Tag: Getting Caught

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Getting Caught, by Lewis

As a boy, I was not afraid of heights. By the age of four, I was jumping off the roof of the garage. I could climb almost anything. My mother—never too watchful—soon learned to find me not by looking “around” but by looking “up”.

Our house was a one-story bungalow. Next door lived an elderly widow whose house towered over ours. One day, I was playing outside, between our houses, and I heard a strange and frightening cry from an upstairs window. I could see her face. She appeared to be talking to me. She hadn’t done that before. What did she want, if anything? How could I help? She appeared OK to me. I walked away. She scared me. I had never known my grandmothers.

Soon, I learned, to my horror, that she had been doing laundry and caught her hand in the rollers of her Maytag dryer. I wasn’t punished; she was the one who “got caught”. But I sure learned something about the hazards of daily living and the need to be more responsive.

Around that time—the years have grown somewhat fungible with their passage—I noticed that a very long ladder had been placed against the side of her house. It reached all the way from the ground to her roof at the exact location of her brick chimney, from which, I was certain, an excellent panorama of our entire neighborhood could be enjoyed.

The opportunity was a prime example of what in the liability law profession is known as an “attractive nuisance”—especially for a boy who loves to climb.

So, I climbed, hand-over-hand, to the rain gutter 25 feet or so above the sidewalk upon which rested the ladder. The roof was fairly steep but negotiable, so I soon found myself perched on top of her chimney thoroughly enjoying the spectacular view.

Before long, my reverie was shattered by my mother’s voice somewhat exasperatedly calling out my name in a context that suggested some kind of a response was in order. She clearly did not see me. I waited until I thought she might have the police out looking for me.

“Up here, Mom,” I said, hoping-against-hope that she would be impressed.

“Lewis, you get down here this instant!”

Mother had made similar demands in the past but I was pretty sure this time she didn’t mean to be taken literally.

Anyone who climbs at all knows that climbing down is far scarier and more risky than climbing up, if for no other reason than you’re looking at hard objects rather than clouds and the sky. Nevertheless, I managed to make it safely down to the ground without so much as a scratch. I imagined my mother rushing over to me, sweeping me up in her grateful arms and showering my cheeks with kisses, as I’m sure I had seen done in Lassie Come Home. Instead, I got a firm thumb and forefinger on either side of my right ear lobe and a brusque shepherding through our side door and into the kitchen, where my mother posed to me the type of question designed to instill shame and guilt in the heart of a 4-year-old, naïve, novitiate Christian.

“What would you do if you had a little boy who pulled a stunt like that?”

Now, I immediately recognized her query as a “trick question”, the answer to which might very well seal my fate. Rejecting rejoinders such as “give him a spanking”, “ground him”, or “send him to bed without his dinner”, I happened upon a response that might just turn a lemon into lemonade.

“I guess I would simply ask God to watch out for him”.

I never knew whether she actually did make such an appeal. I just knew that I had had a very close brush with disaster. I also learned that religion can easily be used to manipulate.

© 4 February 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Getting Caught by Lewis

As a boy, I was not afraid of heights. By the age of four, I was jumping off the roof of the garage. I could climb almost anything. My mother—never too watchful—soon learned to find me not by looking “around” but by looking “up”.

Our house was a one-story bungalow. Next door lived an elderly widow whose house towered over ours. One day, I was playing outside, between our houses, and I heard a strange and frightening cry from an upstairs window. I could see her face. She appeared to be talking to me. She hadn’t done that before. What did she want, if anything? How could I help? She appeared OK to me. I walked away. She scared me. I had never known my grandmothers.
Soon, I learned, to my horror, that she had been doing laundry and caught her hand in the rollers of her Maytag dryer. I wasn’t punished; she was the one who “got caught”. But I sure learned something about the hazards of daily living and the need to be more responsive.
Around that time—the years have grown somewhat fungible with their passage—I noticed that a very long ladder had been placed against the side of her house. It reached all the way from the ground to her roof at the exact location of her brick chimney, from which, I was certain, an excellent panorama of our entire neighborhood could be enjoyed.
The opportunity was a prime example of what in the liability law profession is known as an “attractive nuisance”—especially for a boy who loves to climb.
So, I climbed, hand-over-hand, to the rain gutter 25 feet or so above the sidewalk upon which rested the ladder. The roof was fairly steep but negotiable, so I soon found myself perched on top of her chimney thoroughly enjoying the spectacular view.
Before long, my reverie was shattered by my mother’s voice somewhat exasperatedly calling out my name in a context that suggested some kind of a response was in order. She clearly did not see me. I waited until I thought she might have the police out looking for me.
“Up here, Mom,” I said, hoping-against-hope that she would be impressed.
“Lewis, you get down here this instant!”
Mother had made similar demands in the past but I was pretty sure this time she didn’t mean to be taken literally.
Anyone who climbs at all knows that climbing down is far scarier and more risky than climbing up, if for no other reason than you’re looking at hard objects rather than clouds and the sky. Nevertheless, I managed to make it safely down to the ground without so much as a scratch. I imagined my mother rushing over to me, sweeping me up in her grateful arms and showering my cheeks with kisses, as I’m sure I had seen done in Lassie Come Home. Instead, I got a firm thumb and forefinger on either side of my right ear lobe and a brusque shepherding through our side door and into the kitchen, where my mother posed to me the type of question designed to instill shame and guilt in the heart of a 4-year-old, naïve, novitiate Christian.
“What would you do if you had a little boy who pulled a stunt like that?”
Now, I immediately recognized her query as a “trick question”, the answer to which might very well seal my fate. Rejecting rejoinders such as “give him a spanking”, “ground him”, or “send him to bed without his dinner”, I happened upon a response that might just turn a lemon into lemonade.
“I guess I would simply ask God to watch out for him.”

I never knew whether she actually did make such an appeal. I just knew that I had had a very close brush with disaster. I also learned that religion can easily be used to manipulate.


© 4 Feb 2013


About the Author 


I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Getting Caught by Will Stanton

Have you ever been caught…caught looking?  I have, and a lot of my friends have, too.  Sometimes, we just can not resist looking.  What is it that makes one human face more
attractive than another?  What is it that
makes someone’s appearance so astonishingly beautiful that it even can take
your breath away?  Believe it or not,
studies have been conducted on this question and some answers found.
Regardless of race, it has been discovered that there are
common factors among all that help to determine beauty.  Even babies were tested to observe their
responses to a large variety of faces and which ones they were most attracted
to.  All of the preferred faces had
features in common.  Of course, as we
grow older, we develop various preferences based upon our own ages,
circumstances, psychological needs, and experiences.  Our preferences often vary from the ideal
elements of human beauty.
Some of the elements of idealized beauty are obvious, such
as youth, good health, fine skin, and luxurious hair.  Then there are finer points, such as the arch
of eyebrows implying openness and friendliness, the wide spacing of eyes and
their bright clarity, and the youthful blush of cheeks and lips, attributes
that contributed to the origins of lipstick and rouge for the aging to imitate
youthfulness.  Another facial factor is
symmetry of features, that is, each side of a person’s face being identical in
a mirror-image manner.  This gift is more
rare than one might think.  Sometimes for
fun, pictures of people have been split down the middle, a right-side matched
with a right-side mirror-image, or a left-side matched with a left-side mirror-image.  The results can be surprising.  They may look like two different people.  I have noticed with one highly successful news
anchor than his face is remarkably asymmetrical. One eyebrow slants somewhat
down, the other dramatically down; his nose is not centered and curves to his
left, his jaw sits slightly askew, and his mouth is not exactly horizontal.  As a person, he is attractive, but I would
not call his physical appearance ideally beautiful.
Along with an attractive face, being physically fit and having
a well proportioned body certainly help. 
Just look at the advertising posters outside Charlie’s.  These physical gifts have been noted for
centuries.  All those Baroque painters, along
with those Greek and Neoclassical sculptors, can’t be wrong.  Of course, non-physical factors can influence
our perception of how attractive a person is, such as  brightness of spirit, charisma, intelligence,
and personality. 
What nature intended by attracting one human being to
another may have to do with assuring reproduction and the continuation of the
species; however, that factor may not account totally for same-sex attractions
nor beauty so intense that it creates an adrenaline rush and butterflies in
your stomach.  That experience can, at
times, prove to be embarrassing, especially for shy gays encountering good
looking guys.  There always is the risk of
being caught when engaging in surreptitious, prolonged glances.   Sometimes, we may be caught off-guard by a
sudden appearance of someone, and our startled responses may alert him to our
reaction.  You run the risk of being
caught.  A glazed look, panting, and
drooling are dead give-aways, too.
I’ve mentioned before a college friend whose roommate was
drop-dead gorgeous, and his big, blue eyes could melt any heart.  Supposedly, the young student was not aware
of his impact upon other guys until gay roomy explained it to him.  From then on, this freshman had his radar
turned on, and he soon detected every time that a gay guy was looking at
him.  He became quite adept at catching
them, and he enjoyed seeing their blushing embarrassment when he suddenly
turned toward them and looked into their eyes with those blue eyes of his.
Another gay friend was standing outside the gym when he
noticed, some distance away and coming down the sidewalk, a jogger in gym shoes,
little blue shorts, and nothing else but his wonderful self.  He was described to me as being like a young
Greek god with remarkably beautiful facial features, well defined chest, a
half-ounce of excess weight on his sculpted stomach, and skin like honey.  Some description!  Happening to have his camera with him, my
friend aimed his camera from some distance away and took a picture.  At that distance, he was sure that he was not
noticed, safe that is until the jogger came near, at which time he said, “Thank
you.”  The jogger immediately caught what
my friend was doing.  At least the jogger
appeared to accept and to appreciate the admiration directed at him.  I certainly admired him, once I saw the
photo.  Of course, he was only mortal,
and he may look like us now.  Too bad.
Getting caught can be rather dramatic when the encounter is
sudden.  On our campus, there was a very
long flight of concrete steps leading up a hill.  Impatient students would dash up those steps,
keeping their eyes trained on the steps rather than looking ahead.  Another friend of mine, Jim, nearly collided
with one of these young Greek gods coming down the steps.  When Jim suddenly looked up and came
face-to-face with this vision of loveliness, he exclaimed, “Shit!”  The startled student responded at first with
surprise but quickly gave Jim an understanding grin.
For those who are familiar with the remarkable film “Death
in Venice“ and
the character of “Tadziu,” who was the object of von Aschenbach’s fascination,
we also had a “Tadziu” on campus, albeit a few years older; and his name was
Peter, not Wladislav Mose.  Peter was so
astonishingly beautiful that even the homophobes stared at him, and that is no
exaggeration; they did.  Some gays on
campus were beaten up, but Peter never was. 
Straight guys seemed to be far too fascinated with Peter to ever
consider harming him.  On the contrary,
Peter once shared expenses with two straight guys in a van going to Florida for spring
break.  When Peter came flouncing down the
front steps to the van, and his house-mate called out, “Have a good time, and don’t
get any nice boys into trouble!,” their jaws dropped.   Apparently, the two guys overcame their
initial surprise, for by the time they pulled over in a rest stop for the
night, Peter ended up being, as he described it, “the meat in the sandwich.”  From what Peter told me, I don’t think that he
minded traveling with straight guys.
Peter also was an unabashed flirt.  He always knew when people were staring at
him; it was obvious.  He caught them all,
but he did not leave it at that.  He
deliberately would embarrass the observers by sensuously sideling up
uncomfortably close to them, pretending to be doing something else, but
obviously teasing the viewers.  He
occasionally would smile at them and not leave until the observers, now
beet-red, were thoroughly upset with themselves for not being really macho,
that is, not having had the strength and presence of mind to ignore Peter’s flirtations. 
Like Tadzio, Peter had long, golden hair.  Between that and his good looks, some of his
friends thought it would be a fun idea for Peter to go in drag to a big party
full of straight people to see how they would respond.  At first, he resisted, but eventually he
agreed to do it.  As it turned out, his
appearance was so stunning that a lot of the guys abandoned their dates, went
over to Peter, and were trying to chat him up. 
Their dates were furious.  Peter
was so convincing that he never was caught. 
He may have been, by nature, flamboyant, but he did not care for
drag.  He never did that again. 
 
Of course, there are some people who have so much
experience, so much self-esteem, and maybe so much money, that they seem
invulnerable to embarrassment.  Instead,
they see what they like, and they go get it. 
This happened with Peter in Florida
at least once.  The first morning that
Peter was in Fort Lauderdale,
he deliberately took a graceful stroll along the beach, wearing a flowing
caftan, and with the sunshine glowing in his golden hair.  He was fishing, and he immediately caught a
big one.  And, that is how Peter had room
and board for his entire stay in Florida.  The host’s name, however, is too famous and
prominent for me to mention it in writing.
I guess that whether a person is embarrassed or not depends
a lot upon his own nature, his upbringing, perhaps his religious or social
background.  For gay guys who were taught
that being gay is a terrible and unforgivable sin, or for gays who still are in
the closet, getting caught can be emotionally devastating.
There is a scene in “Death in Venice” when Gustav von Aschenbach enters a
hotel elevator; but just before it ascends, he suddenly is joined by an
exuberant group of youths including Tadzio. 
Von Aschenbach vainly attempts to maintain his artificial image of
disinterest; however, his eyes betray him. 
The lads pick up on it; they sense it, he is caught.  To his consternation, they begin giggling and
whispering among themselves.  As the
elevator door opens, von Aschenbach flees toward his room, thoroughly
mortified.   His emotions are so
overwhelming that he hurriedly packs up and heads for the train station to
leave Venice.  Of course, he is obsessed with Tadziu.  When delayed at the train station, he jumps
at the first excuse to turn around and come back.  Apparently, he subconsciously concludes that
repeating the opportunity to see the object of his fascination is worth being
caught.
I suppose that some habitual observers eventually may have
become insensitive to embarrassment themselves and choose brazenly to gaze
unabashedly as long as they wish.  They
should, however, be courteous and not make the objects of their admiration uncomfortable
by endless, rude staring.  My late
partner once said that he could not wait until he became old because he had endured
so many years of people staring at him. 
I never have had that problem.  

© 3 February 2013   


About the Author 



I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Getting Caught by Ricky

          From
June of 1956 to June 1958 I was living with my grandparents on their farm in
Isanti County, Minnesota.  I was eight
and nine years old at the time.  On
Saturdays, after the morning chores were completed, grandpa always drove us
into Cambridge, in their 1949 Kaiser Deluxe Sedan.
He and grandma would run their
individual errands as my uncle and I eventually ended up at the drug store to
spend our allowances.  My weekly
allowance of $1.00 allowed me to purchase a model airplane kit and a Cherry
Cola from the drug store’s “soda jerk.”
          In
the beginning, I could buy each weekend a model airplane and a comic book for
98-cents, including the tax.  The comic
book was only a dime.  As time passed,
the comic book price increased to 12-cents and I could not buy both for $1.00
so I began to buy more comic books and the Cherry Cola.  My grandma said I had to save the left over
money so I could still buy a model and drink or model and comic book, if I had
saved enough left over allowance.  I
really didn’t like that plan, but I did not have a choice between alternatives.
          Thus,
for two years I developed a strong attachment to reading and building my model
airplanes.  Now jump forward to when I
lived with my mother, stepfather, stepbrother, and my twin half-brother/sister
at South Lake Tahoe.  The year is
1960.  I am 12 and we live in our second rented home on Birch Street.
3745 Birch Street, So. Lake Tahoe, CA
          The
house is a two-story edifice of what I call a rather rustic design and
matching interior.  Our allowed part of
the upstairs is about one-third of the total area available.  Crammed into that small space were two cribs,
end-to-end, and a set of bunk beds.  Back
at the first rented house, I had the bottom bunk as my then fifteen year old
step-brother, Eugene (Gene for short), insisted on the top bunk.  In this second house, at seventeen Gene was
literally tired of climbing into bed and so claimed the bottom bunk.  The twelve-year old man that I was enjoyed climbing into my top bunk.
          The
roof sloped steeply but not quite as steep as an “A-frame” constructed
house.  This resulted in a shortage of
space near the upstairs walls that were actually the sloping roof.  Nonetheless, Gene and I made two small “cubby
holes” among the “rafters” for each of us to use as a study and personal area.  It was a tight fit for Gene, being bigger
than I am.  I was considerably smaller
but it was a tight fit for me also.
          Gene
and I got along well.  We never fought,
wrestled, or were loudly argumentative with each other.  I suspect that was mostly because he was so
much bigger and intimidated me by his size and status of being in high
school.  We each were very protective of
our study areas and did not like the other to enter or touch anything in our
areas.
          Our
parents did not bring home cookies very often, but when they did the package
contained about 40 or 50 of them.  Gene
and I learned early on that the cookies (or other treats) would disappear
quickly.  Therefore, to ensure we both
got an equal share, when the cookies arrived home, mother would watch us divide
them up between us.  She always held some
back.  Gene and I took our cookies and
“hid” them in our study areas so we could not steal each other’s treasure.
          One
day, being the immature man
that I was then, I ate my last stashed cookie but still craved more.  Since Gene was not home, I searched his study
area and found his cookie stash.  I
didn’t think he would miss one or two and that’s how many I ate of his.  I did it again a couple of days later and he
noticed.  The next time our stashes were
refilled, he raided mine and of course, I retaliated once too often.
          I
came home from school one day and found that Gene had broken a part off two of
my model airplanes.  I bought these same
model airplanes with my precious left over allowance money back on the farm in
Minnesota.  As such, they were important
to me.  I thought that breaking my
airplanes was going too far.  I mean I
didn’t break anything of his—I just ate his cookies.  I quickly escalated the “war.”
          I
loved model airplanes.  Gene loved his
paint-by-numbers kits.  I took four of
his small paint bottles and began to throw them out the upstairs window onto a
pile of chunks of broken concrete on the vacant lot next door.  My step-father was home but I believed him to
be inside doing something.  I was
wrong.  He came in from outside and
called to me asking if I was throwing anything out the window.  I lied and said I was not.
          He
went back outside and I watched from the window as he began looking around the
vacant lot but didn’t seem to find anything and left the area.  Apparently, he either remembered what it is
like to be 12 and questioned by his father, or somehow he knew I was lying and
was waiting for me to throw something again. 
In any case, I still had two little paint bottles to throw so I
did.  This time he called me down to him
and asked what I threw out the window.
          At
that statement, my guts and butt suddenly developed a serious case of major
“pucker factor.”  I did not lie
again.  I told him what I threw and when
he asked why, I explained that Gene broke my models.  I was afraid he would spank me or do
something similar but worse.  He
didn’t.  He only told me not to lie to
him again.  I never did and never needed
to either.  I do not remember if I told
him the whole truth though.  I am fairly
sure I did not tell him I started the “war” by eating Gene’s cookies.  If I had, things might have turned out
different for me.

© 4 February
2013


About the Author 



I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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Getting Caught by Michael King

Somehow to write a story such as the one I’m about to write requires getting past the taboos that have haunted me my whole life and so I hope that I can finally be free. Being free means to me at this point in my life that I don’t give a ____ what anyone thinks about me. However that isn’t totally true. I still want to have acceptance, but I also don’t want to have to secretly pretend that I’m sugar and spice when I’m really an animal with passions, desires and have had some experiences that are perhaps not for prudes to hear about. I’m feeling braver already so here goes the story about getting caught. Maybe others have had secret desires that were unfulfilled. Well I have had many.

I didn’t have a language for it at the time, but by now have learned a little of the language used to describe one of my magnificent and wonderfully memorable experiences in a tea room.

I saw the young man as he entered the John a little before me. I really didn’t think about what might happen as, other that noticing him and seeing that he had a little budge hanging over his belt that was unusual for someone his age, my purpose was to use the facilities.

I was in fact using the facilities. As I stood there facing the wall and relieving myself I became aware that the young man was not doing the same. I proceeded to finish what I had come there for and glanced toward him when he surprised me by coming over by me and dropped to his knees.

As I said it was a magnificent and wonderfully memorable experience that compares with a few others that left an indelible impression on both my memory, but also on the fantasy world that many years later allowed me to be an out and open gay guy.

As the experience of being beyond time and space in an indescribable ecstasy subsided the only thing I could think of was to reciprocate. I don’t think I had any idea how to accomplish anything close to my experience. I hadn’t learned the skills or techniques but was certainly willing to give it a try.

There was no one around and just as I was about to begin the tearoom door opened. We both jumped and pretended to be using the facilities. I’m sure the security guard didn’t really see anything but probably couldn’t help but know that something had been going on.

We were caught, told to leave and never return. We left the mall and he went to his car. I started to walk home without the courage to introduce myself or make contact, something I still regret.

It was much later that I had the opportunity to share in similar experiences because I had neither the nerve nor the awareness of what I now remember as missed opportunities. I was so filled with hang-ups, misplaced feelings of guilt and was terribly naïve.

I’ve come a long way, baby! I am finally almost at peace with being the me that I am. I can accept, that I am sexual and sensitive and have urges and desire that are natural. I haven’t been to a tea room in years and am obviously openly gay. My children not only accept me as I am, but are pleased that I am in a loving and caring relationship. I think that the time I got caught was one of many things that had led me to the peace of mind and the pride I feel about being, as my daughter says, authentic.

Denver, 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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Getting Caught by Ray S

What a vast subject–depending on what you get caught at or doing. Certainly someone will recall, as I did, the old saw “getting caught with your pants down.” (Don’t you wish.) Caught by the boogy man in a bad dream when you were a kid. You remember. Running, running, running, and the harder you tried the more your feet were stuck in the mud-like glue on your path. Finally kicking and screaming you wake up escaping a horrible fate.

There were numerous times when you thought you didn’t get caught only to live with lingering pangs of conscience. With effort and appropriate therapy this too passed.

Then there were those delicious times when you were engaged in an activity in which you were tempting fate at getting caught. Those are the memories of “caughtness” that enrich our life experiences.

It all boils down to caught-positive and not caught-negative, so for me and maybe you I’m still out there catching that falling star.

2-4-13

About the Author

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Getting Caught by Merlyn

When I was a teenager, I got caught three times in one year having sex in the back seat of my car with two different girls in three different cities.

The first time I had parked in a farmer’s field around midnight. My girlfriend and I were in the back seat going at it when the car was suddenly full of light; someone was pounding on the windows shining his flashlight on us yelling, “Open up. Police.” The cop made us sit there in the back seat naked while he checked out our IDs while his partner was shining his flashlight on us. In this day and age the girl probably would have gone to jail, I was only 16 and she was in her 20s. They let us go with a warning not to trespass on posted land again.

The second time my new girlfriend and I were driving to a different parking spot when we got pulled over for sitting to close together. He checked my ID then told us if we needed to be that close together to find a parking spot. We drove to my favorite parking spot and we were going at it when the lights yelling and pounding started again.

This time they had us put our clothes then told me to find another city to park in, then let us go. We were both 17.

About a month later the same girlfriend and I were parked in a lover’s lane getting it on when a bunch of cop cars pulled in to the far side of the parking lot with their lights and sirens going. We finished doing what we were doing, got dressed climbed over the seat. Cleaned the steam off the car windows and started the motor, I was putting the car in gear when I saw a cop running towards us yelling at me to shut the motor off. Two other cops pulled a kid out from under my car. After they took him away the cop told me that they had raided a beer party and saw the guy run away but did not know where he was until I started the car. I wonder how many times the guy has told people the story about hiding under a car that was bouncing up and down while the cops were looking for him.

2/4/13

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.