Drunk, nude, loud, absolutely nothing wrong, I am about to – in my fist underwater – come, when the cops come. Neighbors bitched about my off-key karaoke of Key’s anthem? I habitually belt patriotic stuff when stuffing my head with fuck.
Half-a-dozen officers out of their vehicles pile: “Hold it!”
“I am!” I grunt, assuming all know God forgives all sins save thwarting a climax.
They draw weapons. Ring the pool. Balk at wading in for the pinch.
“Place your hands on top of your head – walk out slowly backwards!”
“Which way,” I gasp, going obstreperously about my business, “is backwards?”
The cops, stumped, quiver on the edge. Till my orgasm retches shrieks breaking windows and bursting doors in a three-block radius, and the cops, scared shitless, unload their pieces.
My last sight a large (if I do say so myself) load dispersing langorously, while I am sent, through chlorine fish scent, toward the next dream of escaping, by the dawn’s early light, the law of no deposit, no return.
Willie Smith’s poems and stories have appeared in the toilet, the recycling, the gutter and in his worst nightmares. He is a retired office boy living off, in the form of a dubiously-deserved pension, the taxpayer.
In Between Hangovers 