You feel a hand clap onto your shoulder firmly. "Where the fuck have you been, shithead?" The voice is somehow familiar, and you turn to examine its source. You turn your much bulkier body and are mildly surprised to see another police officer. What surprises you even more is that you recognize him.
This is Quentin, your patrol partner. He was assigned to your mentorship a couple years ago, when he joined the local force. When he was a rookie, you used to give him endless grief, but now, the two of your were pretty close. Not in a cheesy buddy cop way, but good enough friends to shoot the shit with each other or grab the occasional beer after work. At least that's what your mind is telling you. But another part is examining the man in front of you for the first time.
Quentin is pretty tall, about 6 foot 2. You can see that he clearly works out (and besides, your brain is telling you the two of you hit the gym together once in a while). He's a little top heavy, his muscular torso a burly triangle balancing on his lean legs. Quentin is mixed race (Caucasian/Ugandan says your brain), and has light brown skin; almost the color of coffee with creamer. His hair is in a high buzzed fade with a stylish line up at the temples. He has several tattoos that are exposed by the short sleeves of the police uniform. All done in black ink, Quentin has everything from family members to geometric designs to a tacky drawing of a shark fighting with a mermaid -- a real mish-mash.
It's only been a few moments, but Quentin is looking impatient. "Not rhetorical, asshole. I had to cover for your ass when you didn't respond on your radio. Dispatch was shitting bricks." You try to play it off. "Sorry, I uh... went for lunch and lost track of time." Quentin rolls his eyes and pushes your shoulder firmly with his open palm. "Like I buy that shit. Save it for chief if he wants your ass later." He smiles a bit, his annoyance seeming to dissipate. "It's fine anyways, you kinda did me a solid, man. I was responding to disorderly conduct at a clothes store and I got to chat up the fine ass girl behind the counter. Yolanda. Sexy name, too. She gave me her number and you better believe I'm getting balls deep in that pussy tonight."
You feel a twitch in your dick when Quentin mentions his plans. You're confused by this reaction... you're gay, aren't you? You brush it off and go along with the moment for now. "Like hell you are. You're going to be giving some Chinese restaurant a booty call when you try that number." Quentin smiles and winks cheekily at you. "We'll see, [name]. I'll let you know what happens."
You surprise yourself a little with your next comments. "I don't need you to tell me all about your jerk-off session when she flakes. Besides, when was the last time you even got some?" Quentin laughs, probably making a note to cook up an appropriate insult for later. "Man, you already know that girl from down my street has been throwing herself at me. She has huge tits, but nothing beats her pussy. So damn tight." You're shocked to find yourself rock hard. Luckily, your bulky radio is partially obscuring your hard-on; your belt wiggled around a little when you walked over. You can't help thinking about this unknown woman's body, and it's getting you hot imagining her.
You realize that something is wrong... could this be because of the ring? You have no way of knowing what kind of orientation that musclebound stud had, and you've never so much as thought about pussy before. Just visualizing the naked man's picture in your memory is enough to make you go soft. You must be straight now, there's no other explanation.
The rest of the afternoon passes with little fanfare. Eventually, after walking around the park individually, your radio comes to life with a crackling roar. You here Quentin's deep voice, and here he's all business. "Hey, Officer [name]. Need you to meet me at the car." You remember Chief wants you and Quentin to set up a speed trap tonight on the small highway uptown. Lots of teenagers drive fast on that road and there have been a few accidents. "10-4," you say, and head there. The stakeout feels like it takes forever. You and Quentin only bust a couple cars, and the fines are nowhere near what your boss was hoping for. Fucking quotas. The two of you pass the time by talking about a new horror movie you both saw and the guy in the file office neither of you like. You want to talk more about women, about pussy, but you don't want to sound like a pervert. Surely Quentin must think you're gay anyways? "What the fuck is up man," Quentin begins, "you've been quiet all night. At least try to keep up some conversation man, I'm tired as hell." You mumble some excuse, trying to think of any topic to bring up other than pussy. The more you restrain yourself, the harder your dick seems to strain against the pliant fabric of your boxers. You start thinking about Travis, who still has the ring. At least this has the bittersweet effect of making you flaccid again. You need to get the swap ring back from him as soon as possible. You should probably go back to being gay so things are less confusing. You have a boyfriend after all. But there are other, tempting options too...
Finally, you notice it's 11:59; the two of you have a shift change at midnight. You want to get home and relieve some of your pressure. You turn to Quentin and he says...