I was frisked by the New York City police in 1988.
I picked up a black guy named Ruben from the club called The Tunnel. The muscular, straight-acting thug insisted that we go home to his place in East New York.
It was just after 3 am as we rounded the corner of an abandoned lot just outside of Ruben’s apartment. A police cruiser approchaed us.
“Put your hands against the fence,” one of the officers yelled as two officers shoved us hard against chain-links.
The police searched Ruben and I, but found nothing but a tight, round bubble butt on a white boy.
“That has never happened to me before,” Ruben cried shortly after the police sped away. That was absolutely fierce! The nerve of those bitches! I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that you are white and I am black,” Ruben explained.
“They could have at least apologized,” I noted as we headed upstairs to Ruben’s place in the projects.
Ruben and I fell in love later that night. He wrote me while I was away in Germany in the Army, and often sent me gifts and care packages.
In his letters, he often mentioned the night we met and the black officer who played with my ass for several “long minutes” while Ruben could do nothing but await his turn.
If NYC abolishes stop and frisk, there will be no more foreplay for club goers.