Okay, all you people out there. Listen up. Your day was not bad. *My* day was bad. You disagree? Well, check this out.
Alarm fails to go off - no big deal you say? *You* don't have a sentinel. Who for the first time since you moved in with him, fails to hear the god damn mutherfucker before you do and wakes you up. You oversleep. It's your first day at the Cascade Police Academy.
Hair dryer blows a fuse - no big deal you say - *again*? Ah, but you don't have thick, naturally curly, shoulder length hair *and* you're not a guy, on his way to begin his training to be a cop. Are you? Thought not.
The elevator in your apartment is broken - again. And remember, you're late already.
Your car won't start. You run four blocks to catch the bus. You miss it. By thirty seconds. And you're positive the driver saw you running and waving. But he was in league with the alarm clock, the hair dryer, the elevator and your car. So he kept on going. And laughing.
The next bus is early. Woohoo. *You* don't have the *exact* change. What you do have is a five dollar bill. That's it. Five dollars. To last seven days. You kiss it good-bye and shove it down into the changer. And the driver gives you a dirty look.
You were so excited about the bus being early, you failed to read the little location thingy in the window. You get off. *THREE* miles from the academy. And you spent your last five dollars.
You're hoofing it. But this is Cascade - Pacific Northwest. In the winter. Would it surprise anyone that it started to rain? Oh, and perhaps the hail should be mentioned? Golfballs. Tennis balls. Basket balls.
You left your coat - *and* you academy books, (which your roommate *bought* for you) On. The. Bus.
Your wish is my command.
You arrive at the academy. You're wet. Bruised. (hail is hard) You don't have your books. Your hair is....well....let's just say, the looks you receive are.....on second thought, let's not go there, okay? And we'll skip the discussion about the wet sheepdog smell that follows you all day.
Now, you've been in school for exactly - twenty-five years. *Twenty-five* years. And you're only thirty. (Thirty-one in May) You've been lost, been late, gone to the wrong class, had the requisite naked dream, you know, the one where everyone else is dressed but you? Yeah, that one. You've sat in the back row only to have the teacher bring you up front and say, "But dear, you're soooo small. You couldn't possibly see the blackboard from there." You've been sent out of a classroom *because* you were so small, and the teacher was certain that you were in the wrong grade. And *that* was in High School. Okay, a small lie. It happened in grade school, middle school *and* high school. Oh, all right, it happened in College too. So sue me.
Where were we? Oh, yeah. School. Academy.
You go to the auditorium. All the cadets are there. *They've* been there for two hours. Because you're two hours late. But you missed the speeches. Silver lining. You also missed you schedule. And you're squishing. Because your new shoes are wet. And are you surprised that you're the shortest cadet there? By about two inches? And about, oh, say, fifteen pounds? Give or take twenty. And these are guys who are going to be throwing your body around for the next six weeks. And trying to kick your butt from here to the rainforest. Any rainforest.
You get your schedule. First class: Firearms. You get suddenly smart and don't crack wise about gun control. You take the gun. You take the bullets. You learn to clean, take apart, load. You learn about weight. You learn that you've been saying bullets, when you should have been saying *cartridges* or *rounds*. That the bullet is actually that bit of lead on the *end* of the cartridge (you've been calling it "that little pointy thingy" and your god damn roommate hasn't corrected you once - the dickwad. He's smiled indulgently, like you were some - *girl* - the prick.) You learn that most casings are made of brass (and didn't you just recently say that you had the brass ring? Little did you know) You learn that gunpowder burns, not explodes. (AH HA! you *knew* that one!)
You learn that guns are called by the caliber (how big around the cartridge/round/bullet is) of the most powerful amunition it is designed to shoot. Hence a .45 handgun is a handgun designed to shoot a .45 caliber cartridge. See? (So, you decide that you're a .357 magnum. Cuz you're so modest) But then you find out that a .357 is the same as a .38 and that *both* of them measure .36 across. Go figure.
You learn that your gun (the one you're holding, idiot, not the one in your pants) is a .38 special and it's called that because it isn't. Special. It is in fact, the most common variety handgun. So you go figure again. Special = common. Oh, yeah, doesn't everyone think that way? (You also secretly marvel at the fact that your erstwhile roommate carries a .38-plus-p. More powder, more punch. Probably has to.....because he drops it so much. And he thinks no one ever noticed HA!)
It's time to shoot. As in fire your weapon. And your mouth drops open. It's only the first day, you scream. And you were certain that your instructor was the Professor Harold Hill type....and was going to encourage you to use the *think* method. As in, "Think about it before you fire, because a *cartridge* tearing through flesh, like, really sucks, man." But no, *this* instructor believes in instant gratification and shooting his gun, uh, *your* gun fits the bill.
So, weapons are holstered and everyone stands and one cadet drops his weapon, it hits the floor and it fires and the damn bullet, oops, *cartridge* hits the ceiling. But you're on the third floor of a three story building so everyone heaves a sigh of relief before looking around for the doofus and no, it's not you, it's the 6'4, 250 pound gorilla next to you. And as everyone looks at *him* - he looks at *you* like it's your fault, duh, so what do you do? Well, being around a guy who drops his weapon as much as your roommate does, *and* being a big Bonanza fan from way back, you bend over, gingerly pick up his gun, ignoring the gasps and the other cadets ducking for cover and you twirl it around your finger, *after* showing the neanderthal how to set the safety, and with one deft, almost invisible move, you slide it into his holster.
A smattering of applause greets your Sheriff Blair routine, and you take a little bow, as the instructor says, "There's one in every class, and he usually can't hit the broadside of a barn." You bite back the clever retort about Cascade and barns. Because you remember the time your partner tried to teach you to shoot, took you out in the country, and you did hit the barn, three times. And the barn was behind you. Don't ask.
So now, you have on earphones, and you're standing in this little cubicle, cadets on every side of you.....and *way* down this long shoot tunnel is your target and even with your glasses, it looks the size of a postage stamp, and so far away, you'll need a passport. You take the proper stance, bolster your gun hand with your left hand, close one eye (okay, you closed both eyes) and you fire.
And if the broad side of a barn had been a heart shaped target on a paper man.....well, *you* managed to hit the......southern end of the barn. Next time - open one eye.
Remember your first day in gym class? Those ridiculous black gym shorts - two sizes too big. That stupid gold tank top - two sizes too big. Skinny arms, skinnier legs and the brown, curly afro? Yeah, they called you geek, freak, nerd, shrimp, shorty. Except the guy, who you swore wore mascara, and he called you *cutey*. And let us not forget the *THE GREAT SHOWER EXPERIENCE*. Yes, guys look. And point. And snigger.
You are *so* not looking forward to this grown-up, macho cop version of gym class. Okay, you don't have skinny legs or arms anymore, thanks to years on expeditions and the last three years with a pumping iron god. And the blue shorts fit. Nicely. And the t-shirt fits and it's white, with black lettering announcing, "Cascade Police Academy" on the back. You feel - kinda proud, as you lace up your new Nikes and head into the gymnasium. You feel proud, strong and muscular.....until you're put in the middle of the line. You look to your right - and into the guys shoulder. You look to your left - and into a guys neck. You just *know* you're going to have a kingsize crick in your neck by the end of the day.
You do the sit-ups, the push-ups (ah, you can do those forever and you do - Take that you neanderthals!) Chin-ups, and again, being smaller has some advantages - the big bruisers are huffing and puffing and turning red and you're hardly breaking a sweat. But then they move on.....to self defense. And damn, no hoses, no baseballs, and you just know the instructor will frown if you jump on the back of your *assailant*, wrap your strong legs around his waist, your arms around his neck and try to choke him to death. And you have to agree - not very cop like. So you listen, you watch, you learn and you wonder vaguely what you'll look like as ground meat.
One and half hours later - you know. Three elbows in the head, and face, followed by, "Sorry, didn't see you there, *shrimp*." except the one guy who you swear wears eyeliner, and he says, under his breath, "Sorry, cute stuff."
He also admires your leather and bead Chopec bracelet and while bodies are slapping mats, you two get into a healthy discussion about an aborigine tribe that believe it is a sin to have any portion of their skin not tattooed. And he offers to show you his. Tattoo.
Gym class is over and it's time for "The Grown Up Version of *THE GREAT SHOWER EXPERIENCE*". But you're not fourteen anymore and you learned a long time ago that penis size and height are like, so not related. So you mentally dare them to look. They do and you're a winner - at least in the showers. And remember the guy with the eyeliner and the tattoo? He's a size queen. And you need to remember to ask him where he got the rad tattoo.
It's lunch time, but you don't eat. No money. And when your stomach growls, you look around for the rude culprit just like everyone else.
Four hours to go.
At least no one calls you hairboy. But no one calls you Chief either.
At two pm, you find out about - P.E. But, but, but....didn't we already have gym class? Ah, but this is *outdoors*. Rain is no excuse for cancelling. Criminals don't melt in the rain.
Running, jumping, and a cute little game called, "Put your toes down in the middle of these tires." Oh, and - THE WALL.
It's high. It's straight. Up. You're told it's not hard, because as a cadet, you get a running start. Not so with the military. Gee, thanks.
The George C. Scott/Patton look-a-like of an instructor puts *you* at the back of the line. He figures the rest of the cadets will need a good laugh after their attempts.
Once again, you watch, you learn, you wince, you cringe. And you heartily applaud the only cadet to make it over the wall. Yep, your eyeliner wearing fan.
Then - it's your turn. You look up at THE WALL, and you remember the last time you had to do something like this - following your partner's fine ass up some crates. Now if only that ass were ahead of you.....but then, you have one hell of an imagination.....you look around you, at the sneers, the crossed arms, and at Mr. Eyeliner, who just licks his thumb and touches it to his ass, and you smile, visualize the nice Jimass and launch yourself at THE WALL. Without a running start. And one minute later, you're throwing yourself over the top and climbing down the other side.
No applause - please.
P.E. is over. School is out. You don't bother with another shower, you're already soaked through. You leave on your Nikes, change into your jeans, brown and tan flannel shirt, ignore your hair which is now very reminiscent of one, Bozo the Clown, you smile at the guy with the eyeliner, a nice shade of blue, by the way, and borrow a buck as you decline his invitation to dinner, telling him your roomie is waiting with dinner. Okay, it's a lie, but a guy can dream, can't he?
You still smell like a wet sheepdog, but your day is looking up as you step outside and note that it is *not* raining.
You walk the two blocks to the *right* bus stop, whistling merrily. While waiting for the bus, you're mugged. By four guys, teenaged toughs.
They punch you in the stomach because all they get from you is - yep, one buck, your Nikes and one guy takes a liking to your Chopec bracelet. And no way in hell are you going back to the academy and reporting this.
No sir. You're weren't born yesterday.
On the other hand - you're stuck. No way home. And are you surprised when it starts raining again? You sit there, on the bench, staring up at the sky, water streaming down your face and wonder, "why me?", and of course, the answer is, "Who better?"
Except - you happen to be half of a very special team, and the other half has been experiencing a kind of sixth sense where you're concerned so you're only mildly surprised when his blue and white truck pulls up alongside the curb in front of you. He jumps out, notes your bruised face, your socks, his eyebrow rises, but you don't bother to say anything, as he pulls off his coat, slips it on you, zips it up to your neck, fishes in his pocket, pulls out one of *your* hair ties, takes your hand, opens the fingers, drops the tie onto your palm and says, "Did you play nice today, Blairsywairsy?"
What can you do? You stick out your tongue and cross your eyes.
On the trip home, you regale your partner with "Tales from the Academy", laughing and pretending *not* to notice how he almost drives off the road. Five times and counting.
When you get home.....you really enter the Twilight Zone. And you're not sure if the day just got better - or worse.
The loft is warm, one light on in the corner and the whole place smells real good because your roomie *has* made dinner, his famous stew and he tells you everything will be ready in about thirty, so go take a shower, get warm and "we'll eat."
Twenty-eight minutes later, wearing your oldest and most favorite sweats, hair actually dry (he fixed the dryer! Like - when?) you sit down at the table and watch, incredulous, as he serves you! Stew, french bread with sweet cream butter, a salad he tosses in front of you, and a very nice chianti. As you take your first sip, you note that he's built a fire, lit some candles and he's grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
You eat. Also for the first time that day. And he watches you, amazed, as you stuff down three helpings of everything, including the nice chianti. Hey, it was a sucky day.
He talks, you chew. His voice flows over you, warming you like the hot shower of thirty minutes ago, only better. You nod, mumble out the obligatory, "oh, yeah?", he admonishes you, "Not with your mouth full, Mr. Manners," but you just smile, wide, open, and let stew dribble out. He tries hard not to laugh, and you get this half grin, half scowl effect.
He starts to clean up, you feel guilty so you help and like a well-oiled machine, the two of you have the kitchen ship-shape in no time. He's wiping down the table and you decide to have another glass of wine.
And your day, now evening, takes a decided turn toward - bizarre.
Flight 30 (31 in May), leaving for Bizarro Land, will depart in three minutes. Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gents, it's gonna be a bumpy ride.
You're standing there, pouring, *he* comes in, tosses the sponge into the sink, comes up behind you, *close* behind you, reaches around you for something, his body leaning into yours and your eyes widen - because, because, HE'S HARD, and he's pressing in and he lowers his head and your hair is plastered against his cheek and you bring the wine to your lips and you wish you'd taken a suave, debonair sip, but you don't, you take a nervous, messy gulp and damn, you can *feel* his smile against your temple. He takes the glass from your shaking hand, brings it to his lips and sips. Suave. Debonair. James fucking *Cary Grant* Ellison.
He puts the glass down, licks his lips and murmurs into your now red ear, "so, you had a really bad first day?"
Well, *you'll* be damned. YOU'RE HARD. Harder than you've ever been. Because of the *man* standing behind you. Your brain is bubbling and boiling because you're Blair *Hump a table leg* Sandburg. And the table legs have always been female. But there haven't been as many as the *male* table leg currently rubbing deliciously against your ass, thinks. And lately, you've found yourself looking at male table legs (You can tell the difference. Curves, you know)
The table leg is now stroking your hardness and he has no curves. He's solid, square and, wait, correction.....his smile. Very curvy that smile. Brilliant and curvy.
You're gonna need to take another shower. And change. Because he's thrusting into you and it's gentle, and subtle, but between that thrusting and his breath whuffing into your face, and his hand on your cock, kneading, teasing, well, you're gonna come in your pants any second. But you want more, so much more, you want it all, and you want to feel skin and your head falls back against him, and you want him and your ass is on fire and he *knows* this and he sighs - happily. But with relief as well. He was worried. And you know that now. But you stop wondering about it when he slides your sweats down - and Je - sus, his cock against your butt feels like.....the best moment of your life, and his hands are fumbling with something on your right and he's rubbing them together and you don't give a flying fuck because you have to have him - in you, NOW and your hands are gripping the counter and there are so many sensations, you can't track them all, but you're....you're....uh, trying.....his tongue.....in your - ear.....and sometimes, ah, licking....down, and his........
.....fingers???? There????? Oooooh......
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??????
my legs.....yes, stretch them further.....yes, jim, yes.....hands, so tight on counter.....your hands on mine...gripping, J E S U S.........
.......neck, bit my neck.....OH GOD THIS IS IT........I'M
and he's ------- coming......in me.......dropping down.....knees buckling.........
"how's your day now, chief?"
You know, not so bad. And we haven't even kissed yet.