(This is a one-part story written in the first person)
There's an instructor that I like. His name is Mr. Moore and he's the chief. He's tall and slim. But not overly so, for his snug-fit clothing showed off toned arms and legs. He dresses like a gentleman, fashionably yet professionally. He walks with elegance, like a prince, and his soft, mellow voice makes butterflies roam in my stomach.
He's a painfully handsome man with mocha skin; with midnight-sky eyes that tell stories of all the grief and trauma he witnessed in his career as an officer.
He maintains a low haircut. His strikingly thick and dark eyebrows and mustache are interspersed with grey strands while the rest of his face is clean-shaven and smooth.
He's so articulate and intelligent. In the classroom, he makes the most complex topics seem easy. And he's patient too. He will not stop until every student fully understands every aspect of the syllabus.
There's just
something
about an older man that lures me in.
Is it because they are more attractive than boys my age?
Is it that they are more mature and more established financially and professionally?
Or is it that I yearn for a fatherly figure in my life since mine was absent physically and emotionally? Someone who can take care of me and romance me and give me everything my father failed to provide?
Who knows? But one thing is for certain. I like Mr. Moore. It is my little secret and a silly crush. Nothing would come of it, or so I thought.
*****
Who knew training to become a police officer was so grueling? Sometimes, it feels like I'm training to join the
foreign legion
rather than a police force.
I feel like this place violates one of my human rights. What's it called, again? The Protection from Cruel and Other Inhuman and Degrading Treatment and Punishment Convention?
Bloody hell
! Can you imagine waking up every morning at three a.m. for roll call? Can you imagine exercising for over three hours straight? From said three a.m. until six a.m.? And during these exercising hours, we must run a mile and a half and engage in push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, squat thrusts and any other rigorous exercise you can think of? Can you fricking imagine drilling and marching in the skin-blistering sun for the following two hours after breakfast while holding an eight-pound M-16 rifle? I mean, surely these conditions amount to
cruelty
and
torture
. Right?
What makes matters worse is that the environment in the male dorm is too intense. Somehow, these degenerates figured out that I'm gay. "Why do you talk like that bro, like a girl?" "Why do you use your hands so much when you talk?" Then, as time went on, the insults came. "What up faggot?" "Come and suck this," one recruit said while flashing me his penis by the lockers. Things even got so bad that whenever I went to the ablution, one of the males would shout "HOMO ALERT!" Subsequently, they'd all make a big show of covering up and dramatically pulling the shower curtains right across and making sure the toilet stalls are locked and their guffaws echoed in the white-tiled room. It was so embarrassing and humiliating. Being around them makes me feel sick to the point where I have to go outside and take deep breaths so the nausea can go away. I constantly feel as though I'm suffocating. I
hate
them.
So, it's no surprise that at the beginning of the third week of training, I walked into Mr. Moore's office and sobbed with snot leaking from my nose. He looked up from his desk in shock. I cried and hiccupped for no less than five minutes before I calmed myself down to be coherent enough for him to understand what I was saying in the first place. I told him I wanted to leave and I don't think I can survive the training regime any longer. "Douglas, let me tell you something." [He offered some tissues so I could clean my face while listening to him.] "You're a lot stronger than you think you are. It's only been twenty-one days. Give your body a chance. You're not accustomed to this lifestyle but in the next few weeks your body will adapt. Not only that but your mind as well."
He went on, "this police force needs
you
more than you need
them
. You have a Master's degree in Counseling Psychology for God's sake. You've already gone onto a deeper level of policing in terms of understanding people while the rest of them out there haven't even touched the surface. Most of em' got...probably...what...four A levels at most while the remainder got in through...shit...what's that 'n' word?"
"Nepotism."
"Yes, yes, nepotism. Their daddies and uncles and grand-pappies put in a good word with the superintendent and bam [he smacks his palms together] they got a job. But you, you're different. You
deserve
to be here. Cut yourself some slack and in time, you'll see you had it in you all along."
*****
Thereafter, Mr. Moore pushed me to become better. Over the next few days, he invited me to the gym at night. He introduced me to one of his work-out routines involving the treadmill (so I can have more stamina while running) and the weight machine (for more strength in my back and arms). That was nice of him, I found myself getting a tad bit stronger.
On weekends during my free time, we went to the aquatic center. I thought I could swim pretty well but he introduced me to a new technique where I could preserve my energy for longer periods of time. He helped me with my posture in the water which obviously involved touching, and whenever his hands touched my skin, a flush ran right through my entire being. We often did laps together and he made a note of my times because he always said "you have a chance to get the '
best at swimming
' trophy at graduation." He never wore pants while swimming. Always a speedo, and I tried my best not to stare too long at the basket of goods between his thighs.
Moreover, he also invited me into his quarters on several occasions. Here, he became my mentor and
unpaid
therapist where I could just rant to him about my days and what I was going through and he always listened and offered encouraging words. I appreciated that greatly.
On another instance, he helped me with a road traffic project. I remember knocking on his door and he yelled come in.
"Doug, is that you?"
"Yes."
"Look in that black duffle bag by the door and hand me a towel. I forgot to take it out." I surmised he's in the shower.
I retrieve it and take it to him but I was not expecting the sight before me.
Why is he just standing there...
wet
and
exposed
? With the shower curtain pulled aside?
I give it to him and turn to leave.
"Wait, what's up?"
With my back to him, I stammer "uhhh...I...just...this project...I just wanted some guidance."
"Oh, I could do that."
"Yes Sir. I'll just wait outside."
"Don't be daft, Douglas. Stay right there."
I face him.
"Okay, so it's a road accident and you need to outline..."
