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Since I'm on the road and more or less off the grid until Tuesday, I thought I'd repeat a popular post from the annals of Homicide Hussey. Once again, I'm part of the "sex" panel at Left Coast Crime. This post appeared last year while I was at Left Coast Crime, so it seemed fitting to repeat it here.
I grew up in a relatively conservative community in West Orange County, Florida, outside of Orlando. It was an area that prior to 1971, when the Walt Disney Company invaded the area, was a quiet, southern, almost backwards place. When I was in high school, sex consisted of maybe some light petting, through the clothing, and a lot of fantasizing. So when I went out into the world and became a cop, I was again shocked when I encountered some of the ways people amuse and abuse themselves -- get off, as it were.
I promised the guys when I started this book that I wouldn't go into too much detail about the sexual exploits of the boys in blue. Suffice it to say that there were always girls around, literally hanging around the police station, drooling at a chance to hook up with a Lakeland cop. Also suffice to say that the "ladies" were never disappointed, no matter what they looked like. There was always someone willing, if not when sober, then after a couple of beers, to satisfy a cop groupie.
Most of those situations, however, were "relatively" normal. Cops are known to be kinky but not perverted.
The difference, an old cop once told me is this: "Kinky" involves the use of a feather during a sexual encounter. A "pervert" uses the whole chicken. I met a lot of chicken users over the years.
In 1980 I got a call that there was a suspicious person parked at the rear of Vito's Restaurant on South Florida Avenue. The vehicle was described as a late model, dark blue Cadillac. The car was parked with all four windows down and occupied by a white male. When I pulled my cruiser into the alley, I killed the lights and coasted to stop behind the car. I radioed headquarters and told them I had the vehicle and that indeed a white male appeared to be occupying the front seat. As I got out, though, it struck me funny that the guy just wasn't right. I saw the guys head, as he was sitting in the front seat, but there were legs and feet on each side of his head. It looked like he was having sex, but he was not moving. It was weird.
"Get out of the car," I said into the PA mike.
"I can't," yelled a voice from inside the car.
I switched the federal system over to radio and asked dispatch to send me a backup. "10-4," the radio crackled.
I didn't wait long. Officer Mike Brand rolled into the lot and grumbled something as he got out of the car. Mike, or "Brand-X", as he was nicknamed, was a great cop. He was large-framed and talked very softly. He was always good for a dry, one liner. He would be quiet for a long time, then say something profound and funny as all hell.
"Hey Mike." I said as he walked up.
"What ya got?"
"I'm not sure what's up. It's just weird."
"Let's do it," Mike said with a sigh.
He un-holstered his revolver and held it next to his right leg as we walked up to the car. I took the driver's side, being careful to look into the stream of light provided by my flashlight, for any movement that might put myself or my partner in danger. As I got around to the open window, I was not prepared for the sight that would meet my eyes.
Steven Ziegler was a 38 year old stockbroker, with an iron deficiency and male pattern baldness. His alabaster body had not seen sunlight for years. Mr. Zeigler was about 5'6" tall but at the moment, was about 2 feet tall. He was nude, and contorted like a pretzel, with his body lodged between the front seat and the steering wheel. His knees were pushed up around his shoulders, with his feet resting on the ceiling of the car. His limp penis was resting along side his cheek.
"What the fuck are you doing!" I screamed.
He tried to turn his head but was unable to. "I could lie to you Officer, but what would be the point? I was drinking at the "Office Lounge" and got a little excited. Of course I struck out with the ladies so when this guy leaned over to me and said, 'don't you wish you could suck your own dick, we wouldn't need to hunt these bitches,' I got an idea."
"What was the idea?" I asked as I looked into the incredulous face of Brand-x.
"You know, do myself."
I felt sick, as I understood what he was talking about. My veteran partner asked matter-of-factly, "Well did it work?"
"Hell yes, I've always been wiry," he exclaimed proudly. "It worked, that is, until I tried to get outta' this seat. It locked up on me."
"Are you a spitter or a swallower?" Mike continued dryly.
"Oh man" I thought.
Mike and I tried everything we could think of to get the electric seats of the Cadillac freed up, in order to release the Uni-dater. As the extrication attempts continued, the curious onlookers, mostly other cops, began to arrive. As each new participant came on the scene, he was told through hysterical laughter, the tale of the "self-help" stockbroker. Thank God it was four o'clock in the morning, or the gawkers would have been more numerous. Finally, we had to call the fire department and get their Hurst tool (jaws of life) to break the car seat loose from its moorings. Officer George Kistner, who held the department record for marriages and divorces at six, said thoughtfully, he wished he had learned to do it long ago, as it would have saved him a lot of money.
When Mr. Zeigler was finally released, he gingerly unfolded his contorted body and stood up, stretching his neck from side to side. As he got dressed, a discussion developed as to what he should be charged with. We settled on indecent exposure since there were no other persons involved.
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