tagGay MaleSnaring an Arab Cop

Snaring an Arab Cop

byCoxswain©

This is a true story, as told to me by a friend.

I'm a New York cab driver. Yeah, yeah, I know. But it's a living. Yeah, I've been held up. Twice. But life goes on, right?

Boring. Or at least until that fare opened the door and climbed into my cab.

Brown skin, black hair. Hispanic, right? In New York, probably Puerto Rican. But his eyes. God! Blue, astonishing blue. Made me think of a raging river. Deep blue. Dark. Dangerous blue. His mama must have fooled around with a Norwegian tourist.

He wore his curly hair medium-long--beautiful. With thin lips and a large nose, he looked like a professor. Of what, Spanish literature?

Big. Sprawled across the back seat, he had to be way over six feet. Professor of Spanish Football? Spanish Wrestling?

He gave me an address--rundown part of the city. Thought he'd be a little more uptown than that. Maybe slumming. Once we got to the place, graffiti on the walls, overturned trash cans, homeless bums asleep on the sidewalk, he got out of the cab and asked me to wait.

Okay. Not excited about that, but I needed the fare. On the other hand, maybe I'd be lucky--it was late enough all the muggers probably left already--off for the richer parts of town for better pickings.

I watched him knock on an apartment door and go in. Five, maybe six minutes later I heard three gunshots!

Oh, shit! I had the key in the ignition, about to take off, when the door opened and the guy stumbled out of the apartment, falling down the stoop and collapsing on the sidewalk.

Two more guys bolted out the door, jumped over him, and sprinted for a car parked at the curb. Gone in a screech of tires.

The guy lying on the sidewalk was still. Oh, shit. Dead?

I got out and ran over. He was breathing but bleeding. A big stain spread over his pantleg. And from the swelling on his head, I saw he had been knocked out, probably even before the fall down the steps.

Oh, shit, now what? This was a drug deal! I can't just take him to a hospital--they'll hold me, too!

I could just drive through and push him out the door--naw, the hospital cameras would record my cab number, and the cops would be at my door in an hour.

Fuck! I can't just leave him here!


And of course, in that neighborhood, at the sound of a gunshot, people grew scarce. Nobody on the sidewalk. Nobody running out to help.

First things first. I checked to see where he was bleeding. A hole in both sides of his pantleg--the bullet went clean through his calf. I pulled off his belt and wrapped it around his leg above the wound for a tourniquet. I picked him up--not so easy: he stood a good 6'7", and I'm five feet, a short guy. I succeeded in dragging him over to the cab and pushing him into the back seat.

I got in, and we roared off--to my apartment, which, I'm not proud to say, wasn't far away. This thing is getting out of control! What if he croaks in my apartment!

Hey, he won't croak from a bullet through the calf. He's out cold from whatever hit him in the head. I'll just bandage him up, drag him down to the street, then call 9-1-1.


Once in my apartment on the bed, I didn't have time to "cut away his pantleg" like they do in the movies. I took off the belt, pulled off his shoes, and grabbing both pantcuffs, I pulled his pants down and off.

Wow. Hips like the concrete foundations of the Brooklyn Bridge. Big, powerful legs--plenty of muscle for that bullet to go through. The guy must be an athlete.

Sure enough, a Wilson jockstrap, but--ohmigod!--the pouch sagged like he was smuggling softballs. Jeez, maybe he keeps his gun in there. No wonder they got him first--no quick-draw holster. Dumb drub dealer. Good-looking, though.

After I mopped up the blood and put on a bandage, I checked that jock. Yeah, yeah, okay. I mean, hey, I didn't want a gun going off in my apartment, now did I? What did that jockstrap hold?

God.

I stared. Trees on this street aren't that thick. Or tall.

He was one hung P.R. His mama must've also fooled around with an African pirate. Or a Norwegian moose.

One of those "pyramid" dicks. Tapered from a small, pointed head to wider than a beer can at the base, where it spread out into the taut muscles of his groin and the black jungle of his curly black pubic hair--whoever he put that thing into would purr at first but be screaming by the end of the stroke.

Couldn't help myself: Sure like to suck that. Could I? Maybe halfway down?

I shook my head. Idiot! What if he wakes up?

Almost on cue, he shifted his hips and his cockhead moved: the pink thing moved back and forth. Getting bigger.

He's dreaming of a blowjob, so why don't I give him one?

You're going to suck off a drug dealer in your own damned bed?


Yeah. Had to do it. Just too fucking handsome. I was not a complete idiot, though. I set up my camera on a tripod. A little blackmail photo might be a great bargaining chip.

I crawled onto the bed between his legs and spread them apart. I checked--the bleeding had stopped. I want this. I want it bad. I listened, he was snoring

The closer I got, the more I smelled that jockstrap. Had to be a bachelor. No wife would put up with that thing. Like a urinal cake. Spicy. Crotchy. The smell of balls.

I stuck out my tongue for a taste. Yeah. Flavors I recognized: salty sweat, grime, tangy musk, piercing aromas, and now the smell of a hot, sweaty Puerto Rican drug dealer.

My own dong throbbed hard in my pants. I opened my mouth and sucked in that pointed cockhead, pushing his foreskin back with my tongue. Delicious. The unforgettable liquor fermented in an uncut cock. Hispanic male salsa.

Just as I figured, his broad cockshaft wowed my mouth out to full jaw-stretch still only halfway down it. But I didn't care, right? As his pink arrowhead gouged down my throat, I was dizzy.

He had several inches of shaft left over, so I jacked that part, gripping as much as I could--my fingers didn't reach around it. I didn't shake the bed or writhe around--didn't want to wake him up. I settled down to a slow, seductive pace, figuring a blowjob on a sleeping guy would take a long time.

Wrong.

Only a minute or two later, the big thing swelled even more, choking me, forcing me to back off, and ka-blam! A shovel-full of jism shot into my mouth, again choking me, but this time with hot liquid. At that moment, the flash on my camera went off! We're co-stars in our own porn photo! Coughing and gasping, I backed off still further and got the next ejaculations all over my face.

God, what balls! He was still shooting, so I glommed onto that thing again and got two or three bursts over my tongue. Son of A bitch! He must've been saving that up for weeks. Hope he didn't open his wound. I looked. Nope. The bandage held. I looked up to his face. Still asleep.

Snickering to myself, I wiped up the cum that dripped on him, backed off the bed, and went into the bathroom to clean up.

He slept through the night. So did I, stretched out on the couch. But first gloating. Motherfucker, I sucked off a drug dealer! Even got me a picture!

The next morning when I opened my eyes, I looked across the room. He was awake, struggling to sit up. I got up and walked over.

"Morning. You were in a little jam there on the sidewalk last night. This is my apartment; I brought you here to patch you up." He gave me a blank look.

"I'm the cabbie. You took my cab to 21 Cantori Street last night, remember?"

"Ahhhhh, yes." He looked around the room. "I am very grateful to you." He held out his hand. "I am Da'ud ibn Husseini. I am an Interpol agent from France."



A what?? Shit! Fuck! Hell!
A cold sweat broke out on my face.

"I am here to pursue the drug smuggling," he went on.

Oh, fuck, how do I get out of this?? "You're--you're from France?" Stupid question. Didn't know what else to say.

He smiled. "I am as you Americans say, 'a sheik of Araby.' I was born in Algeria."

I smiled back. An Arab. So much for racial profiling.

He put his hand to his head. "Aiii, quelle dolor! The pain!" He looked up at me. "They are hit me in the head as I am walk in the door." He slumped back on the bed and passed out again.

Now what, Einstein? He's seen your face and knows you helped him. He won't forget this.

I'd made my bed, so I had to sleep in it--I took care of him until he was strong enough to get up (the rest of that day). I brought him corn dogs and beer, and when he could stand and walk, I cut off the legs of his pants so he had a pair of shorts to wear. I accepted his thanks, shook his hand, said goodbye, and watched him go out that evening into the street.

He looked at the number on my building. "Tell me, mon ami, what is your telephone number?"

I was nervous as hell, but what the hell, he knew my name and where I lived, anyway. I told him, and he wrote it in a small pad he pulled from his pocket. Then he hailed a cab. Luckily one stopped--don't always do that in this neighborhood at night.

For two days I figured any second the cops would bang on my door.

Okay, you're wondering why they would come after me, since I helped out a cop, right? Well, I had an outstanding warrant for a little pot I got caught with. Never made it to the arraignment. Thought I'd just keep a low profile.

Then I got the telephone call.

"Alo, George!" He pronounced it Zhorzhe. "This is Da'ud! Remember me?"

Oh, fuck. "Yeah, sure." I take a size 12 handcuffs.

"Listen to me, George, you did me a wonderful favor--"

Right, he's going to recommend me to the cops for an award. To be handed through the bars.

"--and I would like to take you to dinner."

Dinner? What'd he say?

"Would you like to go to dinner with me, George?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Where do you want me to meet--"

"--It is my treat. I will swing by to pick you up tonight at nine. This is okay, ne c'est pas?"

"Sure, yeah. See you at nine."

A few more pleasantries, and he hung up. Fuck, now what do I do? Is this a sting?< /> I could just skip. Not be there. Move out of the apartment.

But why would they go to such a complicated sting just to nail a pot smoker when they already had my address and phone? For them it was a drive-by, just knock and grab.

What the hell. I decided to roll with it. I took a bath and shaved, dressed in the last clean shirt and found the chino pants without the ketchup stain.

I went commando. Dunno. Never can tell. And it's a little easier to feel a pickpocket if we end up in a tough place.

At nine right on the button, he pulled up in a black Citroen with diplomatic tags. Shit! From the French embassy. Park anywhere with that.

He wore a shiny suit that fit him like sprayed on. Coal black. Like "My name is Bond. Da'ud Bond." He looked eight feet tall.

I almost didn't answer the door. He and I were like Omar Sharif and Jed Clampett. "Bon soir, George!" He stepped into the room and shook my hand. "Are you ready to go?"

First time I ever rode in a Citroen. Read about them. It had a hydraulic suspension system. Rode like a flying carpet.

Da'ud took me downtown to Le Bernardin. Damn. Never had a fare in this part of town, let alone eat in such a place.

"They are cooking the seafood here," he said. "I am hoping you are liking the fish."

"Oh, sure, who doesn't like seafood?" Hell, I knew them all--canned tuna, canned salmon, sardines, kipper snacks, McDonald's fish sandwich, everything.

Inside, the maitre'd stopped me--and gave me a jacket to wear. Poor Da'ud. He looked like he could be waiting for Meg Ryan to come out of the powder room, but instead his partner was a cabbie in tennis shoes and a blue sportcoat that didn't fit him. They put us at a table way in back, in the shadows, where the paying customers wouldn't see they let in a charity case.

The sommelier walked up. "Wine, m'sieu?"

Da'ud looked at me. "I will order, if you like."

I nodded. Hell, yeah. If they didn't have Boone's Farm 2008, I was out of suggestions.

"Avez-vous Pétrus?"

"Ah, oui, monsieur, but--" he paused. "Pétrus is $1,000 a bottle."

"C'est bien. Allez!"

God. A grand for a bottle of wine? I was beginning to loosen up. What prosecutor in history would have agreed to a sting this ornate to catch a penny-ante pot smoker?

But who in hell sat across the table from me? Aristotle Onassis? No, Onassis was Greek.

God, Da'ud was handsome. The black of his hair and eyebrows and the dark, seductive shadow of his beard were dark, mysterious, dangerous shadows--except for the blue, impossibly azure laser beams of his eyes!

Hard to look him in the face. His eyes were almost too intense to look into. Like looking up at the sun.

The waiter appeared. "Oui, m'sieu? Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" Oily voice. The word had been passed in the kitchen--a French swell out front had just ordered a thousand-dollar bottle of wine. I imagined the fist-fights back there over who got to work our table for the tip.

Da'ud looked over at me. "May I order for us both?"

Again I nodded. If they didn't have Chicken McNuggets or chimichangas, I had no more menu choices.

"Nous voulons le saumon flambé avec le sauce Bernaise, mais pas de trop citron. Depuis, fraises et champagne." I heard French like that once. In a movie. Just before the Nazi machine-gunned the heroic French Resistance fighter.

He looked at me. Down at me, rather--I was a good foot shorter. "I am order the salmon. It is very good here. I hope you will like it."

"Oh, yeah. Salmon. My favorite." I had cans of it in the cupboard. You kidding? A class joint like this has the balls to serve salmon? Only people who eat salmon are poor cabbies and grizzly bears in Washington.

The wine came. A guy walked out like he was carrying the Hope Diamond, and with flourishes and swooping gestures, he uncorked the bottle, poured a couple drops into a saucer thing he wore around his neck, sipped it, nodded, then poured a little into Da'ud's glass.

This restaurant was class. Everybody I knew drank wine straight from the bottle. Less washing of glasses.

Da'ud sniffed at it, sipped from the glass, then nodded to the waiter, who then filled my glass, then turned to fill Da'ud's glass again. He placed the bottle on the table.

What? No ice? We're supposed to drink this hooch at room temperature?

Da'ud picked up his glass and raised it to me in a salute. I raised mine, too, we clinked, and I chugged it down: okay. Good taste. Not that much of a kick. I wouldn't pay a grand for it. I looked over at Da'ud.

His eyes--those burning eyes--looked at me with amusement. He sipped at his drink and continued to nurse it, swallowing tiny bits, savoring every one.

Oops. Did Jed Clampett just fuck up (again)?

He refilled my glass. I sipped at it. Hey, I can adapt. I can blend in.

After a few quiet moments, he looked down at me again. Damn, those eyes again.

"George, I am have a very strange dream. I do not know what makes this dream, but--but I am in the ecstase, I am in pleasure, and--" He paused, uncertain. "I am seeing your face appear in the ... clouds of my pleasure."

Those eyes staring into mine again. I had to look away.

"Je ne sais pas que me passé. I am not know what is happen with me. I am not the gay." He paused, looked at me again. "I cannot get you out of my mind."

About then the meal arrived. Like the legions of Darius approaching the heroic Spartans at Thermopylae, a retinue of restaurant flunkies came marching out of the kitchen, rolling before them a table with a silver brazier holding a large dish.

When they reached our table, the waiter struck a match and voom! The dish erupted in flames!

Gradually the flaming brandy burned out, and the waiter lifted portions of the salmon onto plates, poured a few spoonfuls of the sauce over them, adjusted the garnish, then placed them before us.

I picked up a fork from the 13 beside my plate. How many did they think I was going to drop?

The first mouthful: God! An orgasm in my mouth! Electric thrills burned from my taste buds all the way to my brain. The stuff was way beyond "good." Looked like a salmon steak with a gravy, but the flavors interplayed and intertwined in a hundred savors of sauce, spice, meat, and the unrecognizable.

I wasn't worthy to eat in this place. As soon as they realized what an urchin had sneaked into the restaurant and dared to eat food this wonderful, the bouncer would throw me out on my ass.

Eating the rest was like hovering in an afterglow, just this side of a sexual climax. I swear: that food was so good it gave me a hardon.

Da'ud ate thoughtfully. But not ecstatically. As if he ate it every day for lunch. A cop? A cop eats this good? Interpol must have deep pockets.

I ate every morsel, wiping up the gravy with my finger after checking to see no one was watching. I wanted to lick the plate but knew I couldn't get away with that.

About the time we finished, the sommelier showed up again. "Champagne Krug Brut mil neuf cent novante," he murmured, holding up a bottle.

Da'ud nodded. "Oui."

Wow, a dessert of champagne and strawberries. Delicioso-issimo, as Da'ud might say.

Nope.

"Deliceux." He dropped the strawberry stem on the dish and looked over at me.

"That was great, Da'ud. Thanks."

He put his credit card on the dish the waiter held out, and the waiter slipped away.

In the car back to my neighborhood, we talked about a lot of things, differences between France and America, his childhood in Algeria, his college in Paris, my schooling in Pittsburgh, my moving to the Big Apple.

Back at my joint, I invited him in for a beer. He stood in the middle of the room while I fetched two. I couldn't find two clean glasses, so I came back with the cans.

"You are a good friend to me, George. You saved my life."

"Ah, that's okay--"

"--but it is, it is something more." He looked at me and smiled. "I cannot get you out of my mind."

What? Can I be hearing this?

We stood in the middle of the room holding cans of beer. He went on. "For me this is the most strange. Never do I look on a man with this amitié, this friendship."

Seizing the opportunity, I stood closer, reached out, and took his hand. He startled but didn't pull his hand away. "George, this is the very strange for me. I have a wife in France. I have a daughter."

"I like you, too, Da'ud. I like you very much." I looked up into those blue-fire eyes and moved still closer. I smiled. Somehow he was like a little boy. But also a yearning man.

I reached over to put my arms around him (or tried to), and his arms slowly, timidly went around me. I pulled down at him, and he took the hint--he brought his face down to mine--almost like a girl raising her head for her first kiss--but he was so much taller, his first kiss with a man was lowering his head down to mine, and those thin, expressive lips touched mine softly, gently, like a cat's paw.

Jesus! Fabulous! Can't believe my luck!

But I have to go slow!


As our lips touched, it was not competition, not a struggle for dominance, not war. Not yet. I breathed in the scent of his body-cologne, his sweat and flesh, the smell of his resistance and fear. His warm breath covered me, and as we embraced each other more tightly, I could feel his heart beating.

I knew what went on in his mind--he had surrendered to me, gave up the escape attempt--literally his arms reached out to me for the handcuffs. After the soft brush of his mouth against mine, he whispered, "Incroyable! You make my knees grow weak." He sagged against me.

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