Handcuffs Just Ain’t What They Used to Be

If you have been arrested lately, especially in large groups (and let’s not assume that I would ever get arrested. That would never happen to a guy like me!), you might have noticed that the police no longer use handcuffs but rather use tie-wraps. (Or zip ties depending on where you are from.)

I mean, as a police tool it makes perfect sense. You don’t have to worry about losing the key, not knowing which model or serial number fits with which key, etc. There was the odd case where someone might actually beat the lock. Granted, they’d still have to bust out of the car and/or escape the officers, but if that never happened, Fox News could arguably be out of business by the end of the fiscal year.

Tie-wraps make sense for police work and there are better trained people than me who figured that out for all of us. But here’s the problem.

Tie-wraps just don’t cut it as a dramatic item either in film or books. Let’s be honest, we have all seen some police chase that ends up with the bad guy nearly escaping while the inspector (who obviously had been chasing him in his clean jacket, coat tie, and leather shoes) manages at the last second to swing his handcuffs and slap the criminal’s wrist for the arrest.

Could you imagine the same scene with the inspector trying to throw forward a set of heavy-duty tie-wraps?

Bink!

Me neither. It just doesn’t work as prop.

Handcuffs need to stick around regardless of what the police are actually using these days.

They are not simply a film noir icon and a mystery landmark. They symbolize the glory of justice over evil; the triumph of the system over those who would abuse it. They remind us of our moral obligation to be upright citizens and they are an indispensible tool of the many sex scenes we all like to read. (Oh! Be honest with yourself!)

And so, in the spirit of Fifty Shades’ success (which I’m still trying to wrap my head around), let’s picture a scene for a minute.

You walk into the lobby and there, sitting at the bar, is a middle-aged gentleman in a perfectly fitted three piece, pin stripe grey jacket and pants, salt and pepper hair, manicured hands and baby powdered butt. A helluva man!

He’s alone, no ring on his finger. 

You make sure your dress fits your ample curves perfectly. You pull out a small mirror from your purse, look at yourself in confidence. Make-up is perfect, eyelashes are flawless! You make your move.

“Hi! My name’s Isabel,” you simply say as you extend a hand. Your fingernails are pure red, skin is smooth, small gold bracelet hanging from your wrist. There is no way he would not be charmed.

“Oh! I have never touched a woman, nor would I dare to,” he replies.

You stand surprised and ask how could that be. After a few words, you realize that this strange animal might just bring you to new experiences. Might you even reach an orgasm without touching one another?

“Is that even possible?” you ask.

“I own the hotel,” he replies. “Why don’t we go up and find out.”

He takes you to a two story suite at the very top of the tower. A wide balcony stands beyond the patio doors. A Jacuzzi is bubbling on it. The fireplace is filled with maple wood, slowly burning. The chirping of the wood is muffled by the sound of Aretha Franklin playing on the radio. He takes you to the bedroom,  your senses are bare and ready.

He asks you to lay down at your convenience, put your hands up toward the headboard. Carefully placed hooks into have been attached to it.

“How exciting,” you think.

You close your eyes, he makes his move. Biting your inner lip, you expect the cold, stiff yet pleasurable snap of metallic handcuffs. Yet all you hear is a high pitch “Ziiiiippp” and you feel the sharp edges of plastic straps digging into your skin.

“Oh my God! He’s a serial killer,” you quickly realize.

Get what I’m saying?


Ian Truman is a hardcore kid turned writer. He has been straight edge and vegetarian for at least a decade now and hopes to bring the passion, verve, and dedication of hardcore into the art form of the novel. You can find him in Montreal, Quebec, with his wife Mary and daughter Kaori or on his website at iantruman.wordpress.com.

Read all posts by Ian Truman for Criminal Element.

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