Golden Ticket 2: Paul (musc)
by kdumd
Paul Church loved being a Boy Scout. He did not love having to play chaperone for the younger Cub Scouts for the annual amusement park trip. It had been a long, hot day filled with lots of shouting kids, demands for ice cream, tears after scary rides, and even a barf cleanup. Now, as the day was mercifully starting to wrap up, Paul was trying to keep an eye on his group of six boys who were running around the park’s arcade.
Having just turned 18, Paul looked much like you’d expect an Eagle Scout candidate to look. He was tall at 6’3”, the product of his Scandinavian roots, but lanky at just 145 lbs. Everyone always told him he’d fill out one of these days. That day had yet to come. Paul’s hair was a conservatively cut mop of blond, which went nicely with his deep blue eyes. He had no facial hair to speak of—darn Scandinavian blood—and even if he could grow it, he would shave every day. Paul was the definition of the boy next door, completely non-threatening, kind and generous to a fault, and devoutly Christian. His parents made a comfortable living and Paul wanted for nothing, but he was never a “rich kid” either. He had joined the scouts at a very young age and stuck with it after all of his “friends” dropped out; Paul didn’t have many friends. He was soft-spoken and couldn’t begin to navigate complex high school politics. Despite that, he never really got bullied, either. Paul was just there. He took up space as the world moved around him.
“HELL YEAH! 340 points, suck it!”
Paul cringed when heard an older guy, whom he recognized as having graduated from his high school the prior year, using such coarse language in front of children. Paul had never cursed in his life, had never come close. Heck, he had barely even imagined using cuss words. It just didn’t occur to him to stoop to such classless language, especially in the presence of impressionable young ears.
He shook his head in disgust, but the Cub Scouts never took notice. They just kept on playing skee-ball and pinball and just about everything else the arcade had to offer. For his part, Paul hadn’t played many games that day, but as he started to wrangle up his group of kids, one of them tugged on the bottom of his loose-fitting uniform top.
“Paul! Paul! I only need ten more tickets for the pencil case and I’m out of quarters! Can you help me?”
Normally he’d have said no, but for some reason, Paul was feeling magnanimous that day. He reached into his pocket and retrieved two quarters, first intending to play skee-ball. But he knew from prior experience the skee-ball machines weren’t too profitable unless you got a really high score, which Paul never had. So instead he chose the machine with a mechanism moving back and forth, requiring players to drop in a quarter and hope the mechanism pushed some of the quarters over the ledge. The more quarters went over, the more tickets you got. It was a gamble, but little Aiden really wanted that pencil case, so Paul decided to give it a shot.
His first play was fruitless, the quarter landing on the ledge but not going over. The second, though, fell perfectly into place further back in the playfield. When the mechanism moved to the front again, a cascade of quarters fell over the cliff, and tickets began pouring out of the slot. Aiden was shouting and jumping in utter glee, and Paul couldn’t help crack a smile. When the tickets stopped coming, Paul tore them off and handed them to Aiden, who now had more than enough for his pencil case. He could even get a pencil to go with it.
Paul was turning to accompany Aiden to the prize counter when he heard the machine make a familiar noise, the sound that signaled tickets were being issued. “That’s strange,” Paul said, his high-pitched voice still cracking in an agonizing attempt to finish puberty. He crouched back down and saw a single ticket waiting for him, but it was golden yellow, not the same pale blue he had won for Aiden. It had a number on it: 000002.
Bewildered, Paul took the ticket in one hand and Aiden’s little hand in the other. They walked to the prize table, where only one teenage employee was working. Paul had to wave to get his attention, because the kid was busy smiling at nothing in particular on the other side of the L-shaped counter. When the employee snapped out of it and walked over, Aiden excitedly pointed out the pencil case and pencil he wanted, forked over his tickets—woefully disorganized for Paul’s taste—and triumphantly grabbed his prizes out of the teen’s hand. Of course, now that Aiden had what he wanted, the child couldn’t wait to get out the door. But Paul still needed to ask about that golden ticket, so he motioned over to the door, where the entire pack of about 25 Cub Scouts, three other older Boy Scouts and six parents were gathered. Aiden took off and bragged about his winnings, while Paul straightened his thick black glasses and tried to get the prize counter guy’s attention again. He finally had to speak up, which was no small feat for Paul, who often found himself crippled by anxiety among strangers.
“Um,” Paul croaked in a squeaking pubescent voice, “er, excuse me, um, sir? I, ah, I need some help.”
The teen turned to face Paul and apologized for not having paid attention. Paul reached into the pocket of his scout uniform pants and retrieved the golden ticket. “Can you, um, can you tell me what this is…or, um, what this is for…”
Behind the counter, the teen stopped talking, stood straight up, and simply smiled at Paul, who was a little weirded out by the sudden shift in the conversation’s tone. He asked again, but the guy stayed silent and kept his grin. By now, Paul was overwhelmed by the awkwardness of the situation, so he shuffled his plain black Velcro sneakers toward the door. The shoes were nothing special, his mom had gotten them on clearance at Payless for just $10, and Paul admired his mom’s frugal streak. As he walked toward the door, he thought about his Eagle Scout project and what he still needed to do. The bulk of the work was done; Paul had chosen to create a comprehensive anti-bullying curriculum for his elementary school. It included guidance for teachers on how to deal with both the bullied and the bullies, student lessons tailored to each grade level, signage, school assembly material and a website. It had been a fairly massive undertaking, but by all accounts it was a huge success. Teachers, students, parents and even the principal sought Paul out to thank him and praise him for what he had done. All that was left was approval by the board, during which he would have to give his opinion on the troop and its leadership, and offer feedback on how to potentially improve them. As with anything, Paul planned to spend a considerable amount of time giving the topic the serious thought it deserved.
Before he could get to the door, Paul glanced to his right and saw a boy, maybe 13, shoving a younger boy, who was starting to cry. “HEY!” Paul called out. He froze. Since when did he yell anything, especially in public, especially to someone he doesn’t know? He could feel a panic attack rising in his gut, but a second later, something inside him told him it was all okay. So okay that he repeated his call and began striding confidently toward the boys.
“Son,” he said to the older boy, wondering internally if his voice hadn’t gotten a little bit deeper in the last few minutes, “what’s going on here?” The two kids each tried to tell their stories at the same time, and after a few seconds they were back to shoving. So Paul stepped in the middle of them, placing his hands—why did his hands have dark hairs on them?—on the older boy and giving him a stern lecture about bullying. The would-be bully started to shake ever so slightly, nodding silently as Paul launched into a diatribe about how he’s seen plenty of guys start out as teenage bullies and turn into drug dealers and gang bangers. Paul stopped his speech for a moment and looked off into space; he didn’t know any drug dealers or gang members, and he would certainly never say the word “banger” in any context. His approach to bullying was to focus on the emotional impact on the victim, and how a bully and his victim could find common ground and move past the conflict together. A second later, Paul started talking again, and it was as if everything he had just recollected was gone.
“So,” he said to the older boy, hairy-knuckled and olive-tinged hands still on the bully’s shoulders, “you want to end up doing 15 to 20 in county, papito?”
The boy shook his head, tears rolling out. “No, Officer Iglesia, I won’t do it again I swear I’m so sorry I mean it please don’t take me to jail!”
The older man smiled warmly. “It’s Lieutenant Pablo Iglesia, sobrino. Apology accepted. Now run along.” The boy scampered off; his victim had already done the same. Pablo started for the door, but something stopped him. He couldn’t help but think his name was supposed to be different, that he was only a kid himself, that he definitely wasn’t a cop. But all Pablo had to do was look at his t-shirt to see those vague flashes of memory were unfounded. It was black with white lettering, spelling out the acronym of the city police force. It was tight across his chest, which was heaving with each breath. Pablo could see the nipples protruding through the strained cotton. He had fallen in love with the bench press during his days in the police academy, and his pecs had grown—really grown—into his best physical feature.
Pablo grinned as he thought to himself, Soy un hijo de puta sexy, Spanish for “I am one sexy motherfucker.” His abuela, his grandmother, would clock him on the back of the head if she heard him using such language, but Pablo had been exposed to it since long before he became a cop, and cops certainly knew their way around cuss words. Growing up in the barrio hardens a kid at an early age, and Pablo was no exception.
As he walked out the arcade, he reached into the pocket of his ultra-tight jeans. Pable didn’t mean to wear his jeans so tight, but it was tough to find any that weren’t tight with a lower body like his. “No, espera,” he said out loud, inexplicably shocked to hear the rich, deep bass that escaped his throat, let alone the Spanish; Pablo seemed to remember having taken four years of Latin. Once again, worry filled Pablo; he remembered very clearly having bony legs and arms and an embarrassingly squeaky voice. So how he did he end up with gargantuan thighs that stretched the seams of the denim, teardrop calves that protruded sexily through the fabric, and a lilting Hispanic voice that sounded like it could have come right from the mouth of a telenovela actor?
Clearing his head, Pablo laughed. “Ay, las telenovelas, que están tan jodidamente estúpido.” They were fucking stupid, Pablo repeated internally, as he procured what he had sought in the pockets of his painted-on jeans: a cigar, long and thick, and black as night. He studied it for a second and frowned; he had never smoked anything, let alone such an aggressively large stick of tobacco. He was as buttoned down and conservative as anyone he knew. He’d never smoked, he would never smoke, y eso fue todo.
But all of that went up, figuratively and literally, in a puff of smoke when Pablo reached into his other pocket, pulled out a Zippo lighter—adorned with the city police badge, a Christmas gift from his captain—and began to puff on the cigar as he rotated it, which he knew would ensure an even burn. He loved these cigars, even if they earned him ridicule; his partner, Lieutenant Diego Campos, nicknamed them “enormes pollas negras”, his big black dicks. Whenever they rode around on patrol, Campos would laugh and say, “Hermano, chupar su gran polla negro otra vez?” And they would both laugh loudly together and Pablo would respond that yes, he was sucking his big black dick again.
Leaning against a pine tree near the center of the park, Pablo kept working the polla enorme negro and puffing on it until it was fully lit and ready to go. He slipped the 56-ring stogie between the sparkling white rows of his teeth and clenched it in the corner of his mouth, his labios chupando polla wrapping around it sexily. As he took puff after puff, fragrant blue-white smoke encircling his head, Pablo thought about all the cigars he’d smoked since joining the force. He had Campos to thank for the habit. Pablo fondly remembered how Campos, his hermano en azul, had taken a young Officer Iglesia under his wing and showed Pablo the ropes. After their first day on patrol together, Campos had offered him a cigar, albeit one much shorter and smaller than the one currently smoldering between his jaw. They had driven out to a little-known scenic overlook and smoked their cigars together, Pablo peppering Campos with question after question, and Campos dispensing all the wise advice he had to give. Pablo had always cherished that memory.
Taking a big puff and blowing a smoke ring in the air, Pablo took the giant black cigar from his mouth and tried to fight off a thought that all of this was wrong, that he wasn’t a musclebound cop with a three-a-day cigar habit. In that moment, Pablo looked down and was briefly startled. “He llegado más corto o estoy jodidamente loco?” he said as the smoke wafted into his prominent nostrils. “No,” he said in English through his thick Mexican accent. “I’m not fucking crazy. I have always been 5’9”.” His whole family, from his abuelo to his padre y mama and his hermanos y primos y primas had been on the short side. “Mierda,” he said as he put his polla enorme negro back in his mouth, “soy el gigante de la familia!”
It was true, Pablo was the giant of his family, not just in height but also in bulk. In addition to his pectorales, Pablo possessed a massive pair of bíceps, equally impressive tríceps, and a meaty forearm that made it nearly imposible for him to put on his long-sleeved uniform shirt each day. As soon as Pablo and Campos left the station on patrol, he rolled up his sleeves, just so his antebrazos could breathe. He didn’t mind looking at them either, thick with muscle and sinew, very brawny and powerful. Pablo liked to think his big muscles intimidated the criminales, but he knew for a fact they made him a dude magnet.
Pablo smiled and thought about the boyfriend waiting for him back at home, puffing extra hard on the cigar as he looked forward to trading it in for Miguel’s carajo. There was a reason everyone called Pablo’s lips his “labios chupando polla”, his dick sucking lips. Pablo had sucked a lot of dick, and had his sucked probably twice as much in return. And why shouldn’t it? He had a carajo to die for, thicker than even his massive cigar and almost as dark. But Pablo was an equal opportunity gay, and liked to give as good as he got.
As he idly ogled a tall, muscled Marine currently taking his shirt off to reveal a jacked upper body covered in tattoos, Pablo felt another needle of anxiety stab him in the brain. He wasn’t gay, he couldn’t have been. He was a super-conservative Christian, and he’d probably go to hell just for thinking about another man’s penis.
But then, Pablo realized that as he had that thought, he’d been visualizing Miguel’s beautiful carajo the entire time. He pulled the cigar from his mouth as a trail of blue smoke enveloped him, smiling lustily at the thought of what was waiting for him at home—and admiring the ultra-masculine, ultra-sexy dude, his tatted skin glistening with sweat. “Me dejé cogerme por el culo,” Pablo said, exhaling emphatically as the cigar continued to spew thick, almost pheromonal smoke. No, Pablo had always been gay, though he didn’t dare reveal his sexuality to the barrio. Once he grew up, though, he never bothered to hide it. He was out and proud. So proud, that at the city’s annual pride parade, Pablo represented the police department on a float, complete with a sexed-up variation of the standard uniform.
“And why wouldn’t he want to fuck me in the ass?” As he said that, Pablo caught his reflection in a window across the way. He was strikingly hot in an incredibly manly, rugged way. The mounds of muscle started at his neck, which Miguel always called his cuello de toro, and a bull neck it truly was. It continued down with shoulders the size of bowling balls, and further down to his massive bíceps, tríceps and forearms. Smiling through the haze of his cigar smoke, Pablo admired his pectorales, as he always did, and as others always did. The black tee was really straining to hold in all that meat and brawn; he would need to pick up a doble extra grande at work. Being short, he always had to tuck in his shirts because while he needed big sizes to contain his musculo, the shirts were so long they’d go down to his knees. So tuck them in he did, which was a “buena noticia/malo noticia” situation; the good news was, it saved Pablo from looking like he was swimming in his shirts, but the bad news was it showed off a bit of the panza he’d developed over the years. Pablo had never been one to aspire to a super-sculpted body, so his midsection had always carried a layer (o dos) of fat around it. It rounded out a bit underneath his tucked-in shirt, but combined with the pectorales carnosos resting on top of it, the gut made him look even more powerful. For a moment, that stomach began to quiver, because for some reason Pablo thought he should be tall and skinny instead of short and musclebound. He just had to laugh, porque estaba siendo estúpida. Pablo had his bobo moments every once in a while; what meathead, cigar-chomping cop didn’t?
Taking the cigar in his hand, Pablo moved closer to the window to get a better look at his head, which was covered in thick, spiky black hairs. He used to sport a corte de pelo muy corto, as required by the academy. But as he advanced in rank and crossed into his 30s, Pablo had earned the right to get a little more liberal with his hair. He also got to grow a thick black goatee, trimmed perfectly around the corners of his thick lips and down to his perfect chin. Pablo vaguely remembered having trouble growing facial hair, but then he clearly recalled su tio Josue teaching him how to shave when he was just diez y cuatro.
Just like his hair, Pablo’s eyebrows were black and bushy, setting off his prominent brow and blending beautfilly with the caramel-colored skin of his Mexicano heritage. He saw a nose that was thick with big nostrils, and clearly had been broken a few times. In the same breath, Pablo couldn’t remember ever being in a fight in his life, but yet vividly recalled taking his share of punches en la cara growing up in the barrio.
As Pablo considered his reflexión machista in the mirror, he thought about how he had gotten to this point. He shoved away the thoughts of living a privileged existence and having everything he ever wanted, because Pablo had been un niño pobre like everyone else he knew. His parents tried their best to provide for Pablo and sus hermanos y hermanas, but life was hard. Pablo went many nights without food, sleeping five across with his siblings on a concrete floor. But while many in the barrio turned to gangs, slinging dope and shooting each other for no reason other than the color of their clothes, Pablo always worked to avoid that. He watched brothers, cousins and uncles go away to jail one after the other, and he’d attended too many funerales. No, Pablo spent his teenage years staying out of trouble, knowing someday he’d do something to make a difference for kids like him.
That’s why Pablo became a cop, enrolling in the city police academy the day he was old enough. He walked in a “flaco corto”, a short, skinny guy as his instructors never failed to point out. But no one worked harder in the weight room than Pablo. Still reaping the benefits of adolescent hormones—and eating como un caballo, as his abuela always said—Pablo packed on muscle almost instantly. By the time he graduated the academy he was far from skinny, and by the time he made lieutenant, he was jacked. Pablo’s body was the envy of every cop in the precinct. He had been tempted to get a bunch of tattoos, mostly to honor his family, his compañeros on the force and his Catholic faith, but decided to hold off. Pablo knew with a body like his, he could be a serious competitor in bodybuilding, and he knew judges tended to frown on tatuajes.
Stepping back again, Pablo considered his image in full, from head to toe, and was proud, as always, and turned on, as always. He turned to the side, the remains of his cigar sticking out of his mouth, and admired his “culo grande burbuja” as Miguel always called it, and a big ol’ bubble butt it was indeed. Part of the genetic package, Pablo knew, and a welcome one.
Glancing at the watch on his wrist, which was covered in midnight black hair like the rest of his body, Pablo noticed how late it had gotten. “Mierda,” he spat in the thickest of thick Mexicano accents, “voy a llegar tarde a la cena. Miguel va a matarme. O cogerme.” Pablo was often late for dinner, especially on work days. Miguel was usually pretty forgiving but today, he had a feeling Miguel would make him pay for it. He had a feeling Miguel’s polla gigante Mexicano would be pounding him in the ass before long.
Pablo gathered up his leather jacket and helmet, which he had kept at his feet during his extended sesión of cigar smoking and self-admiration, and began waddling toward the parking lot. Yes, Pablo waddled, but anyone with legs so short packed with so much muscle would waddle, too. His boots made an intimidating noise as they struck the ground, and Pablo smiled through the cigar smoke as he spied his motorcycle parked right at the entrance to the park. Pablo had to fight Miguel tooth and nail to let him get it, but Miguel finally agreed, and Pablo raced to the Harley dealership and got the biggest, loudest, nastiest hog they had. It was Pablo’s monada, his baby. And as manly and macho as being a cop made him feel, he never felt mas masculino than when he was on Gloria, as he had named it.
As his waddling neared its end, Pablo took one last drag on his cigar and stubbed it out against the curb. But riding home without a smoke wasn’t an option. He reached again into the pocket of his obscenely tight jeans and procured another of his enormes pollas negras. As he went through the ritual of rotating and puffing as the lighter did its work, Pablo had his strongest feeling yet that something wasn’t right. He was terrified of motorcycles, and more to the point, he was terrified of anyone who would ride a motorcycle. In fact, as much as he loved helping others, he could never be a cop. He was far too timid for that.
“Vamos, hijo de puta,” he cursed, expelling the foreign memories from his mind. This cigar wasn’t lighting as quickly as the last one had. “Motherfucker!” he shouted and quickly regretted, though it appeared no one had taken offense. He spotted the hot piece of ass Marine hopping into an obnoxious Jeep, but the pieza caliente de culo didn’t pay Pablo any mind.
He took the opportunity of his cigar being a motherfucker to think about what was next. In the short term, he’d go home to Miguel, they’d take turns fucking while Pablo smoked his cigar the whole time. They’d shower together to clean off each other’s leche from their hot bodies, then they’d sleep naked together. Pablo would probably get handy while he slept and grab onto Miguel’s giant polla; there had been many mornings where Miguel had woken up with a rock hard dick surrounded by mano fornido de su amante. Miguel would smile, and gently wake Pablo up, and the two would suck each other off before they had to get ready for the day.
Pablo would put on his uniform while Miguel made breakfast, and his own polla would get hard once he squeezed the entirety of his massive muscular frame into it. There were few things as hot as Pablo’s own reflection in the mirror when he was wearing his uniform. He had it tailored to hug every contour of his pectorales masivos, show off his enormes bíceps y tríceps, and even enhance his power gut. The pants were about as tight as can be while still allowing Pablo to move around. And then of course he would strap on his gun, his handcuffs, pepper spray and nightstick. He’d admire himself in the mirror for just a momento, because if he lingered much longer he’d cream his pants and have to change. But he always took un momento to admire his golden eyes, what Miguel always lustily called his “ojos de oro”. It was all muy erotico to him, and Miguel agreed.
He loved this uniform, but while he put on his tight leather jacket and helmet in the amusement park lot, he couldn’t help but think he was supposed to be wearing a different uniform. Something brown with green pants and some kind of sash, flowy and loose on his lanky body.
No, Pablo remembered, that was all wrong. His cop uniform was his uniform. He was a cop. A brick shithouse of a cop, and any criminal would want to think twice before getting in his way.
“Maldita razón, puta,” Pablo said to no one in particular, taking a seat on his Harley and spreading his massive legs into position, a freshly lit cigar chomped ominiously in his right cheek. Motherfuckers better not cross him. He sped away, smoke pouring both from his tailpipe and the cigar in his mouth, and Pablo couldn’t wait to get home and get follada por su novio. Pablo amaba a su novio.
Teniente Pablo Iglesia amaba su vida maldita.