Friday, November 9, 2007

We Meet In The Shadows

During the orchestral interlude between the third and fourth scenes of Das Rheingold, Kevin turned around to sneak a peek at the black couple seated slightly above and to the right behind him. Vanessa’s head was nodding as she struggled to stay awake. But it was fairly obvious that Brad had given up long ago.

With his head tilted backward and his legs spread apart, the detective was out like a light. Kevin gazed fondly at the man’s long legs, reminiscing about the many moments he had spent with his face nuzzled in the heat of Brad’s crotch.

Their first meeting had been a strange one (at least for someone who was a glorified hustler).

Several months ago, dressed in full leather, Kevin had gone to a man’s apartment on West 111th Street around midnight. After finishing with his client, he was walking back toward West End Avenue when a group of Puerto Rican punks started to taunt and threaten him.

"Look at the pretty blond faggot all dressed up to look like a fuckin’ Hell’s Angel," yelled one of the teenagers.

"Maybe we should teach the little queer boy a lesson," snarled one of his friends.

As the group advanced toward Kevin, he wheeled around and started to cross the street. Suddenly, the sound of a police siren came from an unmarked car which was double parked twenty feet ahead of him.

Thinking quickly, Kevin ran toward the automobile as the gang of teenagers split up and disappeared in the opposite direction. The driver’s door opened and a tall black man stepped from the car. "I’m Sergeant Carson from the Midtown North Precinct. Why don’t you hop in the front seat and I’ll give you a ride home."

Although, under normal circumstances, Kevin avoided the police like the plague, this was one time he wasn’t about to offer any resistance. Quickly jumping into the front seat of the car, he slammed the door and told Sergeant Carson his address.

"You look pretty shaken up, son. You gonna be all right?" asked the cop.

"I’ll be fine just as soon we get off this block," answered Kevin. "Jesus, that was a close shave!"

As they drove through Manhattan’s Upper West Side, Brad tried to calm his passenger’s nerves. The kid was kind of cute, he thought. Nice rosy cheeks and straight blond hair. The leather jacket and shiny black chaps didn’t make his passenger look like a sack of shit, either.

"Why would a group of punks be chasing after a nice little leather boy like you?" he asked.

"Oh, it’s a traditional Saturday night ritual with local teenagers," sighed Kevin. "Go out, get drunk with your friends and try to roll a fag so you can tell some poor, dumb 15-year-old girl you just knocked up what a big man you are."

"Hmmm. Well, if I were you, I’d try to carry a whistle on that keychain of yours," advised Brad. Know what I mean?"

"Yes, sir," mumbled Kevin.

"What was that?"

"I said ‘Yes, sir,’" replied the blonde.

"Good. Is this where you live, son?"

Kevin looked up at the entrance to his apartment building and nodded. He may never have thought of the dark brick building as home but, tonight, the light in its lobby shone with an unusually inviting warmth.

"Yeah, that’s it," he sighed. "Listen, officer, I’m really grateful for the ride. You probably saved my life. God, I wish there was some way I could thank you for coming to my rescue."

There was a moment of awkward silence before the man behind the steering wheel spoke.

"Well, for starters," Brad chuckled as he placed his right arm in back of the passenger’s headrest, "you might try wrapping those sexy lips of yours around my big black dick."

Kevin’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. He was so used to acting out this scene in fantasy sessions with his clients that he had never imagined getting it on with a genuine law enforcement officer.

"YES, SIR!" he said, as he reached over to undo the policeman’s belt.

Ever since that night, Sergeant Carson had made a point of pulling up to the curb in front of Kevin’s apartment, Kevin’s gym and, once or twice, the Columbia University library, to ask the young blond if he’d like to go for a ride. Their routine had become a fairly simple ritual which was repeated every three or four weeks.

Although Kevin had never had a chance to see the cop undressed during any of their trysts, he knew from the way his fingers had probed Carson’s heavily muscled legs, arms and torso that the man was built like the proverbial brick shithouse. And now the cop he had serviced so often was sitting right behind him in a box at the Metropolitan Opera House.

As he thought about what a thrill it had always been to deep throat Brad’s cock, Kevin could only shake his head in wonder and let out a sigh of disbelief.

His own Sergeant Carson. So near and yet so far.

Next: Valhalla Beckons

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