Something About a Man in Uniform

I used to ride with my darling, both before and after we married. It's not easy dating a cop, especially one on midnights. Or being married to one. We joked that our honeymoon lasted nearly until he retired because we only spent one night in four together.

At that time the city had a Civilian Ride-along Program, to promote better community relations. Since, as he said, there was no one he'd rather have better relations with than me, I'd fill out the waiver and ride shotgun. Long, muggy, summer nights with the windows down, and short, bitterly cold winter nights when swirling snow haloed the streetlights and even crime stayed home.

I rode often enough that his buddies probably thought I was a cop-groupie, though nothing could have been further from the truth. My father was with the Sheriff's Department and my grandpa had been a constable. Cop shows aside, most of the job isn't that exciting. Riding was mostly a chance to spend time and talk—except once.

We were actually talking about cop-groupies that night. (That was one of the bitterly cold ones.) The bars had long since closed and the dispatcher sounded half-asleep, the radio had gone from desultory to nearly silent. It'd had been such a slow night that he'd volunteered to run an errand—I forget now whether we were picking something up or dropping it off—to the old workhouse.

Though close to downtown, the workhouse lay in an area like a black hole in the middle of the city. A few old houses, a big chunk of the Valley Park system, and the police firing range were all that bordered it. He'd decided to show me the firing range (not much to see by night) and the cruiser idled in the deserted parking lot. It was dark as the inside of a cow and quiet as a deaf man's dreams.

"I've never done that, you know," he said. "Had sex in the cruiser, I mean."

"How about the paddy wagon?"

"Nope. Other guys did—do, I guess—but I never have."

"Why not?" I asked. I knew he'd been pretty wild in his youth, long before I met him.

He shrugged, shoulders made massive by his second-chance vest and heavy winter coat. "Dunno. I'm no saint, but I guess I've spent too much time knocking on cars with steamed up windows, raining on other people's parades. Didn't want to chance getting caught, or maybe I didn't get the right opportunity. I had a few offers, but-"

I found that easy to believe. He was never male model pretty—or even cop show pretty—but still very attractive. Middle aged and medium height, he was solidly built and a cheerful lecher, given to groping me in empty elevators and deserted grocery aisles. He made the admission a little wistfully, as though it were a failing.

"Do you want to?" I asked, as the wipers beat snow from the windshield.

"Hmm?"

"Have sex in your cruiser?"

We'd never done anything like that. Oh, a certain amount of kissing and patting—just affectionate. Maybe even a little necking when he'd drop me off before morning roll call. I'm not usually very daring but the cause seemed worthy. He grinned and kissed me. "Sex in a cruiser, eh? What did you have in mind?"

"Mmm, I don't know," I said. "How about a head job? I'd hate to see you go your whole career with a fantasy unfulfilled."

A blow job in the company car from his very own wife? His eyes lit. "Darlin' let's see if we can steam up some windows!"

He slid the seat back—these were the old bench seats—and unzipped his uniform coat, leaning back. I heard the Velcro on his duty belt go, as he unhooked and opened it, keys, cuffs and other accoutrements clanking.

He was already hard and getting harder as I tried to free his penis from beneath regular belt, uniform pants, longjohns and jockey shorts. First we tried threading his erection through the double flies of his underwear, but even though he's well endowed that didn't give me much of his dick to work with. I couldn't touch his testicles or belly at all, and the tuck-flap on his second-chance vest kept flipping down to cover everything. I squirmed around, half kneeling on the clipboard and poked by pens and other flotsom on the seat.

He lifted his hips and yanked his pants down, making his cock spring back up like a bent sapling suddenly released. Now I was finally where I wanted to be, nose buried in his pubic hair as I worked my way to the root, but it was still awkward. I sucked and he pumped, but between the radio mount, shotgun receiver, steering wheel, I felt like Quasimodo with lockjaw. His polyester uniform shirt over rigid kevlar did a nice job sanding the skin off my cheekbone.

The second time I clipped my ear on the steering wheel, I raised my head to gasp, "I think I know why you haven't done this before. It's impossible! Your buddies are woofing you."

"Come on," he said, opening the driver's door.

"Are you crazy? You'll freeze your pee-pee off!" I called.

"Don't worry, it'll be nice and warm."

"I'm not lying down in the snow!" I warned.

"Come here, woman!"

I slid out my side and went around, joining him by the rear fender. He unfastened my jeans and pulled them down. It was a bit of a struggle, since I was wearing long underwear, too, but he turned me towards the trunk. My shearling jacket was short-waisted, so I was bare from navel to knees. I leaned forward, forearms on the metal, my butt prickling with gooseflesh until he covered me from behind. I'm not very tall so he had to crouch a little, bending his knees. My pants kept me from being able to open my legs very far, and I panted as he fumbled back there.

I gave a little cry as he slipped a finger into me—finding his place? It must have worked because suddenly he was in, sheathed in my heat, his chilly thighs and belly warming where we touched. His gloved hands gripped my hips and his shirt and vest tails flapped across my back. I put my head down on my arms and leaned even farther forward, rising on my toes as he thrust.

The car doors stood open, like an abandoned vehicle, and the dome light cast a weak yellow light on the snowy gravel. I thought about the dark empty hills around us and cringed. I thought about him, back there—legs spread to hold his pants up, hunching into me—and moaned. Then he hit the right rhythm and the right spot and I stopped thinking at all.

Our breath made plumes of mist in the frigid air, mingling with the exhaust from the running car. I could hear the creak of his leather gear, the jingle of change in his pockets like blasphemous sleigh bells in snow. His hips slapped rhythmically against my bottom, and sleeting snowflakes stung the small of my back and the tops of my buttocks. They felt like tiny hot coals, and then melted instantly. My body tightened around him, spiralling in until the tension burst like a dam.

His rhythm broke and he bucked against me, lifting my feet from the ground. Two more strokes and he collapsed on me, his head heavy between my shoulder blades. The radio squealed and chattered into life inside the cruiser.

I didn't understand it, barely heard it, but he did. He groaned, "Oh, hell," and pulled away, hiking his pants with one hand. The cold hit me full blast as he reached in to snag the radio from the holder and said, "Two-A. Say again, dispatch? I didn't copy that."

It wasn't for us, a very good thing.

I straightened up, his semen already turning icy on my thighs. I also discovered I'd left a soggy spot and tooth marks on the sleeve of my jacket, trying to muffle my cries. Though he had a head start, it took him longer to get himself back together—gun belt, flashlight, handcuffs—all the stuff on his Bat Utility Belt. He settled his gear, touching different things automatically, like a blind man saying his beads. I was in my seat and belted in before he was tucked, buckled, armed, and dangerous. He kissed me hard before he put the car in gear and pulled away.

"Well?" I asked.

"The Mile High Club for cops, darlin'."

Some months later, the girls in the file room were playing an early form of 'truth or dare.' Even then, I was older than most of them, over thirty—practically ancient.

'What's the strangest place you ever had sex?'

It went around the room—"In a bathroom at a party,"—"Next door to the parents while they slept,"—"At a game, under the bleachers,"—and so forth.

They looked at me, smug in their youth and daring. Expecting me to disapprove? Wondering, I suppose, if I'd play at all. Why is it that every generation thinks they invented sex?

"A dog-rig over the fender of a police cruiser—"

"Omigawd!"—"You never!"—"What's a dog-rig?" (plaintively)

"—in a snowstorm," I finished. Point, set, and match.