I had found him through a friend of a friend of a friend. He didn't look like much when we met in Starbucks to discuss particulars. In fact, he didn't look at all like what I wanted.
"So, how did you settle on this?" he asked me.
"It was a costume party," I answered. "I hadn't, you know, been much interested in or turned on by anything until then, and . . ."
"Well, you look mighty fine to me," he said. "Surely you've gotten offers by real studs."
"Yeah, but this was different," I said.
I was, of course, flattered by what he was saying, but he didn't turn me on at all. He was a bit on the rangy side and more hippy like than authoritarian, so it really was kind of a waste of breath. In fact, this whole idea, this obsession, seemed a waste of breath and effort now that I'd actually moved to do something about it. Perhaps it was just as well. Maybe the obsession would die as quickly as it had been born. But it hadn't died yet. I still melted at the mere thought of it.
"As I was saying," I continued, "I was at this party and several of the guys were beefy and were in uniforms and that really got to me. And then they got a little rough, and that got to me even more." I stopped there.
"And?" he said, egging me on to say it.
"Well, I went wild and jacked off like I'd never done before." Another pause.
"And?" he repeated.
He was going to make me say it. "And I want it like that again. I checked around, and it led to you. But now that we've met, I don't think—"
"It would cost you a hundred bucks," he cut in. that's if we're including bondage, which is what I was told you wanted included."
"Excuse me?"
"Here. You'll paste this in the back window of your car when you want it and go cruising a little above the speed limit down on 301 on that stretch between the cutoff from Route 50 to the beaches and the Maryland-Delaware line. Afterward, if it goes through, you'll mail a check to this address made out to this name." He was taking a cardboard sign and a slip of paper out of his knapsack. On the sign, in big, black capital letters was printed the term BARUF. What sort of word was baruf, I wondered.
But while I was thinking about that, he was getting ready to leave.
"You mean you're not—?" I said, confused and not as sure about this as I was when I started calling around.
"With me? Hell, no, kid," he said with a snort. "Just do what I told you."
"But the payment. How can you be sure I'll pay up."
"Oh, I'm sure. If you get the service, I'm sure you'll pay up. You'll see what I mean. You'll get the idea of what it means if you don't pay up."
Bewildered, I watched him walk out of the coffee shop. I picked up the sign. It was on a board about eight inches by eleven. It could probably be seen at a good distance. Baruf. What in the hell does baruf mean, I thought again.
But, hey, I hadn't been turned on and creamed like at the costume party in, like, forever. And it was worth a try. I had come this far with it. It was worth a try.
Two days later, the day was sunny, the Naval Academy had been on recess for more than a week, and I wouldn't have to be back there for several more days. And I had nothing better to do, and I felt horny. So, it was into the old Jag sedan and out onto the road across the Bay Bridge and the narrows and toward Wilmington. I had remembered to paste the sign up in the back window. Baruf. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
When 301 forked off to the north from 50, I let the engine rip and built up some speed. The road was straight and flat and there were few cars going my way. Everyone on the road was going to the beaches, and those were behind me now.
I passed a Maryland rest area. Beyond those there was nothing else out here except flat, sandy land that was once ocean bed and that now supported large fields of corn. I slowed down a tad when I saw a state police building coming up on my right, but I was still going a bit over the speed limit. But, then, who didn't? And the road was flat and straight and nearly deserted.
No more than three miles beyond the state police building, though, I heard a siren and was pulled over to the side of the road. I sat in the car, wondering what I had done wrong, as a solid-looking policeman decked out in a tight uniform and shiny black boots strutted around and took a look at both license plates, all the time swishing a mean-looking night stick with a short leather whip on one end. I wasn't going any faster than anyone else would go on this road. There wasn't anything out here to hit that was worth anything. I rolled down the window as the cop approached. He leaned an arm on the sill and looked intently at me through very dark sunglasses.
"Let me see your license and registration, son."
"Umm, just a minute," I said, as I struggled to get the glove compartment open. "What seems to be the problem, though?"
"License and registration please."
I handed them over to him, and he took them back to his cruiser and did some communicating into a mike on his dash. He got out of the car and sauntered back to mine. He was a tall, muscular Hispanic dude with an obvious attitude toward non-Hispanics.
"Is that your sign in the back window of this here car?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," I answered. "But it isn't obstructing my vision. Both of my side mirrors are working fine and I really can see out the back. The sign isn't blocking much."
He didn't answer and he didn't hand my license back to me. "Now, I have to do some more checking, so I want you to pull your car up in the overgrown driveway up there. Pull in a good fifty feet, beyond those trees. I'll be right behind you." I did as he asked. The place he indicated obviously had been abandoned. There was a burnt-out wooden house at the end of a broken-asphalt driveway that was choked with tall weeds. And I don't think either my car or the cruiser could be seen from the road where we pulled to a stop. He came back to my window.
