The headlights remember boys like us: black, unbroken by the law. As they man us to the curb, one friend says he’s been broken before. But not like this. The car parks. Two white men get out. Their blue uniforms adore their muscles. You boys up to trouble? I want to kiss the question, make love to the word “boys” as I have seen in porn. We’re told to sit. It’s cold, my other friend complains. So busy studying the officers’ pelvises, I don’t notice the flashlights searching our faces, our chests, our legs. I wanted to touch what hung between their thighs. Got a call about some houses being broken into. Know anything about it? Prayer would be wise, but I don’t remember to pray. One friend says we’re heading to his house up the street and tosses his eyes. A flashlight pulls from his shoes to his lips, shimmering. Here, in the Southend, others know this recycled story. One by one, we are searched. Nothing in my friends’ pockets, a pen in mine. They don’t know how after the frisk the black boy in the porn is scripted to blow the officers. I think tonight will be the night I’m written into the perfect angle. But the production crew never arrives. I’m not headlined. I’m sitting on the bed talking about the rest of our night. One friend says he has an idea and the other looks at me. We know what we came here to do. Let’s stop bullshitting. Take off your clothes.