Monday, 14 September 2015

Erotic Flash Fiction: September in Chicago IL

Chicago IL, September 1995:

What I heard the young super-model – Cindy Crawford? Elle Macpherson? – say on TV, while I was changing in my hotel room, puzzled by the legal jargon in the ominous police notice in my pocket, shattered but safe: “In Europe everybody is naked! On the seaside in Italy and Spain. In France! People just don’t bother with swimming costumes. They’re all nude! Everywhere!”

What the blond police officer shouted, an hour earlier, inside the constricted lift, as we all queued in our way out of the station house, causing the scraggy inmate in front of me to chuckle with knowing approval: “Mind who’s behind you. Watch your asshole! It’s tight in here.”

What I thought the Puerto Rican police officer had said while he was taking my finger prints, joking in Spanglish about the beaches, the ‘playas’: “The bitches! You like the bitches in Spain?”

What I thought to myself as I stood unable to pee into a toilet bowl in full view of the dodgy looking inmate in the second cell I was put at the police station: “This rough guy is probably thinking I am gay.”

What my mixed-race companion inside the first police cell said after I explained to him why I was there: “For that kind of thing you go to San Francisco, buddie! You don’t do that here in Chicago!”

What the fat police officer handcuffing me in Grant Park said as he found a copy of Burroughs’ “The Naked Lunch” in my belongings: “Just because the book says ‘naked’, you gotta get naked?”

What I thought earlier in the afternoon when I saw the huge police car driving across the lawn, flashing lights on and sirens at full volume, speeding to reach me at the park spot where I was lying naked, face down, reading, in a sunny afternoon: This is just like a Hollywood movie!” 

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