It is true that of the 37 strip clubs I worked throughout my career all of them employed at least one somewhat capable guy as security. It is also true that I have never trusted leaving 100% of my safety solely in the hands of a person who was almost always overworked, under-slept, and underpaid. Because of this, my standard operating procedure before performing any kind of table dance, lap dance, private dance, VIP room, Champagne Room, or Fantasy Room was to conduct a TSA style search.
Albeit, a fun silly one that didn’t read as a search. I’d tell customers a partial truth, that my bare ass was sensitive and if they wanted me to get close they’d have to empty their pockets because rubbing up on hard lumpy things while dancing did not feel good. Wink. It worked every time.
If eyes are the window to people’s souls then seeing what’s in their pockets is the basement door. A few things I’ve witnessed customers toss on to the cocktail table, or floor, include: knives of all sizes, patient ID wristbands, wedding rings, vibrators, butt plugs, vials of coke, vials of poppers, pipes (for drugs other than weed), and a sandwich baggie full of meth.
The only two things the cop had in his pocket were car keys and a crisp white envelope full of cash. On the front of the envelope read the words “college fund” with college crossed out and the word “stripper” written above it. It was a first, and made me chuckle.
By the time our fifteen minutes had come to an end I was struck by how withdrawn the cop had been throughout the dance. He couldn’t have cared less about being teased, aroused, or engaged in anyway. Hell, he hardly even marveled at my award winning ass. It wasn't that he was rude, or indifferent, he just wasn’t present. Truth be told, he seemed to only show sign of life when I gave him a final hug before we exited the VIP room.
I ended up seeing the cop two more times before I stopped working at that particular club. Though it wasn’t until his last visit where I learned more. Once again, he showed up sporting a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, this one with rifles patterned across it. And like the first time, he paid me cash from the “stripper fund” envelope, which by that point had seen better days.
Despite the fact we had established a bit of report, he was still cagey. And I was still on guard about what his deal was. But a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. So to speak.
About a third of the way through the dance, he told me it was the last time I’d see him. I hesitated, and tried to decipher if him saying so was intended to provoke a specific reaction. Was he fishing for attention? Did he want me to ask him why, to gush and tell him he was going to be missed? Or was I reading too much into it, and he was just being polite?
It's not abnormal for a repeat client to tell me when they won’t be returning. After all the connection I’ve formed with many of my customers walks a line of intimacy, so I always considered them saying goodbye a small gesture of respect. I suppose because I believed all cops were dismissive of sex workers humanity, it hadn’t occurred to me that this cop, now a repeat client, had humanized me enough to let me know it was his final visit.
While this consideration rattled around in the back of mind, I decided it was time to dig a little deeper. If it were to be the last time we saw each other, I had to know, why the big Eeyore vibes? So I flipped my hair and casually responded: “Are you not coming back to the club because you’re going back to work?” To which he gave an abrupt, “No.” Then mumbled something about the reason he’d been on leave being more complicated, and fell silent.
I held the cop’s silence and waited. When confronted face to face with a naked stranger, wafting of knock-off Gucci perfume, who has suddenly gone from shaking her glittery ass to Two Chains to sitting perfectly still, it is proven that 99.9% of people will talk first. After two more verses the cop continued. He stated in a hushed voice the reason he was forced to take a leave of absence was because he was struggling with PTSD. Ahhhhhh.
Now, you might be thinking this is the part of the story that leads me to some kind of come to Jesus moment. That after catching a glimpse of one cop’s vulnerability, I was suddenly inspired to change my cop hating ways. I immediately stopped referring to them as pigs… and no longer yelled ACAB! every time a squad car drove by. Maybe I put a Blue Lives Matter sticker on my water bottle… Or hung one of those Thin Blue Line flags in front of my house? In which case I’d caution, don’t get ahead of yourself.
While I did do my best to show outward sensitivity for this man’s obvious hurt, I also caught myself wondering: What awful thing did he do to get PTSD?
If this had been an ER Nurse, firefighter, or search and rescue worker expressing the same vulnerability, chances are I would have immediately empathized. After all, I know PTSD. When left unaddressed, I know how isolating and terrifying and unpredictable PTSD symptoms can be. How much it sucks to go from running errands on a regular Tuesday afternoon to having a full blown flashback of a traumatic incident. Which seemingly comes out of nowhere and proceeds to hijack your mental stability for the next week.
In that moment the fact that I could relate to the terror of experiencing PTSD did not matter. Instead, my initial reaction was to dismiss the hauntedness in the cop’s eyes and how dissociated he was from his body in favor of abiding by a familiar narrative. A narrative that had become somewhat of a commandment for me. In that moment what mattered was that I had already judged this man based on his choice to work for an often corrupt and dysfunctional organization. One who’s representatives regularly abuse its power and degrade the very citizens it vows to protect and serve. And this rendered him underserving of my empathy.
It could be said I was justified in my reaction. If I tally the combination of my own experiences plus years of organizing with fellow sex workers who’ve shared stories of being violated by police when they needed protection (or were just going about their business), and add in the endless historical and modern day examples of police racism and brutality, it’s really a no brainer. I like piña coladas, getting caught in the rain, long walks on the beach, and, I hate cops.
But what has kept me revisiting my exchange with this cop isn’t deciphering whether or not I was right or wrong in feeling justified. It is realizing that feeling justified made it possible for me to do to him the very thing so many people have done to me. I victim blamed him.
Of course at the time I didn’t see it as victim blaming. And again, for the record, I didn’t say it aloud. I am a god damn professional. But just because I kept it to myself, unlike the people who have flat out told me that because it was my choice to do sex work I get whatever (enter: violence/assault/predatory action) I sign up for, it still felt gross.
What I felt gross about was that by victim blaming the cop instead of empathizing with him I dismissed his humanity. This is an act of dehumanization. And one of the biggest things I’ve advocated for as a community organizer is the humanization of sex workers. Regardless of people’s moral stance about the work.
It’s a gale of hypocrisy that has knocked me off my crusading horse and forced me to examine: What does being right or wrong in feeling justified have to do with anything?
Do my thoughts and actions reinforce a belief that some humans matter more than others? Where do I draw the line in weighing the actions of the collective versus the individual? How does feeling justified in victim blaming the cop contribute to the actual change I wish to see in policing? Furthermore, has there ever been a time in history when the way forward for a person or group of people who have been dehumanized, was forged by them in turn dehumanizing others?
