Trauma in Milan (or, I’d probably give good head)

His overly simplified take on hassle-free border crossings got me thinking of the one and only time I had ever kept my cool in the presence of the police. I had visited a place in a counterintuitive part of town in search of the only dope available. I knocked on the door and the person keeping six yelled for me to stand back in order to be identified through the peephole. Another person approached the door and a murmuring discussion took place regarding my identity before the dead bolt retracted and the chain lock came out of its track. Inside, there were people sitting with their backs to me, on a sofa, smoking crack. Others were sitting on the floor, in profile, their backs against the wall. Another was standing under a light, searching his arm for a vein. My presence was ignored by everyone except a gaunt-faced female with rangy limbs who sat on the arm of a reclining chair in the far corner of the room. She belonged on a catwalk in Milan, but there she was in a trap house, taking a pipe out of the proffering hand of the man who was sitting in the chair she was perched upon. She hit the pipe, exhaled, reached down between her legs, grabbed the recliner handle, pulled the man with the proffering hand into the supine position, unzipped his jeans and commenced the fine art of fellatio. She began at the bottom, gently sucking the testes, before licking her way up the shaft to flutter the glans with the tip of her tongue; all the while authorizing my voyeurism with businesslike glances. I felt myself getting hard and I wanted to look away, but she saw the shame on my face and challenged it with a wink. So, I watched. She took the head of the penis into her mouth and when it filled the top of her throat she let it remain there until she gagged and glazed the scrotum with saliva. The entire sequence was repeated until a back arching orgasm brought her fine art to an end, at which point she disengaged, gave me a tight lipped smile full of childhood trauma, grabbed an empty beer can, spit into it and wiped her chin.

Other than the man in the chair, nobody else in the room acknowledged what had just happened, except me of course. I returned her smile, adjusted my erection so that it was being held up against my navel by the waistband of my jeans, and began the business of acquiring some morphine. I was about to ask the guy who had injected himself and was now lying on the floor, his face an ancient mask of imperturbability, when another knock came at the door. The guy who had yelled at me to stand back so that he could identify me through the peephole didn’t do it this time. Instead, he opened the door right away and standing there were two plainclothes detective types, guns and badges on their hips, impassive looks in their eyes. My cock went soft as they walked from one end of the room to the other, discussing the desired ‘hoppiness’ of craft beer. They agreed to exchange brewing secrets as they passed by the man in the reclining chair, who, after nodding at them, ran his hand through the gaunt-faced female’s flame-red hair, and then sent her on her way. I watched the undulation of her hips as she followed the craft beer hobbyists into the reaches of their far reaching house. After a minute or two, I steeled my nerves and asked the guy who had injected himself if he had any pills for sale. He did, so I bought a few and then left the premises the same way I arrived: unnoticed.


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