“Me-Too– Fuck You!”

I thought she as a hooker, real sexy dress. I really thought she was a female. Only when I handcuffed and pushed head down into the squad car I heard his voice crack. Then I realize he was a tranny. He begged me not to take him downtown. Said he’d be raped by the guards in the prison. So I didn’t book him.

“Come up to my pad, Officer. Maybe I can entertain you.”

I was curious, so I drove him to his West Hollywood pad. The place was magnificent, paintings and sculptures, all plexiglass furniture. It turned out he was not only a flaming gay but was the heir to a large oil trust fund back on the East coast.

His share of the trust ran into thousands a month. He must have spent plenty decorating. The special lights shined off his furniture like jewels. I had no idea a prostitute could live in such a swanky apartment. The furniture looked like it came out of a modern art museum.

His real name was Godfrey Barnum, but she went by the name “Lola LaRue.” That was the name on her business card. She was very opened about her life style. You had to respect that. She readily admitted who she was and what she did, no beating around the bushes. I liked that trait. It was honest.

I also liked her pair of tits made by some famous Beverly Hills surgeon. They were so magnificent you could die for them. I couldn’t keep my hands off and when I started petting and playing with the nipples, she grabbed my cock and started sucking.

“Are you a big mean policeman?” she whimpered while deep throating me.

“Put you handcuffs on me, I’m your prisoner.”

I couldn’t resist. I did as she said and started taking off my uniform. That takes a while. She blew me. Afterwards I still had enough spunk in my big balls for an ass fuck before I left. It was crazy. I knew it. I was in love.

I started visiting her several times a week. When I went off duty, very late at night, I’d call to make sure she was available. Lots of times she was entertaining clients and I’d have to pick up some other tranny or else I’d get blue balls.

None was as beautiful or as satisfying as Lola. We had become lovers and friends. I just couldn’t wait to put my cock in her smooth curved ass. Lola never asked me for a donation. Still, I always left money on the night table so she’d know how much I cared for her. It was out of respect.

It was about that time that the aids epidemic really hit home. Lola had always insisted I use a condom except for blow jobs. No one knew much about this gay cancer business, but lots of friends were dying. Even some cops. At a certain point Lola said,

“You know, all my life I had to diet to stay slim. Now I can eat anything. I keep losing weight.”

A month later he left town for medical treatment in Paris. It was the same clinic where Rock Hudson ended up. My love never returned. If it hadn’t been for his concern for safe sex with me I’da been one of the casualties.

Her straight brother, who worked for some big stock market outfit showed up. In a few days her place was empty. I know because she’d given me a key and told me to take anything I wanted. I only took a framed photograph of her in a burlesque outfit. All the furniture and art was delivered to Sotheby’s. I did not attend the auction but I was told it was very successful. Lola wouldn’t have been surprised. She had excellent taste. That’s her photo over there on the wall, Sonny Boy, if you want to take a look.

In Los Angeles Disco movement was still going strong. It had another year or so to run. We had a few great clubs in Los Angeles. Besides the great music of the Sunshine Guys, Grace Jones and Donna Summer, there was enough cocaine to clog the toilets. The owner of the Disco Duck Club on Santa Monica Blvd was an ex-cop named O’Malley.

O’Malley had been shot several times in a bank robbery attempt by some crazy old white guy in a white cowboy hat called the “White Cowboy Bandit.” That was a year before the cop was to retire. As a result, O’Malley walked with a limp and sad to say one of the bullets ricochet off his hip bone and took a southern trajectory making mincemeat of his prostate and ripping his nut sack to pieces. He was still a man but manly functions were off the table.

I was working for O’Malley as a security guard and doing bank drop-offs. Of course LAPD cops are not allowed to night owl at other jobs, but everyone seemed to be doing it. What the heck, it was cash and the broads were all primed. As I’d walk through the dance floor they’d all try to grab my dick.

O’Malley had a young wife, Kathy B, who was a singer. He showcased her frequently. She was sexy as hell, very horny. When sang her song, she’d start throwing her clothing to the crowd, just like a stripper. The guys would try to rush the stage. Me and the other guard would struggle to hold them back.

O’Malley was usual coked out of his mind by the time the club closed at 2am. Kathy B was just getting started. When she was on cocaine she might as well have been on Spanish Fly. She just couldn’t get enough cock. At that late hour she’d have a white cocaine mustache under her nose. She used to call me and the other guard back to her dressing room. She’d be waiting on all fours, nude on top of the makeup table.

We’d know what was expected. One of us would stick our dick in her mouth and the other in her pussy. She wasn’t into anal. If your dick was long enough to undercut her ass and reach her slit, you were ready to go. She had a thin boyish ass so entry wasn’t rocket science. We’d fuck her till she’d be oozing cum from every orifice. Then she’d collapse and fall asleep right on the table. I’d cover her with a blanket and we’d lock up the place. The O’Malley’s had an upstairs apartment so she wasn’t going anywhere.

The only problem with this 2am fuck-a-thon was that I had a Nicaraguan girlfriend who liked to be fucked a few times a week. How could I drop my load in Kathy B. and still have enough juice for Nitza? This girl loved to blow me and she could tell by the volume of cum in her mouth, before she swallowed, if I’d been fooling around. At least that’s what she told me. I had no intention of fucking up that relationship. The sex was too good.

To keep as much sap in my pecker sack, I went to a sex shop over on Sunset in the back of a bookstore. If you are from Los Angeles you probably know the place I’m referring to. The gay guy who worked nights was real good looking. I could have fucked him myself. I think he was a TV actor on one of those daytime medical series that went on for years.

I told Ricky exactly what my problem was. After listening, he pulled out a rubber dildo from the glass case. It was so lifelike. It looked like someone had chopped it off a living person. It was almost exactly my size.The dildo had a reservoir. He explained how you filled it with a white silicone liquid that looked just like cum. Now I was in business. I’d wave my own cock around to please Kathy B when she was pretty far gone on white dust. She didn’t catch on when I shoved the plastic dildo in her cookie box.

Using that fake cock seemed to solve the problem except when she’d want to blow me. Then there was no way I could substitute. She was a blowjob artist. It was very pleasurable. At that moment you have to give the penis what it wants. I only hoped my girlfriend was on the rag. She was a heavy bleeder who wasn’t up for fucking on those days.

The “Nica” girl wanted to marry me. One marriage was enough for me. I never trusted women after my wife’s betrayal. We went on for a couple of years. She wanted a family. I wasn’t prepared to give he that. Eventually she found someone who did. All things come to an end.

When Nitza left town to marry some guy in San Francisco, I realized that she had compensated for the loss of Lola, the tranny. Lola had awakened in me a taste for transsexuals. I had tried to replace Lola, but most “girls” I’d find along Santa Monica Boulevard were either inexperienced, hard hearted or dishonest.

Some had not had their facial hair removed. Late at night, they’d have a tuft of whiskers that popped up at the wrong time. I learned It was best to have sex with them in a dark place, preferably after a few beers.

I tried a lot of these “girls.” It took several years before I found a young Hispanic tranny who was able to take Lola’s place. Her name was Griselda. That’s the name she went by. Her real name was not as pretty, Jose something with five Spanish surnames after it. She came from Costa Rica. She was just over 18 years and black as the ace of spades. She’d say,

“I’m not black, I’m Hispanic.”

Fine by me. She had an ass like I’d never seen. When she walked it moved like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. She was a nice person. During the time I knew her, she’d taken good care of her family back home. She bought them a house with her earnings and furnished it with every luxury you might imagine.

I would say to her,

“Save your money for yourself, you never know when you will need it.”

But she was fixed in her ways. Maybe because she was a tranny she felt she had to go the extra mile to earn her family’s respect.

Here is the funny thing. I fucked her several times a week for over two years without ever noticing she had a cock. I just wasn’t interested in dick. She was so fem I considered her a female. She would stick her dick and balls back between her legs. You couldn’t see it. She’d walk around her apartment with 6 inch high heels. You’d never guess she had a cock unless she’d turn around. I’d say,

“What’s that?”

She’d say,

“Dat’s my poosey.”

Then that gorgeous ass would distract you. Next thing you knew you were all over her.

One day as we lay in bed listening to Whitney Houston singing her wonderful love songs, wham-o, there it was, a penis. I saw it hanging there between her thighs.

Jesus, she had at least a very big dick. It looked like a thick baseball bat. I reached out to touch it. Something I’d never done before. As I held it, her cock firmed up like an anaconda, it swelled to 9 or 10 inches, maybe more. She made my dick look small. I was no competition. Sometimes you just aren’t the quickest gun in town. You just gotta live with that fact.

It turned out that most of her devoted clients were gay guys who liked to take it in the ass. That is where her fame and fortune lay. The guys she fucked would say,

“Oh my God, after you have fucked me you own me.”

So she kept this clientele for the longest time. They paid her well. I met a few of her fans arriving at her door when I was coming or going. They seemed very friendly and asked if we could do a threesome. I would gently tease them saying,

“No, not tonight. Maybe some other time.”

Griselda was real smart. She even become a US citizen. I never understood how, but she showed me her passport so I know it was true. I asked who in the State Department she had to fuck to get it. She laughed and said,

“Roger Stone.”

That made sense as Roger was a bisexual and well known to frequent prostitutes and trannies on both the East and West Coast. If he wasn’t alone, he’d have his wife accompany him. She was also a swinger who loved orgies.

“Did you fuck Roger’s wife,” I asked?

“Do you know Nydia is a very nice lady.”

That was all Giselda would say.

At a certain point, life in Los Angeles became too expensive for Griselda. Rents more than doubled. Every year as an escort there is a diminishing return. Many clients want one time sex, ever new faces, fresh tits and new curvy asses.

Maybe the ten years she’d spent here had exhausted her clientele. I never got tired of her. At a certain point she decided to move to a New Orleans where living was cheaper. She expected to develop a whole new clientele from the tourists. “The Big Easy” was easy on escorts.

That was the end of our frequent cavorting. We kept in touch and we still get together whenever she visits the West coast or I take in New Orleans.

There is something about butt fucking a pro with a heart shaped ass that makes you want to give up on pussy. I gave up for a long while.

By now I was a detective 1st grade. I was teamed up with a young black female police partner who was gorgeous. She smelled so good that I thought it was time to give pussy another chance. My partner’s name was Dora Grande. Our relationship quickly turned intimate. I trusted her with my life.

Dora was a tall black woman, but she wasn’t really black. Greselda was black. Dora’s skin was a beautiful golden brown or bronze. Her tits were as big as ripe honeydew melons. She had a few tattoos on her arms. I never cared much for tattoos. When she said she loved her tattoos, I loved them too. She wasn’t at all overweight, but she was a big woman.

Dora had a husband. I only met him on one occasion at some policeman’s ball. There was something odd about him. I suspected that he was a Vet. Maybe affected with shell shock or post traumatic distress. Something in his brain was no longer working. I never quite figured it out. When you spoke to him he just stared over your head.

Dora never talked about him. Although I knew she had a husband, she acted as if she was single. Like most male-female police partnerships, the longer we worked together, the closer we got.

The first time I kissed her and reached for her breasts, she grabbed my hand.

“Let’s go to a motel,” she said.

Pretty soon we were spending late nights at the Foxy Motel. That motel catered to Police having affairs. Sometimes there were 4 or 5 squad cars parked in the lot in front. All us cops were fucking someone, or more than one. That’s the nature of high testosterone jobs.You’ve got to get the poison out or you go crazy.

Once Dora and I were into frequent sex, I was now back into pussy. I didn’t miss fucking trannies. Sex with a real woman seemed so right. The cunt just grabs your cock like an ass does not. Nothing in a normal sex life to hide or risk.

So what started out as innocent hand had ended up with my fingers in her pussy. She reciprocated playing mouth organ on my cock. My tongue spent more time in her pussy that you might have thought. You could stick your tongue in her pussy and her thighs were like earmuffs.

I became adept at eating her out. I wanted to give her pleasure. I wouldn’t stop until she had at least three orgasms. My face, nose and hands would be soaked in pungent pussy juice. When I’d rub her tiny clit in a circular motion she knew I was ready to fuck her. She’d pull her legs back tightly, into what the Asians call the “frog position.” I’d fuck her as long as I could last. Then I’d cum inside her.

At that moment I’d found peace, I’d lay back totally relaxed. I I’d died then and there I wouldn’t have cared. Sometimes I drifted off. She would wake me and we’d dress and resume our duties.

I thought she was beautiful. I’d fallen in love again. When I suggested marriage she told me,

“Let’s wait a while.”

I figured that if she have had to dump her hubby, it was going to be a long wait.

At that time I was transferred out of vice. I put in a request to take her with me. We were going to be working on the “war on drugs.” That expression seemed stupid to me. If it was a war, we were fighting it with pea shooters.

We were arresting druggies. They were addicted and pathetic victims. We were packing them off to jail. Maybe that reduced the number of shoplifting or petty home burglaries, but at what cost? The prisons had no success rehabbing them. Prison was just a school to turn them into hardened criminals.

We were arresting street kids who were selling dope. For everyone we caught selling glassine envelopes of molly or crack there’d be three more kids jumping up to take his place. Talk about feminine equality, tell me why crack dealers were almost 100% male? There was just too much money to be made to risk it on the weaker sex. Ghetto kids were out to get every penny of it. Sure women had a place, they were addicted to crack and turned into whores. This added extra money to the drug sellers who now dabbled in prostitution as a side line.

“When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose” rang true in the South Central and most places where many people were without hope or opportunity.

The only way to stem the epidemic of drug abuse was to hit the big distributors. I was sick of cleaning up the streets to see them filthy the next day. I started to get info from informants about who the dealers were, who were supplying the dealers with drugs. It was a fairly long line.

There were about 6 key big time distributors in Los Angeles. Four were tied to the Mexican drug cartels. Two distributors were flying Columbian Cocaine into Florida and from there it was a few hours or days to get the drugs to the West coast.

We learned the prime Columbia dealer had a stash house out in Riverside. Dora and I decided to pay a visit. In retrospect it was rather a stupid thing to do.

We arrived on a cool dark night. It was about 5 am on a quiet street. As soon as we closed the car doors, it sounded like a 1000 dogs woke up to greet us. The Columbians house remained quiet.

We found the front door open so we walked right in. You don’t need a warrant for an open door. We didn’t know the front entrance was covered by tv surveillance. Once we got inside all hell broke loose. The metal doors slammed shut. Bright lights went on. We found ourselves locked in. Three Colombians with submachine guns disarmed us. I was tied up to a wooden chair with bicycle chains. I couldn’t move.

These guy were not fagots. I was afraid they were going to kill us and bury us in the desert. They didn’t give a shit about killing me. They wanted to humiliate us. They chained Dora to iron rings on the floor. They stripped her naked. They spent the next three hours sexually molesting her. They fucked her every which way. If you thought South Americans have small cocks, think again.

I have been told that it was told the combination of black slaves, Indians and Spanish Conquistadors that provided the genes for their extremely large cocks. They waved them in my face before they fucked Dora.

I couldn’t bare to watch. Once they finished fucking her vagina they rolled her over and took turns on her ass. When they finished, the one who spoke English asked me,

“Gringo, you ever fuck this bitch.”

I lied and said,

“No.”

The Columbian smiled,

“Well, today is your lucky day.”

Of course I refused. I was so disgusted I couldn’t get a hard on.

“José, trae el adicto a la droga aquí. Dile que tenemos un pene que tiene que chupar “.

(Jose, bring the dope addict in here. Tell her we got a dick she gotta suck.)

They brought some very boney thin druggie from a back room and made her suck my dick till I got an erection. With a pistol held in my ear they made me fuck my partner in the ass. Her poor ass was shitty and bloody. It was disgusting.

After they had their fun, they chained me back on the chair. A guy with a long face, few teeth and a very long pointed knife came out of a back room. The knife was what they call a “skinning knife.”

He grabbed my cock and carefully cut a circle around my shaft. He cut so lightly it hardly bled. Then he did the same with my nut sack. He then pulled out a salt shaker and sprinkled salt on the wound, it burned like hell.

One of the Columbians who spoke English translated for him.

“Listen Gringo, with one hard tug I can pull all the skin off your cock, the same with your ball sack. If you ever come back that is what I’m going to do. I’ll make a cocaine pouch out of your skin. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll never ever come back, I swear”.

I was pleading as best I could, but I was being honest. That started them laughing like crazy people.

They dragged me naked out to my squad car. They threw Dora nude into the back seat. By some miracle they let us go. We were lucky to be alive. A few miles away there were clothes hanging on a wash line on the side of an old adobe house. I grabbed enough clothes to cover us. I left a $50 bill I kept under the squad car rubber mat for emergencies on the clothesline held in place by a clothespin. It gyrated in the cold wind.