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Jackboot Cops Destroying My Sex Life

Written by Dary Matera Subject: Sexuality: Sex and the Law

Every once in a blue moon, fate smiles down on a person and makes a dream come true. The precise form this dream takes differs wildly among free thinking individuals, so bear with me here.

Fate smiled lustily upon me Saturday night at 2:30 a.m. when two playfully intoxicated, nubile young Goth Gurls at a local club invited me to follow them to their cave. One was so playfully drunk that her supple left breast kept popping out of her shiny black Victorian dress, a la the movie The 40-Year-Old Virgin.

I'm not really sure what a Ménage-a-Goth entails, but being an ever curious author, I was certainly eager to find out. Maybe they bite your neck in stereo, vacuum blood out of your big toes in ravishing gulps, fly around naked in ebony garters, or suck the epidermis off something. Whatever, it sounded intriguing to me.

Early on, I cautioned myself that some rain might fall on this dark and glorious pending parade during the fifteen-mile trek from the club to the ladies lair. I cued my Quasar Blue convertible behind their nondescript Nissan and uttered a prayer for a safe, unimpeded journey.

At issue was the strong possibility of having my fantasy-come-true intercepted by player hating cops. The party-poopers-in-blue were out in force for the Labor Day weekend, hungering for victims like starving wolves. They lurked in every roadside nook and cranny, ready to dig their rabid fangs into happy holiday revelers.

The prospect of such an unwelcomed encounter was increasing dramatically by the minute. The black-maned Native American Goth Girl at the wheel was weaving like an injured gazelle, and was blowing red lights like a fleeing bank robber. The odds of a successful navigation to the awaiting pleasure dungeon were shrinking like a pair of cheap jeans in a steam washer.

I know what you're thinking. A better, community spirited man would have stopped right there, dialed 911, and ratted out these potential dangers-to-society for the good of country and finger wagging MADD Mothers everywhere. I, alas, am not such a better man. Nor do I know of any man, actually, who is better to that degree.

Instead, I pulled in tighter to the Goth Girl vehicle to shield their weaving and blood scent from potential wolves.

Things went surprisingly well until we exited the safety of the brightly lit freeway and headed into the danger zone of deserted city streets flanked by myriad porcine hiding places. Sure enough, trouble arrived in the form of a chubby, eyeglass wearing motorcycle cop I noticed hiding in the dark recesses of a closed gas station. The officer promptly fired up his engine and headed our way in the adjacent lane.

"Oh crap," I thought, edging closer to bumper of my satanic playmates. "The SOB is going to nail them before I get the chance!"

Within thirty seconds, the pudgy jackboot hit his disco lights. Problem was, instead of yanking over the drunken, weaving, red light running, sexually aroused Goth Girls, he was on my tail.

Just friggin' great.

Having been cuffed, arrested, jailed, and nearly shot dead not long ago for the horrible crime of failing to pull over quickly enough for an unmarked car late at night, I went right to the curb. In the prior incident, I thought the weak flashing lights emanating from inside the trailing vehicle might be a clever carjacker or robber, and crept forward OJ style for .6 miles until I found a well-lighted public place to stop.

A sweaty and greatly agitated Police Lieutenant emerged, enraged that I hadn't instantly respected his storm trooper authoriti. His gun was drawn and his itchy finger was firmly on the trigger. Spit flew from between his clenched teeth as he screamed draconian orders, roughed me up at gunpoint, and slapped on the irons. To my utter shock, this frenzied blue goon was ready to kill over a minor traffic violation.

The three most serious resisting whatever charges were later thrown out in court, leaving me with a phony speeding citation the prosecutor dreamed up as a face-saving compromise. (The criminal charges were erased thanks to the skills of that great jackboot fighting Libertarian defense attorney Marc Victor, You're the anti-man, Marc!)

With this nightmarish memory reverberating through my brain, I waited in trepidation Saturday night for yet another dose of 21st Century American oppression. Meanwhile, viewing my predicament in their rear view mirror, the pheromone oozing Goth Girls, bless their breast popping, cold black hearts, beat it down the road like literal bats out of hell. That left me to fend with Mr. Motorcycle jackboot all by my right-side-up cross-wearing lonesome.

I wasn't overly concerned about the coming interaction because, although I had been drinking earlier in the night, I cut myself off at midnight as is my routine, and began pounding water for two hours. Usually, I meander on foot to a Circle K for some blood alcohol reducing hotdogs as well before departing. This evening, however, I was on Goth Girl tail, and had to skip that step.

Regardless, I knew I was sober enough to respond rationally to Mr. Jackboot's standard mindless inquiries, and might in fact be glib enough to win a quick enough release to catch up with the fleeing prey.

The chubby ChiPs wannabe was from central casting. A mean, nasty, power hungry type, he was in the proverbial foul mood from having to work the graveyard shift on a holiday. That, and being assigned the task of totally screwing up a lot of good, hard working people's lives for no good reason.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" he opened.

I figured it was the same as always, my libertarian designed photo radar combating license plate cover. I volunteered nothing, of course, not wanting to pour potentially unheeded salt into the wound.

"No sir. Not a clue."

"You were tailgating."

No friggin' kidding, I thought. Standard opt when drafting a potential bedmate home from a social gathering.

At this point, I decided to be honest with Mr. Cop and play the old male bonding card.

"Yeah, I was following those girls to their pad. I'm about to score one of those `nights of a lifetime' you see in movies or read about in cheap novels. If you let me get back on the road, I can possibly catch them! I'm talking a major ménage here."

"Have you been drinking?" he asked, too pissed about his own miserable existence to share in my good fortune. Instead, his accusatory jackboot mind calculated that I must have met the dames in a bar, where I'd surely been pouring them down myself.
So much for being honest with a stinkin' rabid dog cop.

"No sir," I lied. "Haven't had a drop."

"Please get out of your car."

"Come on," I pleaded. "Did you hear me? I haven't been drinking. I've got not one, but two big pasty white Goth tunas on the line. They're getting away. Cut me some slack here."

"Don't you have their phone number?"

"No," I said, digging my grave deeper. Obviously, I wasn't trailing a longtime girlfriend home from midnight mass. "Who knows if these Goth Girls even have phones?" I added.

At this point, Mr. Angry Motorcycle Cop pulled out his oppressive little communist red penlight in one hand, and skull-cracking billy club flashlight in the other, and ordered me to do that degrading "go to the light with your eyes" dance to see if my pupils were twittering. Despite my confidence of sobriety, it was a scary moment. I'm not an expert on twittering eyes, and who knows if a few sturdy vodka shots at 10 p.m. will make your eyes twitter at 3 a.m. when all the other effects have long worn off?

He flashed, I followed (I know the dance well), all the while reminding him that haste in the dehumanizing procedure would be especially appreciated this evening.

It was touch and go for a moment or two. I felt myself trembling in fear of another arrest, this one complete with a trip to the hidden storm trooper vampire van for the wrong kind of blood sucking, followed by a ten day mandatory stint in Sheriff's Joe's wretched Tent City hell hole.

Suddenly, the cop snapped off the lights and returned them to his pocket and belt. Without a single word, he turned and hopped back on his bike. There was no apology, no "sorry I messed up your night of a lifetime, dude" nothing. If anything, he seem angry that I had wasted his precious time by not being drunk.

For a moment, now safely twitter free and feeling rather pissed and violated, I felt like screaming "You total a-hole. The ladies I was following were drunk-outta-their devil worshiping minds, and you pull me over? Brilliant police work there Dick Tracy!"

Of course, that wouldn't have been prudent. Plus, I feared the seething DUI Brown Shirt would have rocketed off after the raven young things, and I didn't want to jack them up.

The twin vixens, as I expected and fully supported, were long gone. The mystery of what exactly a tag-team of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark types do for sexual kicks with middle-aged authors had rapidly dissolved into one of those life scarring lost adventures.

The moral to this depressing story? Libertarians wail endlessly about freedom this, freedom that, too much government, we need to battle, we can make changes, etc. ad nauseam.

In the end, we're all just jacking ourselves off. That's because as long as some chubby cop with a GED, a gun, and a pen light has the power to jerk people off the street for any reason, real or manufactured, flash spotlights into their eyes, make them do the "Tent City street dance," and basically own you heart, body and soul without reason or provocation, there will never be any semblance of freedom in America.

Not to mention totally screwing up a guy's sexual fantasy almost come true.

To resurrect an old 1960s cry, F-bomb the pigs!

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