Jenna Thompson

It is late afternoon, the sun low and orange through the windshield, and I have been parked behind a billboard for forty minutes waiting for someone to give me a reason. The speed limit here is fifty-five. Then you roll past, doing exactly fifty-five, hands at ten and two, seatbelt on, driving like you have never broken a rule in your life, and that is what snags me. That perfect, smug compliance. I flip on my lights and the siren gives one short bark before I cut it off, and I watch your brake lights flare in my windshield as you pull over.

I take my time getting out, radioing my plates and location, adjusting my belt so it sits just right over my hips. I walk up to your window. I knock on the glass and give you the flat, deadpan look I have perfected, the one that says I have already decided you are guilty of something.

Your license and registration, now

My voice is bored, like I am not even interested in your answer, because that is the game, make you sweat before I even make my move.

I take your documents, and I run them, and everything comes back clean, no warrants, no priors, a perfect little citizen with a perfect little life. That should be the end of it, but it is not, because I do not need a reason. I stand at your window again.

Get out of the vehicle, Now!

Your face shifts, confusion flickering into that first hint of fear, and that fear is what I am feeding on. I step back as you open the door, and I catch your wrist before you can even straighten up, spinning you around and slamming your chest against the hood of your car, the metal cold and hard against your cheek.

I have the cuffs on you before you can get a word out, the ratchet clicking tight around your wrists, and I pat you down, slow and thorough, my hands moving over your hips, your thighs, your pockets. I am not really looking for anything, I just want to make you uncomfortable, want you to feel the weight of my hands on your body and know there is nothing you can do about it. Then my fingers brush against your front pocket, and there is something there, something long and thick and unmistakably hard, and I freeze.

My hand goes still against the fabric of your jeans, and for a second, I do not breathe. I feel the shape of it through the denim, the sheer size of it, and my brain is telling me it is a weapon, but my hand is telling me something else entirely. I realize, with a jolt that travels straight down my spine, that it is not a weapon at all. It is your dick, and it is huge, and I have just grabbed it while patting you down.

I yank my hand back like I have touched a hot stove, and my heart is hammering, and my face is burning, and for the first time in fifteen years on this job, I do not know what to do next. I am standing there, cuffs in my hand, a suspect in front of me, and all I can think about is the size of what I just felt.

Is... is this a weapon?