Saving Ernest

For all those who love men in—and out—of police uniforms.

It started out as your typical Saturday. I woke up a little after ten. I liked a lie-in at the weekend, and the heat wave we Londoners had been enjoying meant I hadn’t been able to get to sleep the previous night. I wouldn’t have minded the heat as much if I’d had a man to snuggle up against, but as they say, “once bitten twice shy.” When I was sufficiently awake to coordinate my hand movements, I reached over and switched on my bedside radio.

The news bulletin covered a long and depressing litany of murders, the goings-on in Westminster, and two well-known figures in the public eye who had finally admitted having an extra-marital affair.

I decided to start my day. First job was to get out of bed and relieve my bladder, brush my teeth and perform all the other morning rituals.

I dressed in a loose-fitting pair of shorts and an oversized white T-shirt—I’d taken heed of the advice of the overly-cheerful weatherman, or to give him his politically correct title, weatherperson.

I knew I’d have to smarten up my attire to meet Laurence for lunch, but that wasn’t until 1:00 P.M.

The milk had gone off, so after making anote on the pad stuck to the fridge door to buy more, I settled for a glass of orange juice and a toasted bagel. That was breakfast. Mother, who was being dried out in yet another over-priced private clinic, would have been horrified at the meagreness of my morning repast.

A quick sift through my post—nothing but junk, a cable bill, and, joy of joys, I’d been selected for the Readers’ Digest prize draw, oh, be still my beating heart. Setting the cable bill to one side, the rest went straight into the now overflowing pedal bin. I added ‘bin liners’ to the pad. A quick sniff at the cat’s litter tray, and I added ‘Cat Litter’ to the list, too.

Looking up at the calendar confirmed it was the second Saturday of the month, and the history magazine I subscribed to should be waiting for me at the newsagents on the high street.

So, having little else to do, I put on a pair of sandals and schlepped my way down to Mr Hussein’s shop.

I thought I might as well get myself a copy of The Guardian while I was at it. I wasn’t a regular newspaper reader, but I thought as it was going to be so warm today, I’d erect my parasol in my postage stamp-sized back garden and sit in my padded folding chair.

Picking up my newspaper, and a 4-pint carton of whole milk—I can’t stand the semi or-fully-messed-about-with kind—I went up to the counter and asked Mrs Hussein for my magazine. Then, following the usual polite enquiries about the health of her extended family, the expected warm weather, and the disgraceful amount of chewing gum on the pavements, I slowly made my way back along my street of Victorian terraced houses while leafing through my magazine. I was engrossed in an article on Project Ultra, the top secret code-breaking experiment that the allies had set up during the Second World War to intercept and decode the Nazi’s military signals, when a beautifully soft Irish voice brought me back to the present.

“Please be careful, sir.”

“Huh?” I looked up just in time to save myself from falling into a hole in the pavement caused by the absence of a manhole cover, or whatever the now politically correct term for such things were. Somehow ‘person-hole cover’ didn’t well…cover it.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling into the beautiful face of a policeman. I took in a sharp breath as the full impact of this stud’s magnificence impacted my brain. It was a good thing I was wearing loose shorts because Mr Happy was…extremely happy at the sight of the broad-chested hunk in front of me.

PC Plod stood arms akimbo, his whiter than white short-sleeved shirt stretching over what looked like a wonderfully muscled chest and oh-so-broad shoulders. The top button of the shirt was open to reveal the beginnings of a curly carpet of dark-red chest hair.

A quick sweep of my eyes upwards revealed a dazzling smile, the teeth just as perfectly white as the shirt. And such piercingly clear blue eyes. I began to melt. This man could either model clothes or toothpaste. And the hair…a tight mop of curly red hair topped this 6 feet 3 inch Adonis. I longed to run my fingers through those locks. But my eyes travelled downward to his not inconsiderable crotch.

His legs—encased in dark blue uniform trousers—looked thick, strong, and I hoped muscled…I swallowed and moved my eyes further downward. The stud was wearing a large pair of shiny black shoes. At least size 12, I thought. I wondered about the authenticity of the old adage regarding the correlation between feet and cock size. Oh, to get my hands on that truncheon. Yes, I knew British policemen wielded nightsticks these days, but it wouldn’t have had the same literary ring to it. This man, who was sent out daily to protect innocent citizens, looked to be in his early thirties. He could protect this innocent citizen, anytime. Though I had lost my innocence—or rather faith in human nature—thanks to that bastard of an American student, Bradley Talbot III, quite a number of years ago.

Here was this gorgeous hunk, and here was I. Average in most senses of the word, from my modest features, medium length brown hair, grey eyes. All right, I was a smidgen under six feet tall, but my forty-one year old frame was slightly overweight. And my dick—average-sized. That was me in a nutshell: average, average, average.

“There’s been a spate of thefts of manhole covers lately,” the vision said.

I hope I said something intelligible in response, as I found myself drawn ever deeper into those eyes.

“You all right, sir?” He was speaking again.