Chapter 11: The Hand
that Spanks

At 5′8″, my buddy ol’ pal Tom—like most folks—towered over me, but only by half a foot. He had a few unavoidable wrinkles, but well-controlled fine lines and a lack of sun damage befit a man being gracefully squeezed out the ass end of his forties who wore sunblock religiously and adhered to a strict skincare routine. Give him twenty years and deprive him of his retinoids and I would have found his skin… somewhat more… appealing. Although… even at a scant 48 years, his face… was… not… bad looking. Not that I’d ever admit that I found him attractive to another soul in this life or the next.

Filling out his colorful, well-tailored suit was his physique, with that delicately balanced extreme of muscularity developed by pigs throughout the past few decades of our militarization, whose primary purpose is intimidation, a physique which simultaneously tries but fails to blend us in with citizens—good evidence that he wore that navy blue and brass to work.

Another feature of note: his blond crew haircut (roughly half an inch at its greatest length)—a not-quite-subtle hint he might have been a military man or possibly a law enforcement officer.

There was a ‘scar’ which hung from his left eye, which he claimed he had received while restraining one of Santa Virginia’s notoriously tough perps but which had been there since his first day on the force and looked more like a birthmark than a wound. But it… added a certain charm, a—God have mercy on me—a quaint ruggedness.

He also had a faded crimson snake tattoo on his left forearm. What it meant was beyond me. I had always been afraid to ask because such questions have a tendency to turn into full-blown conversations, and I did not wish to risk bonding with him—when he wasn’t nearby, anyway.

The only detail missing from his ‘definitely not a cop off duty trying to blend in with citizens’ aesthetic were the optional metallic wraparound sunglasses sometimes worn by law enforcement officers both on and off duty—inside, outside, lights on, lights off, day or night (we seem to think we can see in the dark while wearing these expensive, ugly, cyberpunk-looking things), because so many of us are afflicted with a strange aversion to the prospect of civilians being able to see where our eyes are looking—a prime example of the paranoia that we poor, hated, hounded, endangered, persecuted cops must suffer through each day. You never know when someone might try to spike your latte with fentanyl, so you need to be able to project the impression that you could have your eyes on anyone in the room, including (especially) the barista with piercings, pronouns, and a purple pompadour.

I prayed to God that my mate might turn us left or right or about-face, that he would lead me anywhere else, away from this man whom I perceived as… nothing… but… a piece of sexist… blue blood trash—but we continued to approach this… horse’s anus like a pair of hungry flies.

As we approached the man who had harassed me every chance he got, as he smirked triumphantly at his prey, my eyes remained locked with his. He stood to hug his husband, then slapped him on the ass, earning a smile from his pet.

To me, he whisper-asked (politely, though, to my surprise), “(How’s retirement?)”

((I need tequila, so I need to be nice.)) With every civil bone inside my body I told him, “It’s been a dream.” (My bones were more civil than they usually were, and I even gave him a genuine grin.)

He smiled back enthusiastically and patted my shoulder. “I’m happy to hear that! Any plans to find a new job?”

“I’m… satisfied with my employment status.”

“You like having all that free time, eh?”

“I’ve kept myself busy with the things I like.”

He took my hands in his and squeezed. “Excellent, excellent. I’m happy for you.” His hands engulfed mine; they were warm and soft, moisturized but not greasy, neither clammy nor dry. My breath abandoned me—until he withdrew his hands. “What’s your name?”

“Um.” I ripped myself away from the fresh memory of my hands in his—its overwhelming intimacy, its emotional warmth, its sudden absence—to play the question back in my head and come up with an answer. “Of course, my name, it’s—it’s Eupraxia.”

“Eupraxia: shake.”

I did not know what kind of row I could have caused by disobeying orders from another handler. While Diane exceeded Tom by several ranks… that only counted at our work, not at the club; as far as I could tell, she was just another patron, with absolutely no authority. I did not wish to start a feud between my owner and another cop—although I had a hunch she’d stomp him into hamburger if he complained about her pet—

But none of that mattered because I was high on Molly. The idea of refusing a handshake did not occur to me. I shook his hand and kept smiling while that man wore the vilest of grins. He changed our handshake into a hug and dusted me with just a (hint) of his natural fragrance—which was inoffensive enough, citrus and cedar and ethanol. It was… pleasant, if you’re a freak who’s into smelling people’s body odor. I was one such freak. My heart raced. I wanted to keep smelling him. I wanted to… I wanted…

No. I won’t say what I wanted. Eventually I won’t have a choice, but not now. I’m still not ready.

Then he smacked my ass (by many not the first of times) an act made all the more humiliating—to a lesser extent by the power imbalance between us tipping in his favor per the venue’s rules, and to a greater extent by the unexpected excitation it injected between my thighs—which smeared across my face a countenance of grotesquely thrilled horror. Missing was the guilt I had felt each time he’d done the same thing in the past, for… for not… being mad enough that he had touched me inappropriately. This time, spanking was acceptable, if not expected. This time, I didn’t need to slap his cheek. This time, there was nothing wrong with how his touch made me feel. This time, I didn’t need to feel that shame. For once, I could let myself feel… something positive.

Then he whispered, “(Looks like I’ll be having fun with everybody’s favorite juicy munchkin redhead ass.)”

That whisper—which could have torn a hole in my eardrum like a wadcutter ripping through paper—made my scalp buzz and my legs weak for a moment, even though he checked the box for all three of my turn offs: manly men, misogynistic shitheads, and pigs. (Though… calling him a ‘manly man’ is ignoring the care he put into maintaining his skin and his choice of a slim Italian suit in merlot, over a saffron shirt with hot pink hearts, topped with a silk cravat of silver carnations on turquoise; and as for his misogyny, beyond sexually harassing me he had never once to my knowledge made any statements implying that I or any other woman was undeserving of equal pay or reproductive freedom—to the contrary, he had (on multiple occasions) pulled me aside to express concern over whether I was being paid fairly and whether my lack of career advancement might have been due to gender-based discrimination—so it was really hard to say that he was actually a capital-M Misogynist, so I was able to tell myself that he was, at worst, simply a confident man with boundary issues.)

I glanced at my mate Pink, who had taken a seat within the booth and was occupying himself with reading from the cocktail menu. “Heel, Eupraxia.” My mate’s handler sat beside his feline spouse and pat-patted the empty cushion to his left. He told me, “Sit,” and I obeyed. “Who handles you?”

((Tell this guy? Hell no. Lie.)) “Moneta.” ((Okay, don’t lie, Andrea. How about I tell him every detail of the three most thrilling days I’ve lived?))

“Moneta who?”

“Sorry, I don’t know if there’s more to her name.”

“I’ve never heard of her.”

Containing a sigh of relief inside my chest, I reassured him, “And there’s nothing wrong with ignorance.”

“It’s basic courtesy to get to know the handlers of the pets your pet befriends.”

The relieved sigh I had been holding in now evolved into a frustrated sigh I was holding in. “Right. Of course it is.”

“You’re new to this.”

“I’m learning.”

“I’d like to get to know her… well.”

“I’m sure she’d like to know a thing or two about you before agreeing to meet up.”

“Then tell her about me.”

“I barely know anything about you.”

“We worked in the same squad for over a decade. You know me.”

“Nothing that would interest her.”

“Well. What would interest her?”

“Uhh… interesting things.”

“Easy. Here goes: I graduated from clown college, I own a yacht, and I love this little guy more than anything because he’s the prettiest trophy husband around.”

I had no clue if any of these claims were true. The evidence I had, which was quite limited, told me that ((they have a healthy sex life, though my Pink feels a need to hide the fact that he’s bi—an obvious red flag—but that doesn’t mean Tom is being insincere in saying that he loves his husband. The yacht, too, stretches his credibility, since things like that are out-of-reach of a lowly SVPD sergeant’s base pay… though it’s possible he receives enough in bonuses—courtesy of his assignment to the deluxe beat of beautiful Balboa Hills—that he could, in combination with a generous loan, acquire a modest leisure boat. As for the clown school question… that, too, is a ‘maybe’—though it would explain the tiny car he drives at work…))

((My God, that’s pretty damn hilarious!)) I tried to keep myself from smirking back while asking, “Clown college? So you’re a clown?”

“Yeah. I graduated the year they closed.”

((Perhaps he’s being truthful?)) “Do you happen to drive a tiny car around all day?” I fought back snicker-laughs.

His eyes narrowed in irritation. “Ha. Ha. You drove one, too.”

“How many clowns can you fit into a three-wheeler?”

“Eight.”

I squinted skeptically.

“Two in the driver’s seat, one on each side, four standing on the trunk. Planning out how to pack a car with clowns is the first thing they teach you in Team Clowning 210: Driving School.”

I busted out into laughter. “Oh, Tom…”

He smirked mischievously. “I know how to make you laugh, Red.”

“In spite of my attempts to get you to leave me alone.”

“You know you love my attention, Miss Bachman.”

“Ah. Um.” My mouth and throat suddenly got very dry. “Could we get something to drink?”

“Sure.” He waved and a yellow jacketed woman trimmed in black and white checkers came to our table.

“What can I get for you?”

Tom asked me, “Whatcha want, Eupraxia?”

“A glass of tequila, neat—no, bring the bottle, lime wedges and sea salt. Reposado—no, extra añejo.” Two shots in one sitting and I’d be properly tipsy; after three my judgment would begin to rot; with four I’d struggle somewhat with my balance—but with five in me… I was God Herself.

“A bottle of tequila for the sexy girl, extra an-yay-ho, lime and sea salt.” ((Uh…)) I tried my hardest to ignore the fact that quite unlike the prior 61 times he had called me ‘sexy’, this one did not inspire me with guilt—though, as on those occasions past, I felt a sneaky blush stain my cheeks red. “And Cupcake, my dear?”

“A gin and tonic, please,” said Cupcake.

“A gin and tonic for the pretty boy.”

“Would that be all, sir?” she asked.

“That’s all.”

“Fantastic, I’ll be back with all your drinks in just a jiffy.”

As soon as she was out of earshot I asked, “So… How did you two meet?”

“My Cupcake was on Adams, turning—‍”

“Don’t!” interrupted Pink, just short of frantically.

“Be quiet, pet.” My Pink appeared to be in agony. “As I was saying, Cupcake was turning tricks when we met.” Pink made quiet sounds appropriate for someone in their final, horrid throws of dying. ((Holy shit, he’s a fellow sex worker!)) “We got along so well the first time, he enjoyed himself so much, he didn’t want to charge. I picked him up again the next week and we ate some hotdogs at the beach—we shared one, each of us at either end, we kissed when we met at the middle!” The sweetness of it sickened me—and—I felt—God save me—the pit of my stomach filling with… envy. (And mild disgust, because kissing with food in two’s mouths is gross—unless I’m doing it with someone, in which case it’s hot.) “Taking him to Sinuosa Beach instead of bringing him to a hotel was well worth it, and he had such a good time that he comped me again. Next time I saw him on the street, he looked depressed. I asked him what was bothering him.”

My dear Pink ceased his distressed noises and was now sitting straight, staring with expectant tears at Tom, as though enraptured by a story he had heard a hundred times but of which he had not grown tired, and would not grow tired for a hundred-thousand more.

“He said his landlord found out how he was earning his rent and kicked him out. I offered him my bed until he found a new place, and then… one-and-a-half years of apartment-hunting later, we had nada. And we’re happy we didn’t find anything. As cruel as it had been, him losing his apartment was the best thing that could happen to us! Every day that passed, the two of us grew closer, till we’d gotten close enough to take the plunge. It took a lot of psyching up for him to finally propose. He really caught me off my guard… that day was tied three ways for greatest day of all my life, alongside the day we met and the day we got married.”

Pink kissed him tenderly upon the cheek. “I don’t like the beginning of the story… but by its end I’m always glad you’ve told it yet again.”

On the one hand, I was moved. It was such a sweet story I couldn’t hold back a pouty smile. On the other hand, I was definitely high. This was the guy who slapped me on the ass on multiple occasions, called me ‘hottie’ in the squad room, pressured me day-in and day-out to have a coffee or a drink or two with him—despite my constant insistence that he desist and endless warnings that I’d tell on him to HR for harassment. This was also the guy who showered not just kindness, generosity, and decency upon a homeless sex worker but undeniable compassion, hospitality, and love. The question of how Tom Forrester could be both a wholesome human being and the unit’s Sex Pest of the Year for eleven years straight was not on my mind.

I did not question their saccharine story; I was high. I dismissed—too easily—my prior judgments of this man. ((Maybe… maybe he’s not all that awful. Maybe I misunderstand him. Maybe I’ve been flirting with him without conscious effort; I was unaware that I’ve been inviting his attentions, so I hafta admit that he’s an okay guy… He’s a fine man. A fine, handsome man who knows how to make me laugh and blush.))

To ease my quickly dwindling doubts about Tom’s character, I looked to Pink for confirmation of this tale of knightly rescue of a catboy damsel from his homelessness, and their ensuing love and happily forever after… and I could not find a single sign within his body language (he was totally relaxed, his tail was swishing slowly back and forth contentedly) or his voice (his purr could well have deafened me) or his face (his eyes drooped like he’d found the perfect patch of sunlight, baskworthy) that he was being forced to go along with a lie—but, to the contrary, his restful eyes were full of hope and admiration and nostalgic ecstasy while they were focused on Tom’s, and Tom was looking right back at him in exactly the same way. Their relationship was not an act, these husbands truly were in love. I must accept his joy—to hear the happy ending—and the kiss he gave to Tom as proof that Tom, deep down, was good and wholesome as a human being despite all he’d done to make my work life deeply miserable, despite being a… a disgusting male.

((Tom… you’re a good man, after all. But how about Pink? Is he worthy of such a fine and noble husband?)) “So… Cupcake. Do you pull your weight walking Adams?”

“That life is behind me.”

“Then what do you do for a job?”

“I’m a househusband.”

“You don’t bring any money into the household?”

He shook his head.

“No more sex work.”

He shook his head again.

((Is he actually finished with whoring?)) “Do you… employ the Social Workers Group’s paid services at all?”

“What is… ‘the Social Workers Group’?” asked Tom—a little too innocently.

My investigator instincts turned on in response to what sounded like deception. For half a second my gaze snapped to Tom’s face and I reflexively reached for my Mental Scalpel of Interrogation™—honed by tens of thousands of hours of watching copaganda television and movies, my tool for psychological analysis of interviewees—and commenced dissecting his reaction to discern his thoughts. (I’d like to remind you that people who are high or manic occasionally develop delusions that they have fantastic powers—for example, reading minds.)

((Your eyes look slightly bored now, invested just enough to be polite; but on the other hand, your facial muscles are taut, substantiating my inference that you’re hiding interest that your eyes aren’t letting on. You’d like to hear more, wouldn’t you?))

Pink’s tail puffed out straight as a brand-new pipe cleaner. “Just a… a nonprofit.”

“What kind of nonprofit?”

“Well, (uhhh…) The S—Social Workers Group… helps with… filing taxes… housing… job training… um… health insurance—that kind of stuff.” Pink kept his eyes on mine—they pleaded, [Can we change the subject?]

“I see.”

“Cupcake,” I continued, “I was asking whether you’ve used any of the organization’s benefits.”

He stole a quick glance at his husband, then admitted, “I was involved a long time ago.”

“Membership’s for life.” I pulled that fact straight out of my ass.

“Of course—I meant that at the moment I’m not… utilizing any benefits.”

“Do you still pay the fees?”

“I don’t work, I don’t pay dues.”

“Right. How about meetings—do you go to them?”

“No.”

“On Wednesday morning, did you leave your home for any reason?”

His right eye, hidden from his husband, squinted. “Yes…”

“To meet with friends?”

Suspicion crept into his other eye. “Yes. Friends. Why?”

I dug through my purse until I found my membership card. A subtle spreading of Tom’s eyes betrayed excitement, but he dared not speak his thoughts. I handed Cupcake the card.

He looked it over carefully for half a minute, then gave it back. “Now that I think back on it, I might have attended.”

“Did you arrive on time?”

“I did, but… it was canceled a few minutes in.”

A change flashed wide across Tom’s face, too quickly to decode. ((What was that in your face, Tom? What did I just see? You look so normal now, almost disinterested, just like before, but I could swear I saw you make some kind of face for just a blink.))

“A meeting, Wednesday?” Tom asked nervously.

((You knew your husband went there, didn’t you? You tracked his phone’s location, maybe, or you tailed him there. I suppose… you have some sort of justification for invading your spouse’s privacy. Please tell me you have a reason…))

“There… was,” replied Pink.

“What happened at this meeting?” asked his husband with a little too much curiosity.

“You don’t have a ‘need to know’, as you say whenever I ask you about your job.”

“You’re talking about the Guild.”

“I am not.”

“What happened at the Guild meeting?” insisted Tom.

Pink sighed. “I can’t tell you, Tom.”

“Could you at least tell me what happened afterwards?”

My Pink Kitty shrugged. “There was a raid.”

“Did you see anything suspicious?” continued Tom. ((Why are you so interested in what happened at the meeting, Tom?))

“Police knew about the meeting. That was strange. They never raid meetings.”

The tension in Tom’s shoulders dissipated, and his face, for just the briefest of moments, smoothed with relief—though not the sort that brings celebratory laughter; rather it was more like what one feels when one finds out a family member has survived a brush with murder only for the would-be-killer to escape Justice. It was a very bitter relief, which looked not unlike regret. The relief suddenly evaporated, though, as his gaze pointed back and forth between me and Pink and asked, “So, Red, how did you two meet?”

“We danced,” I said.

“Then… (something else,)” elaborated Pink, playfully feigning innocence. He was clearly happy to switch topics.

“Does ‘something else’ mean… you two mated?”

Pink smiled coyly.

Tom glanced back and forth between us, the corners of his lips curled upwards slyly; for just a moment his eyes, bright with mischief, gave his mug a… dashing veneer. “Did you penetrate her?” Pink held his tongue. “My pet, the punishment for lying or withholding testimony’s double what you get for just the crime itself. I ask again, Cupcake: did you put your dick inside the Most Forbidden Hole?”

“Yes, sir…” replied his husband with pretend guilt.

“Bend over.” Cake eagerly laid himself down, his stomach on Tom’s thighs and his face buried in my lap, thrilling me. Tom lifted his husband’s skirt and petticoats, then brought his open palm down on his pantied asscheek, and a tiny, lustful yelp burst from Pink’s mouth… “One.” …followed by another slap and yelp. “Two.” And again. “Three.” Hearing the pleasure in Pink’s voice, I understood that this was not real punishment, but a game of some kind—so I decided I would play a slightly bigger part. I forced Pink’s face down in my lap to gently smother him, and his reaction was a playful struggle to escape my clutches. Tom delivered four and five and so on, all the way to “Ten. I have decided to be merciful, and stop at half of what I should be giving you, because I love you. Up.” I took my hands off Pink’s head; so freed, he righted himself. He tried and semi-failed to hide his grin. ((I know that feeling.)) Where he half-succeeded in hiding his secret satisfaction, I was unaware that my vicarious delight was showing through a smirk. “Did you enjoy watching him get punished, Eupraxia?”

“So much as I enjoyed imagining myself in his situation.” I should have been surprised by my own honesty… but I was high and enjoying myself.

“Is that your way of saying you would like to lay across my lap while I spank you?”

My words, to be clear, weren’t at all my way of saying that; yet my uncensored reply was, of all words, “Yes.” As soon as I had realized what had come out of my mouth I cocked my head and asked myself, ((Did I really just tell him I want to be spanked? Well, I guess I gotta make it clear to him how important consent is to me.)) “If you don’t mind.” ((Better.))

He smirked so… roguishly. “I’ll give you a few trial slaps, then I can go till you say ‘stop’, how’s that?”

I nodded feebly, torn asunder by the mixture of attraction and revulsion that I felt towards him; by my disdain and curiosity for this man’s personality; by fear of possibly insulting him if I turned down his offer… any other day, that is. This day… I had an overwhelming desire to get closer to him. “Works for me.”

He pointed down. “Lap.”

I eagerly hiked my dress up to expose my ass and laid on his lap, and let my head fall upon the mountain of fabric that was Pink’s dress.

Tom massaged my cheeks, remarking, “God, you have the most beautiful fat ass.” The ass massage gave my vagina a heads-up to prepare for a (welcome) visit. “I gotta ask, though: No underwear?”

My face turned redder. “My mistress ordered me to keep them off.”

“How kinky…” he said approvingly, his tongue dripping with lust.

((This is a pet play sex club, everything is kinky, nothing can be weird—not even letting this man, out of all the men in this world, touch me, it would seem.))

((I’m sick, there’s something wrong with me.))

((But he’s so handsome, I just can’t help myself. Grow out his hair and dye it brown and he’d look just like a young Peter.))

“You ready, Red?”

“I’m waiting for you to start.”

Clap, zap! The stinging in my ass sent sparks between my hips, a yelp between my vocal cords, a curl throughout my toes, and satisfaction inside my forebrain. “You good, Red?”

“Ah… Yeah. Continue.”

Another slap came down, which sent more shocks throughout me, causing me to yelp again… and heating up my pussy by a half degree.

“Another,” I told him.

He slapped again and left me with a lightly burning ass and an anticipation for the next.

“Just—keep going.”

“‘Keep going’ what?”

I groaned. “Keep going, please.”

“Good girl.” He slapped me yet again, and then I started feeling an excitement build up in my chest. Another slap increased it. And another, and another, and another, with each spank I cried out, for the first few in surprise, the rest in growing merriment. The thought that ((I am being spanked, consensually, by a man who sexually harassed me non-stop the whole time I was in his unit,)) drifted aimlessly among the shadows of my mind, where it was easy to ignore. The spanking, by its very nature, pulled in most of my attention with each blow. I had suspicions, even without sticking a finger in my vadge, that I was soaked. And if I had any uncertainty remaining, it disappeared as Tom remarked, “You’re drenched, Eupraxia. You’re soaking through my pants, my thigh is wet.” ((Sex pest.)) I shoved the thought aside. ((I’ll have no shame this time.))

I thought I saw Pink’s fabric-covered boner and decided in my pain-induced euphoria to ((do something about this thing,)) and—as my closest orifice—my mouth was naturally the tool to use. I squirmed around till I could wrap my mouth around the fabric lump.

“Eupraxia?” asked Cupcake.

“I haven’t had a thing inside my stomach since this morning. Lift your skirt, so I can have a snack.”

He pulled his dress up, and I yanked his tenting panties down and spread his fur aside—

I caught his scent and lost my mind.

He panted as I slipped my lips around his head and suck-massaged it with my tongue. I needed more; I struggled to accept it as deeply into my mouth as it could go—I choked on his impressive phallus before I could get the whole thing in my mouth—but I persevered in pleasing him with the rhythmic thrusting of my head. I relished every groan each time his dick went down my throat. On each upward exhaust stroke I added suction around the head, and on each downward power stroke I squeezed it between my tongue and rubbed it against my palate.

Then the Catboy’s moans grew wild and he grabbed my hair and violently thrust his cock into my mouth and twitch-twitch-twitched, blasting a mouthful of something salty-funky onto my tongue. “Oh, fuck,” he shouted. “Christ Almighty, that was good.”

My meal having been served, I slowly removed my mouth from him while sucking all the way up, being careful not to waste a single curd, and swallowed. ((I’d have hoped for something more substantial, though I should’ve known it wasn’t gonna be much. I need a proper meal.))

The cop had stopped his spanking at some point—I’d grown so used to it that I’d forgotten that the pleasure spreading through my lower half was thanks to him. “Oh, Pretty Puppy, my hand hurts. If this was meant as punishment, I would’ve given up and taken you to the kennel. You’d wear a leash until the day you die.”

“I hate leashes,” I proclaimed, then (urgently dissatisfied with the strength of my conviction) decided to give it another try, insisting (with a supreme lack of confidence in what I was saying), “I… hate leashes.” I sat up and surprised myself by giving Tom a smile (thus drawing his attention away from my unintentional implication that I liked being led around on a leash).

“The SV Pride Parade is Saturday,” he said.

“Right. I saw on Hootr.”

“Cupcake and I will both be there.”

“That’s good for you.” ((I would like to be there with my Pink… Maybe I could ask, but… they’re going as a couple. I would be some kind of third wheel. It would be weird. I want to ask, but… Ugh, I need to change the subject.)) “How long have we been waiting for our drinks?”

The same tuxedo woman happened to arrive with them just then. “Here you go, sir, please enjoy!” She left us to ourselves.

“I hope that you enjoy yourselves at Pride,” I told them, staring at my bottle, wanting very much to chug it all but rather confused about how to go about doing so.

“We always do. Pet play is kind of on the para-ferry of the queer community, but we’re accepted as a Jason there.”

((‘Para-ferry’? ‘A Jason’?)) “Is that so?” I asked politely. “Um. Are other kinks attending the parade?”

“There’s leather, bondage, crossdressing,” he listed, nudging Cupcake and grinning, “and anything else that you can think of.”

“That’s lovely,” I responded, distracted by my bottle—I stared at it, still unsure of how to proceed with getting drunk.

((Have I truly forgotten how to drink booze? Cork. Glass. Pour. Sip.)) For the first time in a year I pulled the cork out of a bottle’s neck and filled my glass with golden tequila, a special nectar aged for ten or more summers, crafted for enthusiasts who’d rather let the flavors dance and mate and marry upon their tongues, against their cheeks, within their throats—not quite as aged a liquor as my partners human year-wise… in tequila years, though, in the same sweet late afternoon era as they were, and it would only get better as it approached its sublime sunset. ((Here’s to you, dear Tom, you handsome sonuvagun.))

Each sip was as beautifully complex as the previous. By the thousands my brain cells were being strangled, giving me a creeping, miniature death.

Between each shot I sank my teeth into the firm flesh of a fresh, plump lime wedge and sucked the sour-bitter-sweet juice from its core, then licked the salt off of the web between my thumb and pussy-fingering finger. Drink by drink my head spun up; the ecstasy glow and the sex glow and the alcohol glow synergized. ((Sobriety is stupid… I think I shall keep myself drunk 24/7)) henceforth.

I waited while Tom slowly finished his glass, by which time I’d gotten staggeringly sloshed, at least three if not four or even five drinks in; I had a fairly robust tolerance for alcohol, and I remained awake, alert, and capable of stumbling about with an acceptably low chance of falling—or so I assumed; in truth I had no concept of how drunk I really was since I’d lost count.

I wanted to know more about him, and the best place to start seemed to be the one thing we had in common. Between drinks, I asked him, “So… Tom. How many tickets do you write in a day?”

His smile twitched before he replied, “On average—788.”

“Holy cow. That’s almost 8 pads.”

“Yeah, Balboa Hills is the most busy, and it also has the most metered spots than any other neighborhood.”

“What’s that monthly?”

“23,990…” He was showing just a little irritation in his voice…

…but I kept going because I wanted to bond with him, and the most obvious way to accomplish that was talking about the things we had in common, which consisted of work and work alone. “That’s quite a lot. I only used to get 8 per week.”

“8?”

“Yes.”

“You had the Tango Papa Hotel zone, though.”

“Yes.”

“Tango Papa Hotel’s curbspace has almost as much demand as Balboa’s.”

“I worked mids.”

“Mids is when business on Adams peaks, when the sex workers show up. You shoulda been writing a fresh parking ticket every 15 seconds. You had the most profitable assignment next to mine and Jack’s.”

“Yeah, yeah…” I played with my hair nervously. “But—those… hookers are constantly topping off the meters, I could never find any cars to ticket. Um. (How…) do you keep track of 24,000 tickets on a monthly report?”

His face screwed up as if to ask me, [Why are you asking me about work?] “The same way you track yours.”

“Tom, the most I’ve ever dealt with in a month was 41. That’s not even a full-page report. Most months it was only half a page, and it wasn’t uncommon for my weeklies to be empty altogether. That’s why I wanna know how you, the best meter man in the unit, are able to manage the paperwork for so many citations. How do you sign damn near 500 pages at the end of every month without going nuts from the monotony?”

He sighed impatiently. “I sign the report electronically and the word processor signs all the pages for me automatically.”

“You sign everything all at once that way?” He nodded. “One click?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you do with the 500-ish pages that the printer spits out after that, just staple it and drop it on the lieutenant’s desk?”

“I don’t print it. I email it. It’s all electronic.”

“No paper?”

“No paper.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“It’s called ‘going paperless’, Bachman. It’s been SOP for as long as I’ve been here.”

“I’ve been printing and signing and hand-delivering reports when I could have been doing my job paperlessly! How inefficient and inconvenient and time-consuming for everyone involved. Especially the higher-ups, who have to copy my tickets into their spreadsheets by hand.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“The tools I needed were all right there, in plain sight, the whole time. I’m all for reducing paper usage, but I suppose I’m just old enough to default to old-fashioned solutions to modern problems.”

I knew damn well, though, what going paperless entailed. I was actually trying to flatter him, you see, by making him think he was a million times better at his job than I was. The real reason I had chosen to relay my reports to my superiors as full-color ink on physical, easily lost or damaged paper—a format that has the drawbacks of being neither electronically transmissible nor machine-readable, and of taking up space on a desk or in a file cabinet—was to force them to copy, by hand, one keystroke at a time, all of my typo-laden data into their intricate spreadsheets, mission-critical databases, and law enforcement sensitive (LES) executive briefs. And sometimes—after that boss had painstakingly proofread what I had given them and manually copied all of it into their computer—I would come back with a document with several changes hidden among the many columns and rows and paragraphs and bullet points and tell them, ‘Oops, I gave you the wrong one,’ without telling them what exactly had changed so that they would have to search for and correct the changes, usually with minutes left till the deadline.

‘I’m older than I look,’ I insisted each time my supervisor asked me to please, please submit my reports electronically going forward. ‘Old enough to be a grandmother, in fact.’ The first time I gave Lieutenant Daniels this excuse, I was 25; as gross as it is to consider, I reasoned that—had I conceived the first time I ovulated and my child had followed my example—25 would indeed have been plenty old enough for grandmotherhood. ‘I’m not good with technology because I’m aged and wisened and these tools are made by young people with empty brains for young people with empty brains and designed to be hostile to older users who are set in our ways because our brains are full of useful information rather than all of that Internet crap. You’re already forcing me to use a fancy newfangled information processing system whose technomagical internal workings are only understood by a generation younger than mine; as a mature woman who grew up with technology far simpler than what the kids are using these days, I fear that your demand that I stop doing things the way I learned to do them—which is the best way, by the way, because us elders know best—could be construed as…’ I would then speak the magic word as quietly and as ominously as possible: ‘…ageism.’ Tom didn’t have a Need To Know™ about my crusade for zero percent efficiency, though; I just wanted to make him feel like he was the best damn meter maid on the force.

“I’d like to change the subject,” he insisted.

“Sure. But at some point I’d like to look at your reports and maybe learn from you how to be more efficient.”

“I can’t share them,” he said with unexpected firmness.

“Why not?”

“Need to know.”

I nodded. “Ah. Right. ‘Need to know’…” See? Need To Know™ works both ways. It is a tricky bitch when you have the nosiness of a basset hound.

“All the data you, as a civilian, are allowed to see is posted online, for the public to pursue.”

“‘Pursue’… Do you mean ‘peruse’?”

Irritation peeked through his pupils.

“Alright, alright. So you’re saying our stuff is viewable online?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“For as long as I’ve been here.”

“Wow. Where’s the data hosted?” (I knew the URL by heart: ‘SVPD.SantaVirginia.CA.GOV​ /Records​ /Public​ /TrafficDivision​ /PEU’.)

He shrugged, probably because he had never had any interest in the department’s public records database. Which is fine, there’s absolutely nothing of interest in the SVPD public records repository, considering it’s totally anonymized and all the juicy stuff has been redacted into oblivion.

“Alright. Are you saying that if I Ask Jeeves for ‘Tom Forrester citations June’ I’ll find all of your stats for last month?”

“Ugh, no—” He glanced at Pink for just a fraction of a second, then, politely as he could, explained, “The information on The Web is aggravated by all officers.”

The next nail in my coffin hammered itself reflexively. “Did you mean ‘aggregated from’?”

His eyes simmered, but I had been soaking in the pot since the water was comfortably warm. “That’s what I said.”

I suddenly felt a little dizzy. I blinked. “Woah… Uhm. How about… What’s the fastest you’ve ever gone in your PEV?”

“The top speed’s 45 on a full charge.” His voice was parched of all amusement.

“I know the top speed, I wanna know how fast you’ve gone.”

“55. Downhill.”

“How often?”

He sighed again. “Every day, Red. It’s called ‘Balboa Hills’ for a reason.”

“Oh. Right. Is it scary?”

“It’s like driving fast downhill on a top-heavy electric tricycle.”

“I wouldn’t want to try it. It sounds dangerous. Also, the speed limit in most of the Hills is 35. How about your speed record in a real cop car? Have you ever driven a cruiser over the limit?”

His cheek twitched. “Are you gonna interrogate me about the manatees of my vacation all night like a little kid or are you willing to contribute to an adult conversation, Red?”

((‘Manatees’…? Oh!)) I giggled. ((He means ‘Minutiae’!)) “Mih-new-she-uh. Not ‘manatees’.”

Amused as a bull by a waving red cape, he acknowledged my correcting him by doubling the hostility within his eyes—but as I remind you that I was drunk and high, you will successfully deduce that I failed to deduce that I had touched on a particularly delicate topic.

“Alright. Where did you work before you came to Santa Virginia?”

“Thank you. LAPD.”

“Just like Lieutenant Columbo!”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“LAPD, LAPD… Did you ever hafta ‘physically persuade’ a combative driver into accepting their speeding ticket?”

His nose flared and his eyes latched onto mine like a leopard’s fangs onto the neck of its prey. I glanced at Pink, and saw that he was on the edge of freaking out, his eyes pleading, [What are you doing?]

((What am I doing? Just asking friendly questions. These guys are acting weird.)) “Well?” I gently, playfully punched Tom’s shoulder. “You ever needed to teach somebody a lesson?”

He was containing himself rather well, considering the emotions visibly attempting to wrest power of his body from his mind; the only thing escaping his face was the look of bloodthirst leaking from his eyes. This time I noticed. ((Shit, why’s he suddenly upset? I just want to know what kind of cop he is.))

Pink rubbed his husband’s back. “Honey, relax… Eupraxia, can you stop asking quest—‍”

“Is it true that LA cops are corrupt and bloodthirsty?”

Tom didn’t say a thing.

((Careful Andrea, try not to offend him,)) was the last sober thought I had before I handed Fate the noose I had so expertly knotted. ((But I hafta know if he has integrity as a law enforcement officer! I can’t stop asking questions, I need to ask more questions!)) was my last inebriated thought as Fate slipped the noose around my neck and cinched it snug. “Have you ever shot anyone? Put someone in a chokehold? Violated their constitutional rights? Was it justified? Did you get in trouble or did the union protect you?”

And then I finally began to realize I was only feeding more fuel to the flames within his eyes. ((Guilt.)) I stared into them and saw that it was me who was burning in there. ((Guilt… and… fury. Two emotions which are mixing… very… unpredictably…)) His face adopted a hundred-thousand fierce emotions—damn near every one of them was screaming, [Kill her,] and each had in mind a different method for the task. His breaths, however, were deep and deliberate and single-minded, like a bull galloping full tilt down the street at a runner lagging behind the rest of the corredors.

At that moment it occurred to me that I had not brought us closer together but had rather insulted him beyond his limits. My eyes grew wide as realization of my self-defeat spread like a virus throughout my brain, from neuron to neuron to neuron, making copies of itself and flooding all my consciousness with a hundred-million panicked thoughts that stretched my eyes wide and drove my diaphragm into a frenzy so that my body shook with each wild breath. I leaned away from him, my plan being to make my exit by scooting one ass cheek an inch back and then the other, smoothly as I could, with hope that he’d be less likely to pounce if I kept all my movements slow and smooth and unpreylike.

He wrapped his fingers around my neck in response to the first twitch I made towards escape.

I tried to scream, but nothing came; a voice cried out in horror in my stead. I grabbed one of his wrists and tried to pull his hands away, then tried to pry his fingers off, then tried to scratch his eyes—having forgotten that I had by habit chewed my nails to nubs.

“Stop, Tom!”

I needed air, sweet air was all that I could think about. My arms lost all their tone, my hands fell away from prying off his grip. ((Air. I need air.)) The edges of my vision blurred and chewed their way towards the center like a burning frame of celluloid, the emptiness they left behind turning bright red, my ending coming sooner than I’d planned.

“Tom, please! Let her go!”

((Please, God, please let me breathe.)) I tried to move a muscle, any limb, but I’d been utterly deprived of all my strength.

“Let go of her!”

((Air air air air… air… Why do I need air again?)) My vision long ago had melted away, and in its place bloomed blind Euphoria, who reached for all the suffocating cells inside my brain and gave each of them a gentle, soothing hug. My fear dissolved, my need for air became forgotten; I accepted, without remorse or ill will, that my time had come—that now was when, that this was how, and here was where—I was to die.

And I agreed with Fate that the timing and circumstances of my murder were perfectly ideal.

“(Tom, please stop, please, I love her, Tom…)” The begging became muffled, then gave way to peace.

Oblivion was not a cold and dark and dreary place—instead it was illuminated by a warming light which disassembled me one atom at a time, which cut loose my privations and regrets and desires, so that I could evaporate within its warming embrace. I was nearly ready to move on.

But I could not depart quite yet, because one last concern still lived within my otherwise cleansed soul. With my last precious second of hypoxic, drunken consciousness I thought, ((I hope my funeral is nice… though I don’t know who’s gonna plan it. I wish Pink or Judy could have been in my will.)) This problematic thought was holding back my soul; I brushed it to the side, and brushed away whoever ‘Judy’ and ‘Pink’ were. While I was at it, I forgot who Diane and Georgina were. In the distance I saw Shosh by herself, sitting, brooding… worrying, though I knew not what for. I felt some unknown force pull me towards her, and her towards me. Her head turned my way; small as she was from so far away, I saw her face clearly, saw that her eyes were consumed by fear. I didn’t need to know her anymore, so I discarded all my memories of her as well. The last of my soul having been uprooted…

For the first time in my life—if easing into nonexistence can indeed be called a phase of life—I was free.