Monday, 14 September 2015

Erotic Flash Fiction: September in Chicago IL

Chicago IL, September 1995:

What Didier heard the young super-model – Cindy Crawford? Elle Macpherson? – say on TV, while he was changing in his hotel room, puzzled by the legal jargon in the ominous police notice in his 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 Didier and all the others queued in our way out of the station house, causing the scraggy inmate in front of Didier to chuckle with knowing approval:  “Mind who’s behind you. Watch your asshole! It’s tight in here.”

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

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

What his mixed-race companion inside the first police cell said after Didier explained to him why he 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 him in Grant Park said as he found a copy of Burroughs’ “The Naked Lunch” in Didier’s belongings:  “Just because the book says ‘naked’, you gotta get naked?”

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

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