Roxane Gay
Procedural
We like to have sex to the cadence of Law & Order or rather he likes to have sex to the cadence of Law & Order and I’m dating him so I’ve adapted. If it’s another crime procedural drama on TV, he’s just not into it. He doesn’t care that CSI is the hotter show.
It’s the familiar sound effect that gets him going. “It’s like porn,” he told me after our third date when we were embarrassing ourselves in the back seat of his car like we were sweaty teenagers working fast food jobs and licking the scent of salt and grease off each other’s bodies.
“I have cable,” I whispered, half joking, and he came right there, in the back seat of his car, in the palm of my hand. I wiped him on his jeans and then made a hasty exit. I forgot my phone in his car, accidentally on purpose.
We’re all tongue kisses and groping upon the reveal of the victim, the horrified reaction of the unwitting passerby, the inspection of the crime scene, the witty quip by the hardened, cynical New York detective wearing his cheap suit, flashing his badge. As the opening credits roll, he’s hard and I’m wet and I’m willing to forgive his popular culture proclivities.
By the time the coroner or emergency room physician or psychiatrist gives the detectives a rundown of all the things that went wrong in the victim’s life, by the time the captain has delivered her marching orders, we’re naked and he’s breathing heavy and trembling and I’m putting a hand on his chest and saying, “Baby, calm down.”
Thing is, he never knows how it all ends. He doesn’t see the trial and the bargaining and the defendant demanding to take the stand. He misses the twist and the verdict and the final prosecutorial quip. He’s asleep by then.
