Saturday, August 7, 2010

Fantasy Derailed

Have been on the road for what seems like forever and finally got home late last night. Old patterns emerged, which I hate, the main one being the inability to "flip my switch" from work to sex. When I work it seems like it consumes me to the point that any and all sexuality leaks from my thought process and makes me feel completely asexual. Of course a week with the hubby's folks doesn't exactly supercharge the libido either.

In any case we headed home yesterday morning, and sure enough, an hour down the road and I can feel the switch flipping back on. Thoughts of what we might do when we get home start flooding my brain. So a couple of hours later we need to stop and get a little lunch. We hit a small town in Eastern Louisiana with a gazillion fast food places so we pulled off Interstate 12 to grab something. I saw a Taco Bell a bit down the road and thought that a $1 burrito would be easier to eat while driving than some nasty chicken breast sandwich so we pulled in to their lot. It was a total zoo as it was just recently opened. We parked, rather than doing the drive-through, as we both needed to pee.

So hubby gets in line to order and I go outside to stretch a bit before reentering the torture vehicle. So there I am minding my own business and up pulls this motorcycle cop. Very young, tight uniform, knee high Dehners, mirrored sunglasses. Now remember, the sexual switch in my head has been reactivated so I'm sure there's a bit of drool escaping from the corner of my mouth. Yum. A total YUM.

I watch him stop the bike and climb off, a super hot butt in those tight pants, sunlight gleaming off the boots, and he looks right at me. Then he motions to me that I should come over to the grassy area where he's standing. "Who? Me?" I gesture. He nods. So I walk over a few feet and the incident turns 100% surreal.

He pulls his fucking GUN on me! Points it directly at me! Demands that I raise my hands, turn around, lace my fingers behind my head! My head is spinning and I think I'm going to pass out. And the phrase "shit in my pants" comes to mind as I feel my bowels churning. He walks up just within my peripheral vision, the gun pointed directly at my head. He then proceeds to shove me to my knees (a rather painful thing with the herniated disc I've been suffering for 14 months).

"Do you have a gun?"

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!" my brain screams. "No, Sir." Now he's behind me and I can feel that business end of the gun a few inches from the back of my head. I truly hate guns. I see a profile on Recon mentioning guns and I click it shut with superhuman speed. There is nothing sexually interesting about a gun. Nothing. I feel more gurgling in my bowels. He shoves his hand in the pockets of my baggy cargo shorts searching for the gun that he's sure I've lied about.

"How about ID?"

"In my right pocket." Now he's patting my ass trying to find the wallet. Nothing sexual going on there. Fuck, I'm still worried about shitting my pants.

I start to take my right hand down, since my wallet is in the right front pocket of the shorts.


I'm feeling even woozier. How stupid was that maneuver, I thought. I'm having flashes of prison time and of being Bubba's bitch. Mr. Copper reaches in to my right front pocket and extracts my wallet.

"There was an armed robbery down the street. And you fit the description of the suspect. Bald and bearded, middle-aged."

I glance at Taco Bell wondering where the hell hubby is. He's gotta come out and save me. I see forty people glued to the windows and doors watching all of this happen. Two blonde chicks have parked nearby and are gawking. Traffic has stopped. But no hubby.

Mr. Motorcycle Cop speaks into the radio microphone on his shoulder. I can't quite hear what he's saying, the blood pounding in my ears. I do hear the response from whomever he's been speaking with: "The suspect is bald, bearded, and black." The dispatcher or detective or whoever actually is at the other end goes so far as to spell the word "black." There is an exasperated tone to the voice.

Now the last time I looked in the mirror I was white. Very white. Absurdly white. Okay, so a hint of red from sitting by a pool for a week.

And like that it's over. He lets me get up, tosses me my wallet, and (ashamed?) hops on his cycle and vroomvrooms off. The blonde chicks come rushing over. "What the hell happened." I stammer a bit and try to explain. Employees come out of the restaurant and offer me a drink. I'm shaking a bit. Still no sign of hubby.

One of the employees tries to track hubby down. Several people offer to be witnesses if I should want to file a complaint. Finally hubby comes out with our food. People have been telling him "that guy you came with is on his knees with a gun pointed at his head." He's been laughing it off saying "not possible."

People are urging me to go file a complaint. I just say "it'll make a great story to tell." And in my head I've already forgiven this young cop. He was over-eager, probably hoping to make the big bust, and I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was bone-marrow level of frightening, but I'll live. I just hope someone in that police force takes the time to have a little chat with him about listening carefully to a suspect's description. Or maybe stop and think that an armed robber isn't going to drive a block away, park, and then get out in a parking lot to stretch. I figure the real robber was already at his crack-dealer's house making his score.

I just look at hubby and tell him to get in the vehicle. All I want to do is get out of this hell-hole and put many miles between me and the site of the event. And on the road I describe the whole thing to hubby. He's just shaking his head, totally unbelieving. And then I start thinking about what might have happened if the suspect had been white. Would I have been handcuffed? Shoved in the back of a cruiser? Fingerprinted? Booked? Thankfully hubby's father and uncle have numerous contacts within the Louisiana police and legal systems, I tell myself. Still. It is pretty scary.

I think all fantasies involving policemen have been irrevocably destroyed. Sigh. What a shame.


  1. Damn Sir! that's a scary story - i am just genuinely relieved that you're ok!!

  2. My "forgiveness" has been retracted. I'm feeling quite angry to tell the truth. Turns out that besides gender and height the "suspect" and I had absolutely nothing in common. He is black, I'm white. He looks to be 30, I'm 53. He had on jeans, I had on khaki cargo shorts. He had on a cap and glasses, I had neither. He had on a blue and white polo shirt, I had on a gray t-shirt. This cop was a loose cannon, pure and simple.