A Cop Caught Me Having Sex (And Saw Everything)
And other tales of exhibitionism.
I am not an exhibitionist. Not now, anyway. I could be in the future. I am certainly not against the idea, and the more I live, the more I think I’d like sex to run the gamut from gently rolling over and kissing your partner on the forehead in the morning to finishing loudly covered in sweat, cum, and war wounds. But, when it comes to being seen by other people, I’m not sure. I haven’t had enough time to recover from how I was thrown into public sex in the first place.
Many people can relate to the plight of the teenager with parents always nearby who thought they were protecting you from contracting chlamydia or venturing into Planned Parenthood alone to do away with a surprise pregnancy, but were really banishing your early sexual experiences to the outdoors. Others can relate to being a young person with many, many roommates. As a result of being someone who can relate, my ‘weird sex locations logged’ list surpassed my body count very, very quickly. I’ve had a dick in my mouth in public restrooms, department store fitting rooms, public transport, and on my best day, a movie theater. I’ve been fully penetrated in haphazardly selected settings that ranged from simply inappropriate to painful.
I remember lying on a jungle gym until the cold, angry pointiness of the metal beneath me dug into my back, under the boardwalk on an aggressively not summer evening with cold, wet sand sticking to my goosebumps, my high school’s prop closet, which would become a favorite (just theater kid things,) and late at night with my back up against the wall of a public high school, which I did not attend. This last setting choice was a frequent one, as the risk of getting caught seemed minimal, other than one night when I, completely uninterested in the task at hand, peered over his shoulder and made uninterrupted eye contact with a deer who stood motionless, caught in the headlights of my naive, tedious sex. “A deer is watching,” I whispered. He didn’t skip a beat, “it’s fine; they fuck like crazy.” I still don’t know if deer do, in fact, ‘fuck like crazy,’ and I hope to never find out.
Life didn’t actually give me time to develop a kink for almost getting seen. Rather, I found myself always almost getting seen and wishing I had the banal comfort of diving under the covers, folded up in my white duvet like they do in the movies, revealing nothing but perhaps a hint of tasteful sideboob and orgasming dramatically in just 9 seconds before falling blissfully asleep. I longed for what we almost always take for granted in so many ways: a bed. Beds are a funny place to fuck when you think about it, and yet, it’s almost all we do.
It didn’t take long for sex, in my mind, to = bad. Sex was something I was almost always about to get in trouble for; something I shouldn’t be doing but had to do. Sex was a thing that happened to me while I tried to make sure no one was watching. It sucked the fun out, the excitement, the heat. For some, it adds those things— thanks to the sense of adventure. But, I think you need to experience the boring stuff first. Luckily, I eventually discovered the closest thing to the bed one could get without your dad catching you: the car. The car saved me from having to do everything outside or in some awkward public space. You didn’t need to find comfort; the seats are fine! The weather is no problem; there’s heat; there’s A/C; there’s even a light breeze of intimacy blowing through your hair if you close your eyes and feel for it. Yes; the car is the perfect place for public sex if you hate public sex. All you need is a place to park.
We tried many parking spots before finally landing on one we liked: in the park right next to the lake. If you went at night, no one would be there; until the night when a car pulled up right beside us. When I realized the driver had a flashlight, I also realized he was a police officer. I grabbed desperately for my clothes-- able to get only a t-shirt before a pounding fist hit the window right next to my face. I was presented with an interesting split-second choice: to cover my boobs or between my legs with the one article of clothing I had my hands on. I ultimately chose neither in my attempt to choose both, stretching the tiny piece of fabric from nipple to vulva and ultimately accomplishing nothing. I opened the door. “Are you alright?” the cop asked. I absolutely wasn’t. I was staring at a potential ticket for public indecency or something. I imagined myself spending the rest of my life wearing a scarlet ACSMP (A Cop Saw My Pussy,) knowing full well I’d never hand over a view of my goods to a cop without him first forcing some kind of entry (ACAB.) The forced entry should probably be illegal, in its own right, unless we’re humping in the middle of the mall food court and prompting a child to ask their mother to explain the act to them. I avoided eye contact like it might kill me and repeated, “We’ll move. I’m sorry. We’ll move,” as if his problem with what was happening was where we chose to park and as if his agreement to not do anything further would make the process go faster. Luckily, he left, and so did we. No one finished that night— except perhaps the cop later on conjuring up an image he’d seen earlier. Afterwards, I’d often list the people who’d seen my tits in my head “my boyfriend, the gynecologist, that one cop…”
Eventually, as many lucky folks do, I graduated my way to a dorm room bed where no one would walk in on me. Of course, it was a rickety twin extra long, but it was private. And, there were clean sheets. Surprisingly, though, it didn’t take me long to request a car sexcapade. I can’t explain this phenomenon other than a case of car sex Stockholm’s syndrome, attached like velcro to some kind of strange nostalgia that whispered to me on the brink of orgasm that if I wasn’t afraid someone was about to knock on the window, I wasn’t really getting laid. To this day, my favorite sex postion is the one that was once best suited for the passenger’s seat — least likely to bruise a knee on a gear shift or bump a head on a door handle. It’s sort of like the baby that grew up next to the noisy train station being able to sleep through anything as an adult. The public sex lives with me, but I haven’t returned to it. Not yet, anyway. If you haven’t tried it yet, beds are an incredible place to fuck. In fact, having tried most of the places, I’d say beds are the best, and I highly recommend them.