"Hey, you."
Selucas' swagger-laden stride was about to end; a shadow loomed in his peripheral vision— broad, blue, and deliberate.
"You. Blond kid. Stop."
The voice was sharp, not angry, but commanding. Selucas slowed. A uniformed man stood off the path, under the flicker of a lamppost— standard-issue navy blue, boots thick with city dust, and a badge that shimmered under the amber light. His belt was weighted with gear: handcuffs, flashlight, pepper spray, and a sidearm.
Selucas obeyed the order. His heartbeat made a little jump. The swagger in his chest softened to something cautious.
The officer approached slowly, sizing him up with eyes trained by habit. Selucas kept his hands where they were— at this moment in his jacket pockets. He realized too late that might look suspicious.
"Hands out of your pockets."
He complied, lifting them halfway.
"What's your name?"
"Selucas," he said, voice even.
"ID?"
Selucas fumbled for his wallet and handed it over. The officer scanned the ID, then looked him up and down again, this time slower, eyes catching on the low-slung cargo pants; the boxer waistband in full display, half of the splendid white colour of his boxershorts visible. Neat white sneakers and t-shirt, the casual down-to-earth jersey utility jacket.
"You new in town?"
Selucas nodded. "Just moved here. I was walking. That's all."
The officer stared at him for a long beat.
"You dress like that everywhere you go?"
Selucas blinked. "I guess. Yeah."
The officer stepped closer. His face, though not hostile, was disapproving— deep-set lines under his eyes, jaw clenched. He didn't yell. He didn't swear. But everything about his tone said don't screw with me.
"You know," the officer said, "you walk around with your pants hanging off your ass like that, you're gonna get the wrong kind of attention."
"You might think you're making a statement. You're not. You look like a wannabe. A kid playing gangster dress-up. And in this city? That can get you in trouble."
When Selucas heard that he was a little shocked and thought: Did I go too far? Was I too enthusiastic? Did I misinterpret swagger? Selucas urged himself to keep chill and to stay cool. Let calmness guide you through everything.
"I'm not doing anything wrong," Selucas replied, careful to keep his voice calm. "Just walking."
The officer glanced around the park. It was still semi-populated, but quiet. Then, after a breath: "Turn around. Hands high up in the air."
Selucas' stomach dropped. "Why?"
"Routine frisk. You're wearing known gang-style presentation, you're new in the area, and you're loitering after dusk. Don't make this harder."
A knot formed in his throat.
He hesitated— half a second too long.
The officer stepped forward. "Now."
Selucas turned slowly, and raised his hands fully in the air, stretching his body long and tense. A mild breeze hit his back. The sag in his pants now felt exposed, foolish.
The officer stepped behind him. "Spread your legs shoulder-width. Stay still."
Tsk, how much more stretched-out must I be?! How much more vulnerable?! Of course, without resistance, Selucas did as told. His breath was shallow now. He wasn't scared exactly, but this was new. Vulnerable. Embarrassing. Something about having his back turned while someone else loomed behind felt.... wrong.
He heard the click of the officer's gloves.
First came the pat on his shoulders— firm but methodical, pressing into the seams of his jacket, down his arms. The gloves were cold through the cotton. Selucas stared straight ahead, eyes focused on nothing.
The officer crouched behind him, running his hands down the outside of each leg. When he reached the knees, he pressed inward, then lifted the cuffs of the cargo pants slightly to check inside.
The procedure felt endless. Can this please just end?! It feels so humiliating!
Then came the part Selucas didn't expect— the officer gripped the waistband of his pants, lifted it slightly, and he scanned with his fingers purposefully for possible stuck, illegal objects hidden behind the inner band and down beneath, the upper side of his hand brushing the taut cotton of his branded boxershorts, shamelessly exposed.
Cool boy no more.
Selucas froze.
The contact wasn't violent, wasn't groping— but it was intimate. Mechanical, maybe. Routine. But still a stranger's hand, inside his clothes, behind him.
A flush of shame rose in his face. Selucas felt himself becoming more and more agitated as he increasingly had to compromise the integrity of his own body and expose himself to the authorities. It made him audacious and rebellious, a strange feeling he had not felt before arose in him; the desire to be impertinent, to cast a rude remark at the officer, trying out how much he can push the boundaries. The feeling of shame retreated, although slowly.
Two feelings Selucas had almost never felt before were now strongly present in him, overflowing his body like a whirlpool: Shame (decreasing) and impertinence (increasing).
And something else.
This is what it looks like, he thought. When swagger gets mistaken for threat.
The officer finished by checking the large side pockets on the cargo pants. Nothing. Of course. Selucas wasn't carrying anything but his phone, wallet, protein bar and a water bottle.
The officer stood up.
"You're clean."
Selucas didn't move.
"You can turn around."
He did. But something had shifted.
His confidence - his swagger - had cracked. Not shattered, but cracked. On the one hand there was still the tormenting shame, but on the other hand there was the urge for impertinence; the desire to defend his male-pride. Two compelling forces astride clashing on each other, a battle in which no side prevailed over the other, keeping Selucas in check and making him obediently passive— a feeling he started to despise. The feeling of weakness. Of submissiveness.
Never I want to feel like this again! Next time I won't get along with it so obediently. I will no longer give up the sovereignty of my body so easily and quickly. Selucas vowed to himself. Swagger is not being submissive and overly humble! Swagger is defending the integrity of your pride with style and coolness. Next time I will resist and be more uppish.
The officer handed back his ID.
"Next time, maybe think about how you're presenting yourself. Style's one thing. Looking like trouble is another."
Selucas took his ID silently.
Then the officer walked away, slow and steady, boots thudding against the path.
Selucas stood silent for a while, then he moved himself again. His pants still sagged low. His jacket still looked good. His reflection in the pond nearby still glowed with that golden-hour radiance.
Swagger, he realized, was a double-edged sword.
It could attract.
It could empower.
But it could also provoke.
And the world wouldn't always ask who you were before deciding what you were.
Selucas walked slowly, the park's golden light fading into a cooler blue. His heart had stopped pounding, but the memory of the officer's hands - methodical, gloved, impersonal - still pulsed in his mind like a second heartbeat. He felt stretched between two selves: one humiliated, and one.... exhilarated— this side becoming stronger and more determined. Rebellion. He desired it.
He rolled his shoulders, the jacket shifting with a whisper of cotton and confidence. His pants still sagged low, he hadn't fixed them. Something in him refused to. Because even though the experience was invasive.... It was also electric.
I looked like a gangster, he thought. And they treated me like one.
It wasn't just indignity he felt.
It was power.
To walk in a way that stirred response. To be seen. To provoke. He came from a world where obedience was godly, where modesty was expected, where virtue meant silence. But this swagger? It shouted. It dared.... And it felt powerful. Masculine.
As he walked - in slowly and sultry pace, as easy going as possible - outside the park, he pulled up his pants gain on a normal level. Shit! That felt better as I thought! Even that bad incident at the end can't change my opinion about that....
Now Selucas entered his home again and went straight to his bedroom. He felt the shame rising again. Did I really sag my pants like a gangster, just now?! Well, of course I did but.... Seriously Selucas, don't do that ever again! It's dangerous— too dangerous! It all starts with pride! All evil stems from it! Swagger is good, it's a style. But I must not let myself go! Lose myself, taking the wrong turn and going on a dark path leading to gangster paradise.
That police officer was the prove! I was being frisked! Seriously being frisked! Oh my god!
The torn boy now lay himself on bed, still all clothed on. All these new impressions, these new feelings. It makes me dizzy. Confused. I did things I never thought I would do.... Seriously, I am out of my mind! Get yourself together Selucas! No more over-haughty pride! Cool down!
Last hour felt like a violent flaming-up. Selucas was completely heated-up to the maximum. It was an enlightenment.... a rebirth.
That brush with the edge of society; that confrontation with authority— it made him feel alive.
Pushing and challenging boundaries gives thrill and excitement.
A dangerous exchange.
He vowed to keep his transformation in check. Swagger is good, yes, but too much swagger can get you in a lot of trouble....
I must not get addicted to this kind of thrill. Selucas thought ashamed. I am a good boy, and I will remain one!