Be Careful With The Hot Ones

Throw a bunch of words in a hat, pull one out, and write a story using that word.

This week’s word: CYCLE


It should’ve been like any other night, get drunk, pass out, a normal night out. But Lindsey was there, pouring drinks, going wild, and how could I say no, that sexy thing, turning heads, craning necks, and she came on to me. I was drunk, she was hot, aggressive, willing, and she chose me. What was I supposed to do?

But then there’s afterwards, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned: you don’t stay the night. That’s how relationships get started. No thank you, don’t stay the night.

So I went home, alone, over a mile, through the snow. Too drunk to drive, to drunk to even ride a bike, cops and their DUIs, BUIs too. It’s a real thing, bicycling under the influence, it’s real and I don’t want trouble, don’t want to get arrested or hurt anyone, so I walked home, safe, responsible, alone through the snow.

And if this was real life, if this were reality, my story would be over, home, safe, alone. But this isn’t real life, it’s college. Dorm life, sophomore year, which is anything but real, under 21 living on my own. Under 21 and yet the booze flows like water, swimming down, out of control. Sure there’s the law, a dry campus, no underage drinking, but who cares about that? Everyone drinks, parties, cheats the rules. You just gotta be smart, don’t get caught, it’s easy to do.

If only it were, because tonight things are different, there’s knocking, banging, on my door.

What the fuck, who’s there, this late at night? I just want to relax, to enjoy my time, remembering Lindsey and sex and oh what a conquest, so gorgeous and rough, dangerous and tough. It was good and I want to enjoy it. Who’s knocking this late at night?

My roommate peeks through the peephole. “Shit, it’s the cops!” The cops? What the fuck?

“Open the door,” they bark from outside. Shit, fuck, there’s nothing we can do, we have to comply. We compose ourselves and I lay under covers, tired and dizzy, sleep on my mind. My roommate opens the door.

Sure enough, there are cops outside, two of them, big bulky angry guys, egos through the roof, power trips gone wild. You know the type.

“We heard reports of underage drinking,” the lead cop says, shining his flashlights in my roommates eyes. But of course he’s sober; he stays in, plays World of Warcraft all through the night. “You been breaking the law son?”

“We spent the night in. We’re trying to sleep.” My roommate responds, and he may be a nerd, but he’s got your back, stands up for his friends, stands up for what’s right.

“Shut up,” the cop commands, swinging his flashlight from my roommate to my bed. “You, out of bed.”

What the fuck, I’m not bothering anyone, just lying here. It’s a witch-hunt this is, a campus full of drunks and you go after me? I’m trying to sleep, not bothering anyone, just trying to sleep.

I don’t respond. It’s all I need, to be written up, arrested, whatever they’re planning. I’m also tired, sleepy, and that flashlight, burning bright, it’s burning my brain, like a dagger inside.

“I said out of bed!” the cop commands as he grabs my arm, pulls me out, very uncop-like. But now I’m out, standing in my room, boxers on, nothing more, and there’s  nothing I can do, no hiding it now: I’m the drunk one, I’m the one they came here for. I reach for my clothes.

“Uh-uh, you’re coming with us,” the cop says as he grabs my arm, throws me outside. It’s just me now, me and the cops. They stare me down: “You like to sleep around, huh? Well you’ll be sleeping around tonight.”

And with that they march me outside, outside in my boxers, in the cold, in the snow. Around the corner, behind my building, out of sight and into the night. And wouldn’t you know it, standing there, waiting: it’s Lindsey. My quest, my conquest, powerful and angry, wrapped in a jacket, looking hot and sexy even though her cutthroat look is piercing my body.

“This the guy?” the cop asks, to which Lindsey nods. This is not good. She’s furious, as only a woman can be, bottling it in, as only a woman can do. She fiery, brooding evil, and it’s directed at me.

“Boxers, off,” the cop commands. What? Are you crazy? We’re outside. I may be drunk but I don’t comply, I’ll resist this jackass, his partner. I resist the cold and my drunkenness, my headache raging strong.

A punch, hard, in my gut. I drop to my knees as pain sears through my body. What the fuck? What kind of cop is this? And his partner, no intervention, condoning it all. This is not good.

“I said, boxers off,” and I comply this time. Now I’m naked and alone, in the cold, in the snow. The cop comes in, too close for comfort. “You had a bed to sleep in, but you didn’t want it. Let this be a lesson to you,” he says as he punches me again and I collapse in the snow. He kneels beside me. “Always stay the night, always. Otherwise you’re an asshole,” then one last punch and I’m out, sprawled on the ground, pain and cold taking over my body.

But it’s not over, it gets worse. For now it’s Lindsey’s turn, sweet sexy Lindsey, standing tall, directly overhead, and I didn’t notice it before but she’s carrying a bucket, filled with water, heavy in her hand. And she does it. Cold water, drenching my body as I lie in the snow, naked and beat up, unable to move. Lindsey, pouring it all out, she’s like the devil upon me, vengeful and bitter, no remorse or control. She empties the bucket, drops it beside me; I’m soaked to the bone. “Enjoy the snow, asshole.”

And with that she is done, with that they are gone, they leave me alone, beat up, locked out, drenched in the snow. Lindsey and the cops, her cops, I watch them go, their arms wrapped around her, keeping her warm. The cops who she owns, they do her bidding, under her control. For her allure, her appeal: all men fall under her control. Off she goes and I watch her go, the click of her heels, her hair down her sides, and her ass, her perfect ass, devilish and round, swaying with her hips from side to side. God she’s a beauty, God she is powerful; she’s a queen, simple as that. She’s a queen and you know what? I got with her, I got with that. So what if I’m beat up, naked and alone, drenched in the snow; I got with that. Tonight’s a good night, because I got with that.

This story is part of a semi-weekly series based on a writing exercise, The Word.


About Gabriel Bruskoff
I make movies! See for more information.

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