The Detective and the Hippie

I'd made detective only a couple of months ago, and I resented being on loan to Narcotics when I was assigned to Homicide. What was I, some kind of temp? But there weren't any murders (hey, I could work cold cases!) and there were a whole hell of a lot of drug users, so I was on loan until somebody killed somebody else, which I hoped happened soon. Provided they were members of a political party I disapproved of, of course. I wasn't unreasonable.

So that's how I met you. They'd sent me to scout around a university neighborhood known for high octane marijuana. Of course, I wasn't dressed for it. Promotion to detective had meant no more fucking uniform, and I'd invested in a couple of really nice, slightly form fitting suits to celebrate. I looked great, but I wasn't dressed for strolling through people's yards and peering into their vegetable gardens, which was what none of the local nimrods had thought to do. They were probably members of that selfsame political party I had the problem with. I was teetering through the foliage in my heels and tight skirt when I found a patch of truly righteous bud, surrounded by 6 foot tall shrubbery and a lot of fencing. My shoes would never be the same. My hair, which I'd pinned up, was falling down after an encounter with a recalcitrant bush. And I found you. I tried to fish out my badge without falling over.

It was really warm, and it got warmer as I looked you over. You weren't wearing anything but a pair of Levis so soft and worn that they looked like pale blue velvet. Your hair fell past your shoulders. There was a hoop in your left ear. . You seemed to take my badge entirely in your stride. I swallowed hard and congratulated you on your horticultural expertise. You quirked your eyebrow and accepted the compliment, smiling. Cocky. Just great. What was I supposed to do now? I knew what I wanted to do, of course. There were people who considered it a perk of the job. I even supported legalization for god's sake. Then you took the joint out from behind your ear and lit it, passing it politely to me as soon as you got it going. Oh, what the hell.

I took it and puffed experimentally. Mmm. Very nice. The kind of stuff that got you stoned in 30 seconds flat. I passed it back. I ran my eyes over your shoulders. God. I put my badge back into my pocket. It was too hot, it really was. I needed to get out of the jacket. Wool was far too warm for a day like this. But I wasn't wearing anything under the damned jacket (see form-fitting, above). Everything was becoming too complicated. Somehow the joint was finished.

I felt more hair slither down the back of my neck. Shit. As I moved both hands up to try and pin it back, your hands were in my hair taking out the pins, letting it fall past my shoulders. It felt unbelievably good. I found my hands running up your chest to your shoulders of their own volition. I kissed you. Or you kissed me. Something happened, something weird and subterranean and overwhelming, that fused us into a single organism. I'm the one who took my jacket off, I remember, because I wanted to feel my breasts against your chest.

And then we were lying in the grass and I was running my hands along those velvet soft jeans, along your thighs and ass, and the hardness that led me to struggle with the buttons with fingers that were less than steady. Jesus. You were huge. I may have said something as you slipped the pants the rest of the way off and began to work on my skirt. There was too much of you to fit in my mouth, but I tried. God, you were beautiful. You rolled to your back and let me try, winding your hands in my hair.

But you stopped me before you came, taking me by the shoulders and pushing me back into the grass, rolling over me and thrusting between my legs so acutely, that it didn't even take my hands to guide you in. I may have made some hysterical remark about heat-seeking missiles at that point. You pointed out that our personal arms raise was infinitely preferable to the publicly acknowledged one. I could not but agree. You were so hard and I was so wet that size was no impediment.

And it was as if you found every secret place that could give me pleasure. Maybe because there was so much of you and I was so full as a consequence that there wasn't even a bit of me that you could miss. You kissed my moans and noises into yourself somehow, muffling what could have been too loud, and thrust harder and harder until there were tears in my eyes and my orgasm came like some kind of a thermonuclear explosion, pulling you over the edge too, shaking the garden like an earthquake, making us cling to one another and to the surface of the earth, in the grass, as for a moment we felt it hurtle through space.