy," he started.
"Huh," I asked.
"Like how many chicks you have to ask out to get a yes. How many dates you have to go on in order to get said pussy."
"I-I guess."
"Seriously. Think about it," he challenged me.
"I know how the math works out, mane. We gotta cast a wide net," I redeemed myself as I belched.
"Exactly," my medium brownish-orange complected friend sat up.
"So..."
"So...There's a low return on investment. Have you ever thought of how you can improve that ratio."
"All the time, my nigga. You got some secret I don't know about," I joked.
"Maybe," he twisted his lips at me.
"Come up off it then, muthafucka. Why you holding back on a nigga?"
"It's a tad more nuanced, Bo," he held up his hand.
"There you go being all sciency and shit," I gave him the side eye.
"Forget it," he said, taking another drink.
"Come on, Pee. Don't do me like that. I'm listening."
"Earlier we were all saying how ladies make things complicated, right?"
"Yeah...And?"
"What if it wasn't women you were trying to bang," he asked.
"The fuck," I shot back.
"Hear me out," he begged.
"I ain't gay, Pee."
"I didn't say you were, Bo. I'm just theorizing here."
"I dunno, mane!"
"Think about it. If you want your dick sucked and a hole to fuck, you'd probably find a guy just as horny and willing as you to let you do it way quicker than you would a female," Paris reasoned.
"Still feels gay. I'm not," I explained.
"No one thinks you're gay, dude. Chill out."
"Are you gay," I asked.
"I'm fluid," he confessed.
"Fluid?"
"I've slept with men and women."
"For real? I thought you was just nerdy, not soft," I said too fast.
"Well damn..."
"My bad. I ain't mean no offense. I was just saying I thought you were shy when it came to the ladies."
"I'm a bit of an introvert for sure. But I like sex as much as the next guy."
"You like it with chicks or dudes better," I needed to know.
"Let me say it this way. It's been like seventy-five, twenty-five. Guys to girls."
"Damn! So you is basically gay."
"I don't really worry about labels. I just like to be happy."
"I'm not judging. You gotta do you."
"Thanks!"
"So when you get horny, you just look for a guy cause you know you can fuck him," I pressed.
"Well, I like the receiving end of things when I'm with men," he grinned.
"So you the homie in the streets and the bitch in the sheets," I buckled over laughing at myself.
Paris sat there stone faced. "I like what I like. I was only saying it's a lot cheaper to ask a dude that fits your type to come over and hang out. Maybe split a pizza and some beer. Stream a movie or play some video games. And be ensured a good fuck. Or just get straight to the fucking without any nonsense. Think about how much you'd save in time, effort, and money."
I thought long and hard. Paris had a decent point. The time wasted would be lower. He read my expression.
"No cost to valet park or use a secure lot. No dinner and drink that'd run between twenty-five to fifty bucks a person. No tipping the server. No gas or taxi. One hundred percent chance of getting balls deep in something," he explained.
"Yeah," I grunted, thinking.
"That's all I'm saying."
"You make a convincing argument, but I'm not into hard bodies like mine," I protest.
"Not every dude has a hard body, plenty are soft. I'm not cut up or anything. Am I, Bo?"
"Naw, you kinda frail."
"I'm not frail," he huffed. "I'm just not muscly. I'm like one fifty-five and taller than you I might add."
"Hey now," I bowed up at him, playfully. "I'd still be the man if we hooked up."
Oh shit. I spoke again before thinking.
"I already know," he mouthed softly.
"Huh," my eyes bugged.
"As you said, I'm the bitch in the sheets."
"Quit playing, Pee!"
"I'm not playing, Bo. I'm dead serious. I'd put on some panties and heels and put this pussy in the air for you."
