It's not uncommon for cops to marry each other. We work a nasty, unforgiving, thankless job with pressure from all possible sides. We try to do what's right most of the time but somebody is always coming down on us. Our suspects, obviously, don't like us and often curse us. We can live with that. Their victims, often enough, also curse us a lot. I can't count the number of times I've arrested an abusive husband for beating the shit out of his wife and then had the wife in question verbally or even physically attack me for doing so. You learn to live with that. Our citizens, the one's we're sworn to protect, are afraid of us, the best of them just avoiding our presence, the worst of them writing angry editorials to the newspaper about our alleged power abuses. We learn to live with this also. The media, it goes without saying, loves nothing more than to slam us for something, taking comments out of context, interviewing outraged family members that were not present at the incident in question and presenting those interviews as if they were the gospel. We learn to cope with and protect ourselves to some degree against that. Even our administration; that collection of captains, deputy chiefs, and the chief himself; people who have not been street cops in years, if ever, who are more interested in public relations than the morale of us poor line slobs, will burn us in an instant regardless of whether or not we're right. We learn to protect ourselves against this too.

We persevere. It's the nature of most of us. But it's not surprising that we're perhaps the most xenophobic group of individuals on the face of the earth. We have a divorce rate that is right off the chart. I know cops, both male and female, that have been married four times and still haven't learned the lesson. Marriage with civilians just doesn't work. They don't, they can't understand what we go through, what motivates us, what frustrates us, what things we know about our fellow human beings. A wall of uncommunicativeness inevitably develops leading to antipathy with each other, infidelity, and eventually, hatred.

There are many cops of the old school still around that think allowing women onto the department was the worst mistake ever made. I beg to differ. For one, a good many of them make descent or even outstanding cops if they make the effort to fit into what had traditionally been a man's world. After all, bulk and muscles are not what gets the job done but words and the projection of authority most of the time. Cops are the greatest bluffers on earth. Second of all, there is now a group of females in existence that does know exactly what we go through because they go through the same thing. We can now relate to someone. The divorce rate for inter-profession marriages is remarkably low, lower in fact than the national average of all marriages.

I'm one of the smart ones. I began dating Stephanie shortly after the Seattle Police Department hired her six years ago. At the time I was a two-year veteran, just becoming comfortable with the job and just getting bored with the life of a single cop. I'd had my fill of night shift waitresses, dispatchers, clerks in convenience stores, and other forms of cop groupie and was ready to settle down a little. She was a cute brunette assigned to one of the training officers on my shift. We often ran into each other on calls and hit it off pretty well. We began dating once she was released for duty on her own. A year later we were married and proceeded to pump out two kids, girls, both of them, twenty-two months apart. We now have a nice house in suburban Seattle (two civil service incomes combined is a comfortable salary that qualifies for a nice amount on a home loan).

Like most cops, we choose not to socialize with civilians in our off time. Such relationships just don't work. The civilian will feel the need to vent about his or her encounter with what he or she considered a rude cop. Or they'll express their opinion about the latest damning editorial they'd read in the paper. At some point, they'll get a speeding ticket or something and, after complaining about the heartlessness of the cop that had issued it, will ask if you can "fix" it for them. It's best to just avoid those kinds of relationships. But still, we have the need to socialize and to fulfill this, we naturally turn to other cops.

Stephanie and I are very close friends with another pair of married cops, Mark and Michelle Lacy. Mark was hired the year after I was and had been assigned, once his training was complete, to the same district as I. Michelle, a big-boned blonde, not quite large enough to be considered chunky, was hired the year after Stephanie and had met Mark in a manner similar to the way I'd met Steph. They married within a year of meeting and they too proceeded to pump out a couple of kids. Mark and I became friends early on when we found ourselves frequently assigned to calls together. Our get-togethers on mutual off-nights began shortly after the birth of Mark and Michelle's first child.

The get-togethers were not as frequent as we would have liked. Since none of the four of us were particularly fond of day-care we each sacrificed time with our spouses in order to minimize the amount of time the children were not in the presence of one or the other of the parents. To do this, we worked opposing shifts from our spouses. Mark and I both worked weekend day shift, he in Central Seattle (not nearly as glamorous as it sounds, downtown Seattle, once away from the high-rises, is a pit), me in South Seattle, a lower-class residential area. Michelle and Stephanie both worked the same division and shift; East Seattle, another crime-ridden ghetto, on the weekday swing shift. It was rare indeed when all four of us had a day off at the same time, but we'd made a point, a long time ago, to take advantage of such opportunities when they arose.

Usually, when we did get together, we would watch the children, who were becoming fast friends with one another, play together. We would barbecue something and make a nice dinner. We would play cards or Pictionary or some other board game. We would talk shop, getting calls off of our chests, bitching about management, that sort of thing. But always we would drink. Cops are voracious drinkers of alcohol in our off time. Why not? It is legal. As for driving under the influence, we can do that with near impunity. As long as we don't actually get into an accident, we are safe. If another cop, even one from another agency, pulls us over for erratic driving or something else, a simple flash of the badge will bring the encounter to a quick end. You can call it corruption or professional courtesy, or whatever else you like. You can think it right or wrong or just an interesting perk of the job, but it's a simple fact. Off-duty cops, in the matter of driving infractions, definitely live above the law. Don't ever let any of them tell you otherwise.

Thanks to the alcohol consumed at these functions, quite an intimate rapport developed between the four of us. We could say things to each other that would have caused other invited couples to storm out of the house in outrage. For instance, I could say how nice Michelle's tits looked in her new sweater and then make a snide comment about how much I'd like to squeeze them. Neither Mark, nor Michelle, nor Stephanie would be the least bit offended by this, though they would usually laugh outrageously at the observation. Michelle, who was proud of her tits, might even cup them for a moment as emphasis. Similarly, Mark could point out how Steph's ass was looking extremely tight in those jeans she was wearing and speculate on the firmness of the individual cheeks and what they might feel like with his cock in between them. This offended me not the least bit, nor did it Steph or Michelle. Many a discussion had centered on the possibilities of wife swapping. We joked about how it would be perfectly safe since both Mark and I had been vasectomized and we were all free of dangerous diseases. These discussions always produced good laughs.

Now there are fundamental differences between women and men. I knew and Mark knew that both of us were not fully joking when we talked of wife swapping. And we both knew that the other knew this. We're males and the instinct of a male is to strive for variety in his respective sex-life, no matter how attractive, pleasant, or skilled his spouse is in the bedroom. We knew that if the wives were to suddenly agree to this, it would not take more than a minute or so to convince us that it was a good thing to do. We also both assumed that the wives were joking when they discussed it. Women's sexual desires and needs are different than those of a man. Women did not strive for variety for the simple fact of experimentation. Or so we thought. Until New Years Eve.

We always made it a point to get together on December 31 of each year. Usually it involved one or more of us taking the night or next day off, but New Years Eve, though it pays holiday overtime rate, is not a pleasant shift to work anyway. In fact, it's our busiest day of the year, what with all the drunken revelry and the inevitable domestic disputes that result from it. Throw in all of the calls for "shots fired in the vicinity of..." and you have an ugly ten hours of work that usually turns into twelve or thirteen. When you had the seniority that the four of us did, and if you asked for that particular day off far enough in advance, it was usually granted. This year was no exception. I was scheduled to work at 6AM New Years Day but a time-off request submitted way back in October had neatly taken care of that. The rest of the crew, by luck of the draw, was already off.

Our house was the chosen locale this year. Mark and Michelle showed up about seven o'clock that evening bringing a couple of marinated steaks and a bottle of tequila with them. Their two children, Jason and Alexandria, followed them inside where they greeted us and our two children, Sarah and Jessica, enthusiastically. They weren't there five minutes before the first batch of potent margaritas was whirring to completion in our blender.

We started dinner right away, finishing it and cleaning up the dishes by 8:30. We were all pleasantly buzzed by then, our discussions animated and mostly centering on work. The kids of course wanted to stay up until midnight and we told them that they could but the oldest, Jessica, was only four and a half, and by ten minutes after 9:00, all of them were sound asleep on couches or floors. We carried them to waiting beds and returned to the living room where the real drinking soon started.

We began by playing Taboo, a board game in which you have to have your partner guess a certain word by giving clues. The catch is that the most obvious clues are usually on the list of taboo words. It's fun, all the more so because a member of the opposing team is required to sit next to you to make sure you don't say any of the forbidden words. Since the married couples were natural teams, this meant that Michelle and I were sitting next to each other as were Steph and Mark. As we played we drank more and more margaritas, taking turns getting up and making each new batch. Soon we were all pretty squiffed. I particularly enjoyed the way that Michelle leaned into me whenever she needed to read over my shoulder. Her balance was off and her large breasts pushed pleasantly into my arm each time. I certainly didn't complain, nor did Stephanie who couldn't have helped seeing what Michelle was doing. In fact, I noticed, she was doing the same thing to Mark when she read over his shoulder. I began to get aroused.

At about 10:00 we had just finished up the last round of Taboo. Michelle, still sitting next to me, was telling a joke. "And so the Pope looked at them all for a second," she said, giggling already. She jabbed her elbow into my side in a friendly manner, indicating that this is what the Pope in her joke did. "And said, 'you motherfuckers are all right'."

We began laughing. It was a pretty funny joke, made all the more so by our current level of intoxication. Stephanie, in a fit of girlish laughter, accidentally knocked her quarter-full margarita glass over. The green, icy liquid sloshed across the table and poured into Mark's lap, causing him to jump up, startled. This caused everybody to laugh even more.

"I'm so sorry," Steph giggled, sounding anything but. "Here," she said, grabbing a handful of napkins from a pile on the table. She quickly cleaned off the chair and discarded the wet ones. She then picked up another pile and began wiping the wet spot on the front of Mark's pants. Her strokes were firm, teasing, and not doing much to dry him off at all. It was probably, in fact, making him spring some wood.

He looked at me a little uncomfortably for a moment. "Better be careful," he told Steph with a smile, "or it might suddenly get a lot wetter."

She chortled. "I'm good," she said, "but I didn't know I was that good."

"Maybe you oughtta vacuum dry it," Michelle suggested to her. "If you know what I mean."

This actually made Mark blush, which served to make everyone else spew laughter. After a moment, Steph removed her hand and he sat back down.

It was Michelle's turn to make the next batch of drinks. She disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes and then came the sound of the blender grinding up the concoction of ice, tequila (lots of it), and generic margarita mix. When she returned, she unsteadily poured herself a glassful and then set the blender down on the table.

"I'm too friggin' drunk to pour everyone's drink," she said, slurring a little. "You can all just do it yourselves. That way, if you spill the shit, it's your own fault."

"I know a good place to spill it," Steph said, casting an amused eye at Mark.

A look passed between the two women at that point. I didn't know what it meant, not then, but some form of telepathic communication took place. Michelle, on the way to her chair, eased behind me. I felt the weight of her substantial breasts pushing against my back. She paused there.

"You know, Stephie," she said with mock indignation, "I'm offended. You went and spilled a drink on my husband. That's an insult in some countries."

"Oh yeah?" Steph grinned.

"Yeah," she answered. "I can't just let that go without retaliation." With that, she stretched her drink arm over my shoulder and poured about half of her margarita right into my crotch.

"Jesus!" I exclaimed, jumping. Have you ever had icy liquid poured onto your genitals? It's kind of like, well kind of like having icy liquid poured onto your genitals. I stood up so quick that my body threw Michelle, who'd still been on my back, backwards. She stumbled and fell to her butt on the floor, pouring the remainder of her drink into her lap.

Mark and Steph were both in hysterics, seeing this. Though my crotch was numb I quickly found humor in the situation and began laughing too, as did Michelle. I held out my hand to help her up. She took it but when I started to pull she gave a strong yank, pulling me down on top of her. We fell to the floor, our chests and groins pushing together.

"Gotcha," she grinned, her face inches from mine, close enough so I could smell her breath. She ground her crotch playfully into me. Playful or not though, my body responded immediately to the feel of her wet crotch rubbing against mine. Though we'd joked around before - it was almost a ritual - this was the first time I'd ever been in close, intimate contact with her body. It felt nice, different than Steph's. It was a little larger and a little softer. And her breasts were a lot larger.

"Careful," I said. "Your husband might get offended."

"Are you offended, Markie?" she asked lightly, giving me another grind.

"Nope," he burped. "I'm very inoffensable."

"You guys are getting my carpet all wet though," Stephanie pointed out, giggling.

Reluctantly I pulled myself off of her, holding out my hand once again to help her up. This time she stood in the normal fashion.

"Gee, Michelle," Steph said, looking at me. "I do believe you gave my husband a boner."

I was shocked that she would say such a thing and opened my mouth to deny it. But then, looking down at myself, I could see there was nothing to deny. My pants, made tighter than normal by the margarita spilled on them, were most definitely bulging outward. I felt myself blushing, the boner of which they spoke wanting to wilt in shame. I wondered if Mark was going to kick my ass for this. But Mark was simply grinning, shaking his head back and forth.

"She gives good boners, doesn't she?" he asked me.

"But does she know what to do with them afterward?" Steph inquired.

"I've never had any complaints," Michelle answered. She looked at me and ran her finger up the bulge in my pants, both making me jump again and making Steph and Mark laugh. "You better get your wifey to take care of that for you."

"Oh no," Steph said. "You gave it to him. You take care of it."

At that point the atmosphere in the room underwent a change. Before, though we'd been admittedly more raunchy than usual we could still tell ourselves that we were only kidding around in a drunken way. That illusion was about to end and we were about to cross over a line, from friendliness to open sexuality. We stopped giggling and became more serious, serious enough to feel the charge of sexual electricity in the air. If any one of us would have said anything, even jokingly, to indicate that they didn't want to take part in where this path was leading, it would have come to a stop right there and we would have gone back to our usual sort of party. But no one did.