His simplified take on border crossings got me thinking about the one and only time I had ever kept my cool in the presence of law enforcement personnel…I was visiting a house in a counterintuitive part of town in search of the only dope available, which, suspiciously enough, was always available at this particular address, but I was too desperate to care about anything other than getting high, so I knocked on the door and the person keeping six yelled for me to take a step back in order to be properly identified through the peephole, and then I heard another person approach the peephole, and a murmuring discussion took place regarding my identity, before the dead bolt retracted and the chain lock came out of its track.
Inside the house there were people sitting with their backs to me on a sofa smoking crack cocaine, and there were others sitting on the floor, and yet another standing under a light searching his arm for a vein, and not one of them acknowledged my presence, except for the gaunt-faced female with rangy limbs who was perched 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, smiling at me as she unzipped the jeans of the man who was sitting in the chair, and commenced the fine art of fellatio.
Beginning at the bottom, she gently sucked 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 continued to watch as 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 up enough saliva to glaze the scrotum. Again and again this 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.
Everybody in the room was too busy getting high, so the mastery of her performance had gone unacknowledged, which I thought was inexcusable and therefore I made my erection obvious to her by reaching down and adjusting it into the less conspicuous vertical position, before getting back to the business of acquiring some morphine from the guy who had injected himself and was now sitting on the floor looking a lot like Siddhartha, and that’s when another knock came at the door—rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat.
The guy who had yelled at me to take a step 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 erection melted away as they walked from one end of the room to the other, discussing the desired “hoppiness” of craft beer, and I think I heard them agree to exchange brewing secrets when they passed by the man in the reclining chair and nodded at him as he ran his hand through the gaunt-faced female’s flame-red hair, patted her on the bum, and sent her on her way. I remember watching the undulation of her hips as she followed the craft beer hobbyists into the reaches of their far reaching house, and then I asked Siddhartha if he had any pills for sale, but he was unresponsive.