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Last summer, I started seeing a girl with a thing for urban exploration. Our shared interest was part risk, part sensual – there’s a rush to making out on a rooftop, or down a fenced-off alleyway, with the small chance of being caught.
One warm night, we climbed some fresh scaffolding onto the roof of the Geology department, sliding dangerously around on the slate tiles until we found a spot to sit. We started making out, until a spotlight lit up our perch.
—Alright, time to come down now!
Actually getting caught might be a turn-on for some, but we only really liked the idea of it. In reality, the sudden appearance of a policeman only ruined the mood. He tracked us with his spotlight as we descended the scaffolding, my mind racing with the thought of getting arrested. Right at the start of the first semester? Not something I wanted on my plate. The cop turned his flashlight away from our eyes, letting me see his face. It wasn’t just any cop, it was the campus cop.
—What were you young ladies doing, climbing around up there?
—Just exploring.
—Lucky you didn’t get yourselves hurt.
—Mm, yeah. Sure.
Thankfully, he only took our names, sending us away without charge. Relieved that our urbex date hadn’t turned into a court date, we set off to my flat to finish the job – no policeman was going to succeed in ruining our fun completely. Or so I thought.
Back in bed, we picked up where we left off. I went down on her, she went down on me. With a duvet, music, and candles, the mood was hard to break – especially compared to a precarious rooftop. We switched back and forth for almost half an hour. She looked so pretty between my legs, and I felt my body tense up as I approached orgasm. Chin dripping wet, she looked up and into my eyes. Then she did something unimaginable.
—I bet that cop doesn’t have sex this good!
The image of a middle-aged man flashed before my eyes. Why the fuck would anyone say that? She went back to going down on me, but her tongue landed on unresponsive skin, my body reeling from whiplash as an orgasm moments away became astronomically distant. Still she persisted, not realising what she’d done. I tapped her on the head.
—Don’t think it’s gonna happen actually… sorry.
—Oh, okay!
Blissfully unaware, she settled in next to me as the little spoon. I didn’t see much more of her that summer, but I think about that night often. Somewhere in the city, our brief fling was memorialized in a policeman’s notebook.