She was a dark and stormy bitch. The allusions to mythical vamps and witches could not do justice to her vile demeanor and wicked ways. It was obvious that I would have to concede. I may be a healthy youthful sprite but she was a powerful cursed creature of doom. Together we could have ruled the highways, but on our own we could only ensure its destruction. Her luscious pout and her dainty stride will be the first thing to notice. Next thing you noticed will be the asphalt plastered on your face, trying to recall what hit you. I had the impression that she had a tough childhood, maybe even abusive past lovers; but the truth was she enjoyed her sadistic enforcement of law and was a daddy’s girl after all.
It took me three days to recover from the shock. I was enraptured at being assigned this elegant feminine specimen as my partner. Riding around on the highway, my Indian Chief and her Scout, we roared into the known, yet unexpected. I fantasized a range of possibilities. First came the flashbacks to the ‘70s porn videos. Then my lieutenant John Bamboo took over and expanded on graphic details of possible sexual encounters in public places. I decided to start taking cold showers in this frigid climate when even arrests seemed opportunities for kinky BDSM podcasts. I had to burn my precious diary because my writings had turned into detailed screenplays on which I doodled stick-figure storyboards of gratuitous obscenity.
I felt pathetic at the loss of my droll musings. I also felt guilty at not having acted upon these primeval instincts. Three days of riding around, she never gave a hint of a smile. Her bold persona had eyes only for its prey on our hunt on the highways. Eager to prove that there was more boom than bust under her badge, she grabbed offenders by their balls as a savvy salesman would shake hands with his targeted sucker.
The first time I made a move, it was chasing a dilapidated 1948 Ford F-1 as we passed through the tunnel with oncoming traffic flashing their high beams into my dilated eyes. Just as I overtook the pig-farmer’s pickup-truck, blocking it against the dark walls, I pretended to hold her back by holding out my arm against her bouncing bosoms as she ran into my outstretched arm, to get at the old farmer. Feeling the warm tenderness I had yearned to plunder over three insomniac nights, I ignored her tightened pair of grapes, looking only at the retard farmer. The lights went out in the Ford and 20 minutes later, I was assisting the medics to load the pig-farmer onto a stretcher, so that a helicopter could carry him to the nearest hospital for treatment of a broken clavicle. She had vented her rage against my indiscretion on the poor pig-farmer.
She was the bad cop. I was the good cop. She had not let the farmer’s docile submission prevent her from ruthlessly using her authority and anger. The hospital would find several other internal bleedings soon enough. But I was the officer in charge; I faced the heat from superiors and lawyers alike. Somehow, my report couldn’t mention her violent nature. Was it shame or fear? Well, if I am still jerking off at the sight of her blood-stained handcuffs, then maybe it was shame.
The whole week, she remained the same. Stoic in her posture, firm in composure, devastating in action. My euphoric jump to second base had landed me in the dugout, a foul territory by all means. Should I apologize and acknowledge my lust for the shimmering black gold as its smooth surface glistened with sparkling sweat while breaking the wrists of that absent-minded driver who forgot to carry his license and wallet and thus lacked any identification? Or have I already acknowledged it with my pedestrian ramblings filed as official police-reports to cover up the misdeeds of this lady in blue-striped-khakis. Her rabid discharge of duty, her silent rebuff of idle chitchat, her curdling of already sour partnership – it was enough to drag me back to my fantasies.
As she would bend over in full bloom to frisk any battered man sprawled on the ground due to a non-functioning taillight, I would imagine myself crashing into her just in case the cowering female in the passenger seat pops up with a long hard Magnum. I was a destitute, craving her touch. She was the lottery ticket that could cash in a million sperms. I was the nerd she would continue to tease till I admitted fault. She was a personified passion of my deluded world. The menagerie of defendants now installed at the detention center was testimony of her rampant crusade. I reached the summit of my twisted desires though when she shoved me aside to take the Indian Chief assigned to me – a natural derivative of a week-long venomous seepage on the state highways. I had her now!
The first victim of today was a cantankerous drunkard whose bombastic arguments with the chasing paparazzi had caused him to stall all traffic. Before she could slide the huge Indian Chief by the side of the road and put it on its elegant side stand, I punished the brakes and jumped out in pursuit of my criminal. She moved her junk well enough to catch up and then slammed her moist cupboard on to the victim’s chest, straddling him to make him descend under her gorgeous spread legs. As the victim hit the tar floor, a hundred shutters clicked in unison; I stood back adjusting the bulge in my pants; everything about her turned me on; even her fall from grace. My dark and stormy police partnership had finally seen its meteoric rise to infamy. My good name though, was finally cleared, thanks to the freedom of press, assuring sensationalism with vigour against my phantasmal wench. She was suspended by noon and I was given the rest of the day off to stay away from reporters.
That afternoon I finally asked her out. A football game. We didn’t speak. We didn’t play charades. A bond was formed. Our respective escape from our realities. As the game went into overtime, she excused herself, only to pause under the vomitorium, glancing back unconsciously and she found me grab her the next instant. As we gagged each other with kisses, tore off the shackles of our clothes, and furnished our starving orifices with lustful refills – all I could think of was the woman I will find tomorrow, next to me on a fast highway to nowhere. How will be “the new her” tomorrow? And my fantasies died deep inside her.
