I’ve always had a thing for cops.

I’ve also always known I was gay—I mean, I’ve known it at least ever since I was old enough to get a hard-on. I suppose I was sexually precocious. From a young age and on, I was hot and horny, but I had no interest whatsoever in girls. All I ever fantasized about was men—their bodies, their crotches, their asses, their dicks. Especially their dicks. My jack-off sessions amounted to a form of phallic worship. Whenever I stroked my own agitated dick and coaxed it toward ejaculation, I fantasized devoutly about what it might be like to touch another guy’s hard cock.

I was so young and dumb that I’d have been perfectly content just to touch one of those erections I pictured in my imagination. When I heard other guys making jokes about sucking cock and taking it up the ass, I was embarrassed. I couldn’t believe that men—even gay men—actually did such things with each other. The whole idea was shocking to me.

As a result of my innocence and shame, I never had the guts to try anything sexual with another guy until an opportunity arose that took me completely by surprise—not that I didn’t take advantage of the chance and enjoy the experience when it finally happened. And it sure wasn’t traumatic or anything like that. Hell, it was quite the opposite! Once I’d had my first taste of homosexual sex, I wanted to kick myself for not having indulged in it long before.

It happened shortly after my graduation from high school. That’s a big milestone in any guy’s life, of course. But in my case it paled in comparison to discovering my sexuality.

I was eighteen, not much of a scholar, but athletic. I was a big star on the football team—middle-class shit, which didn’t cut much ice in the rough neighborhood I’d grown up in.

All during my four years of high school, I’d been such a good boy, so damn well-behaved, that it was probably inevitable I’d rebel a little, given the chance.