“Just calm down, lady,” the cop says, holding one hand out in a gesture to keep Sharon at bay while his other hand grips his gun still in its holster. He’s seen the bystanders with their cameras and is playing to them as much as to her.
Sharon looks over his shoulder, facing one of the pedestrians recording the incident. She bellows, “The Second Amendment guarantees my right to assemble peacefully without police harassment.”
I’m mortified. Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s the First Amendment.
The cops are going to kill us—shoot us stone cold dead on the pavement.
“Nobody’s doing anything to take away your rights,” the cop says, as the first police officer gets to his feet. He’s hurt. He must have landed squarely on his tailbone as he’s leaning to one side and grabbing at his ass. He’s on the radio, talking into a microphone strapped over his shoulder.
I have my hands up. Just so everyone’s clear about what’s happening here, I blurt out, “I surrender.” I want nothing to do with this melee.
A siren sounds and a police car cuts across the intersection, sliding on the icy road as its headlights flash, catching us in their high beams. Blue and red lights strobe from the car’s grill.
“There have been too many unlawful deaths,” Sharon yells. “You can’t treat us like criminals, executing us without a trial.”
Two uniformed police officers jump out of the cruiser, positioning themselves behind each car door and leaning forward with their guns drawn.
My arms go from raised slightly above my head to absolutely fucking straight, perfectly perpendicular with the ground. I’m reaching so high I’m almost on tiptoes. I’m sure I look like a gymnast about to start a floor routine.
“Just take it easy,” the second cop says, pulling a pair of cuffs from his belt. “Let’s go for a drive downtown. We can talk about this at the station.”
“Do you see this?” Sharon yells, appealing to the cell phone cameras. “This is police harassment!”
Although she sounds hostile, Sharon has her arms out in front of her, with her wrists facing up, ready to be slapped with a pair of cuffs. The injured cop advances on me with his gun drawn. Out of self-preservation, I copy Sharon, holding my wrists out and hoping a pair of cuffs slapped on my arms is the worst that happens.
There’s some serious chatter going on over the radio. Assaulting a police officer tends to get the NYPD’s utmost attention, and another three police cars pull up with sirens blazing. Within seconds, several other police officers have shotguns and AR-15 assault rifles leveled at us. These guys are ready for World War III. I swear, the NYPD uses Die Hard videos in basic training. I only wish I could slip between the cracks in the concrete and disappear.
Why, Sharon? Why?
Someone grabs me by the scruff of the neck and marches me over to a waiting police car. Sharon’s bundled into one squad car while I’m pushed into another. These guys aren’t taking any chances, keeping us separate. Sharon’s still yelling for the cameras, “The United States is a police state!” As for me, I cannot shut my mouth tight enough.
“You and your girlfriend are pretty fucked up,” one of the officers says, hopping in the front of the police car and staring at me through the metal grate. What can I say? I agree with him wholeheartedly. There’s no argument from me.
“Where’s she from?” he asks as we round a corner and race down the road with sirens still blazing.
“She’s an alien,” I say. I’ve got to stop being so goddamn honest. No one’s going to believe this shit.
“Illegal alien, huh?”
“Something like that,” I reply, wondering how the hell I’m going to get out of this without spending the next few years in jail. For a cute chick, Sharon is seriously messed up. Why me? How the fuck did I get caught up in all this? Again? I’m questioning not only her sanity, but my own. Secret alien moon base? Are you serious? Try explaining that to the judge. What the hell have I been dosed with? Did someone spike my drink with LSD?
There’s more chatter on the police radio, as well as between the two cops in the front of the vehicle, but I’m in shock. I don’t catch anything not being said directly to me. I’m not sure if we drive a hundred yards or a hundred miles, but we pull into a police garage and circle down below the police station. Dozens of police cars, SWAT vehicles and heavy duty trucks are parked in the basement.
I’m dragged into a holding cell while they wait to process us for prints and mug shots. The steel bars that close behind me slam shut with a vengeance.
Sharon’s already seated on a bench running along the wall. A junkie sits slouched next to a stainless steel toilet. He’s counting ants crawling along the floor, pointing at them and mumbling numbers to himself.
Sharon is prim and proper, sitting with her back straight, her legs together and her hands resting on her thighs. She plays with her handcuffs, smiling warmly at the guard and I’m tempted, sorely tempted, to tell him not to be fooled by her looks, but I keep my mouth shut. The sound of boots squelching on the floor slowly fades, leaving the three of us alone.
“What were you thinking?” I ask, sitting down beside her. “I can’t believe you. Here I was thinking we were starting to act like a regular, normal couple, and you assault a police officer.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him,” she says, batting her cuffed hands through the air. “He’ll be fine.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about.”
Sharon ignores me. She twists her handcuffs, working her wrists back and forth so they oppose each other.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Getting us out of here,” she says with that sweet innocence that seems to mesmerize me every time.
“Getting us out of here? You’re the one that got us in here in the first place.”
“I know,” she says with a smile that reveals the machinations of a cunning mind.
“Why are we even in here?” I ask, knowing this had to be deliberate on her part. Sharon may be crazy, but she’s not stupid.
“Police stations are difficult to break into,” she says. “So I thought we should ask politely for a tour. Everything’s so much easier once you’re on the inside.”
I raise my hands in frustration, letting them then drop back in front of me.
“You were in uniform this morning. You could have waltzed in here.”
“Ah, not quite,” she says. “Technically, it’s easy to duplicate swipe cards and decrypt pass codes, but without knowing any of the officers personally, I’d be exposed and caught quite quickly. This is a much better solution.”
“Better?” I ask, holding my handcuffed hands up before her. “You think being locked in a cell with these on is better?”
“Yes,” she says, pulling her hands apart. A steel link drops to the concrete floor as the chain on her handcuffs breaks.
“How did you…?” I ask, changing tack mid-sentence. “Do you have like superhuman strength or something?”
“No, silly,” Sharon replies. “The NYPD spares no expense in purchasing only the highest quality handcuffs, and the higher the quality, the easier they are to break. Cuffs like these are actually quite brittle. Apply alternating torque and you’ll snap one of the links, or the base plate, within about sixty seconds.”
“Are you for real?” I ask, copying her motion and grinding the links together time and again as my wrists swing back and forth.
“Oh, yes. Only the very best handcuffs break this easily. And the NYPD settles for nothing but the best.”
There’s a sincerity in her words that tells me she’s genuinely impressed by the NYPD’s attempt at procuring quality law enforcement merchandise, regardless of how ineffective it may be.
The junkie sits watching us. He isn’t in restraints, but then again, he didn’t assault a police officer.
“Quick,” she says, standing up. “They’ll be back soon.”
I’m so intent on breaking my cuffs I don’t notice Sharon getting undressed. She lays her coat on th
e bench seat beside me, but it’s warm in here, so that doesn’t register as anything out of the ordinary. It’s not until she’s got the buttons on her blouse undone and is taking off her shirt that my handcuffs break and I look up at her full figure in a stunning lace bra.
The junkie laughs. He’s probably not sure if he’s hallucinating.
“Ah,” I say, trying to keep my eyes from popping out of my head. “Is this part of the plan too?”
“We’re going to need some lube,” she says, taking off her shoes and pulling off her jeans.
“You heard the gal,” the junkie cries, exasperated with how slowly I’m reacting. “Get the woman some lubricant!”
“Shut up,” I say, turning and pointing at him. “Just. Stay out of this.”
He laughs again, gawking at Sharon with wide eyes.
I turn back to her and she’s naked. She tosses her bra and panties on the bench beside me, saying, “Without lubricant, this is going to be tight.”
“Come on! You’re gonna need some lube, man,” the junkie says, gesturing with his hands toward her.
“You’re not helping,” I say sternly to him.
“We don’t have long,” voluptuous, naked, stunning Sharon says, bouncing slightly as she moves.
“Lube. Lube. Lube,” I say, desperately trying to take her request seriously. I scramble to think of possibilities, but honestly, there are other things on my mind. I close my eyes. It’s the only way I can think straight, even then, knowing she’s standing just inches away from me in her birthday suit has my heart racing.
“Water,” I say. “Will soap and water do?”
“Yes, yes.”
I turn on the tap in the tiny basin beside the toilet and start lathering my hands with soap and warm water.
“Ah,” I say, hesitating as I turn toward her, unsure exactly what I should be doing. I hold up my dripping hands, marveling at the insanity of the moment. Insanity, that’s how I’ll get out of this. I’ll plead insanity. Surely, the police must be videoing what goes on in these holding cells. They’ll see this. They’ll see Sharon stripping down. They’ll see me lathering her with soap. No jury is going to convict. After seeing this, they’ll have to acquit. Hopefully, I’ll get community service, or perhaps court-appointed psychiatric monitoring as an outpatient for six months.
“What are you waiting for?” she asks, beckoning me to run my soaking wet hands over her body.
The junkie’s laughing his ass off. I’m laughing. Even Sharon’s laughing. Although I’m not sure she’s laughing for the same reason we are.
“Yeah, baby,” the junkie cries as Sharon turns around, holding her arms above her head and pirouetting.
The junkie yells, “Move those hips, gal.”
“I did ballet. Can you tell?” Sharon asks as she turns, breaking into different poses as I splash her naked body with soapy water. I nod, grinning like an idiot. Yep, I can tell. Ballet. That’s just what I was thinking of. Nothing else. Honest.
Sharon has the body of a goddess.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Like the junkie, I’m caught up in the moment and drunk on the sexual energy implicit in touching a sensuous, gorgeous, naked woman. I know it’s a cliche, but if this is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
I keep returning my hands to the tap, lathering more soap and splashing warm suds on her body, running my fingers over her silky smooth stomach, hips and thighs.
“Don’t forget my breasts,” Sharon says.
Forget them? I was trying to maintain some sense of dignity, but, okay. Go with the flow, Joe. To hell with being in a police cell, this is the greatest moment of my life! Well, slight exaggeration. Nope. No exaggeration at all. This incredibly beautiful, stunning woman has taken her clothes of in front of me—inexplicably. And all I had to do was body check a cop. Hell, if she’d told me her plan, I would have hit him with a baseball bat. This is my wildest high school pubescent dream come true.
Sharon twirls, raising her arms above her head and jiggling her body. Water splashes everywhere, but whatever. My hands glide over her smooth, soft skin, feeling the texture of her sensuous body sliding beneath my fingertips.
“Okay,” she says, coming to a halt. “I think we’re good.”
I hear those words, but my hands keep moving. I cup more water and splash it on her, rubbing my fingers over her breasts again for good measure. I must look like a clown.
Sharon raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, right,” I say, remembering there’s a reason she’s stripped down, and that reason wasn’t to fulfill my teenage fantasies. My hands are reluctant, but I pull them away. “Right. Serious alien stuff now, huh?”
“Something like that,” she says.
At a guess, she’s going to do a cool alien thing, like walk through the bars Terminator 2 style. Although she doesn’t look very alien. More playboy bunny minus the leotard. At least, she’s not like any alien I’ve ever seen in the movies.
Sharon walks up to the bars of the cell and bends over, squeezing her arms and head through the horizontal opening used for passing food trays and paperwork to prisoners.
“Damn,” is all I can say, watching as she wriggles and shimmies her upper torso through the bars. Roughly halfway, she gets stuck. She can’t get her hips through the narrow opening, and I watch in a trance as she leans forward, grabbing at the bars below her, wrestling to get through the opening.
“It’s so hard,” she says.
“Yes, it is,” the junkie cries, and I swat him on the shoulder, signaling for him to be quiet.
“Give me a push,” Sharon says.
“What?” I say, looking at the most perfect butt I’ve ever seen in my life. There’s not a single blemish on her peachy white skin.
“Quick,” Sharon says, looking at me upside down from between her legs.
I’m about to faint. My blood pressure is up, but there’s not much blood pumping to my head.
I position my hands on either side of her ass, feeling as though I’m about to explode. My fingers touch lightly against her buttocks and I push as though I’m committing a cardinal sin.
“Harder.”
“You heard her,” the junkie cries. “Give it to her harder.”
“Will you shut the hell up,” I snap.
Although it feels all kinds of wrong, I grab her ass and push. Sharon squirms sideways, and in a flash, rolls forward out of the holding cell, somersaulting onto the floor.
“There,” she says. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Oh,” the junkie cries, unable to contain his laughter. “I’m pretty sure it can’t get any harder than that!”
I could hit him, but instead I grab her clothes and rush them over to her. It’s strange, but in the moment, I’m more concerned about her being clothed than being caught. I guess being caught is a given.
“No time,” she says, grabbing only her shirt and jeans. “I’ve got to move fast. I’ll be right back. I’m going to sneak in there like a commando and get the keys.”
“Oh, you’re going commando, all right,” the junkie says, seeing me standing by the bars still holding her bra and panties.
I throw a shoe at him.
He ducks to one side, roaring with laughter. I must admit, this whole situation is so crazy it really is funny. And yet, it worked. There she is on the other side of the bars.
Sharon creeps down the hall.
I pick up her shoe and stand at the door to the cell, ready to leave when she gets the key. This is actually going to work.
The junkie reaches out and touches my arm for no particular reason other than to determine if I’m real. I am, but he doesn’t look convinced. For him, this is an acid trip of epic proportions.
My heart pounds in my chest.
I like Sharon.
I like her a lot.
Actually, I’m not sure ‘like’ is the right word. There must be a better word to describe the way I feel about her. Not love. I couldn’t say I love her. I lust h
er. That’s the word I’m looking for. Nah, lust is too—sheesh, it just doesn’t fit. Not like. Not love. Not lust. I don’t know what it is, but I was actually a little horrified seeing her naked. Sure, I enjoyed the show. But there was something perverse about seeing her strip in a police cell. Pleasantly perverse, but perverse all the same. I feel as though I did something wrong by enjoying the spectacle, as though I’ve sullied myself. But, hey, on the bright side—no tentacles.
From her perspective, being an alien, I can’t help but wonder if there were any sexual connotations at all? Certainly, she seemed very matter-of-fact about the whole thing. What do aliens think of human sex? Is there an alien equivalent? And I don’t mean the reproductive act, I mean the sense of intimacy, vulnerability, privacy. For us, sex is a sensual act, consuming and overwhelming us in a moment of ecstatic release.
How would I describe an orgasm to an alien? It’s a serious question in my mind. The best way I can think of as I watch Sharon disappear around the corner in bare feet, is to lose yourself in a moment of pure, unadulterated pleasure, but I suspect words can never convey the reality of sex. It’s a bit like explaining red to a blind man. Strange how something so wonderful can be so intensely personal and private, so difficult to describe. Why is such an exciting, indulgent, shared pleasure often a source of guilt? I wonder what that says about us as a species. Our particular form of intelligence seems naturally predisposed to seek sexual pleasure, and yet we either hide from that instinct, or take it to extremes.
Do aliens have porn? Or is porn a particularly human invention?
And what is porn but to surrender to our instincts?
Dunno.
Charles Darwin spoke of both natural selection and sexual selection, with the latter, at least in part, describing why birds like the peacock have such stunning plumage. Are we like peacocks and peahens?
Sharon comes creeping back down the hallway, tiptoeing as she slowly builds to a run. She has a set of keys in her hand. Her shirt is tight-fitting and semitransparent, not leaving much to the imagination. I try to ignore the hypnotic bounce of her breasts, wanting to make up for my previous indiscretions as though someone’s keeping score. Perhaps a good deed cancels out the bad? If it was bad.
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