There are countless first responders, firefighters, search and rescue workers, EMT’s, law enforcement officers, ER nurses and doctors, military members, and even a Homeland Security guy, or two, who have paid to see me naked. Because of this I have often joked that I too have been a public servant. Especially because my experience of performing as a stripper for the last 13 years was that nudity was the amuse-bouche but rarely the meat and potatoes of what these folks sought at the club.
First responders, like 98% of people I’ve entertained often came for the titties and stayed for the connection. It’s a group of people I was regularly stoked to engage, as no one appreciates a smiling professional party girl more than a person who regularly bares witness to the worst day of peoples’ lives. Actually, I was regularly stoked to engage most of them. Ok, all of them, except cops.
I have a long history of not trusting cops. It’s a seed that was first planted as a kid witnessing domestic violence, later reenforced as a troubled teen, and proven again and again as an adult. Particularly during my tenure as a sex worker and community organizer. In fact, “not trusting” cops is putting it mildly. Having a vehement distain for is probably more apt, to the point that if I met someone at work who admitted to being a cop (typically from another city or state), I would get up and walk away.
Heralding an ACAB ethos (all cops are bastards) has been a fixture in both my personal and professional belief systems. Because of what I’ve personally experienced and witnessed, heard first hand from sex workers I’ve organized with, and learned from documented historical and modern day policing practices, I have felt justified in never questioning myself about this.
That is, until a series of encounters at a ramshackle nudie bar in Colorado Springs.
The second to last club I worked at before retiring was a proper relic. The kind of place with un-ironic wood paneling, its original carpet and staff. The drinks were stiff, the sound system was weak, and there was a lopsided pool table spotted with unidentifiable gunk in the corner. As emphasized in this love letter I wrote to a jiggle joint in Vegas when it closed, I have a soft spot for strip clubs like this, and had a blast working there.
One night, as we were getting dangerously close to power hour (the hour before last call when all strippers go into overdrive pushing sales) I sauntered over to a big square man at the bar. He was clean cut, sported a bushy mustache, and wore a bright colored Hawaiian shirt. He appeared uncomfortable. In that way people do when they’re highly anxious but are attempting to assert confidence. I appreciated his effort. It signaled he was dealing with some shit (who isn’t) but was making the effort to have fun. The first rule of strip clubs is, you have to want to participate.
He bought me a drink and we took a seat behind the stage. Then I did what I always do when getting to know a prospective client. I sat in a way that flaunted my assets and asked innocuous questions. As a rule of thumb I never asked what people did for work. One, I really didn’t care (unless they were cops). Two, strip clubs should provide respite from work and real life problems (unless you’re a cop). Three, 90% of people ended up volunteering that information anyway. Which always reinforced to me that work is where a lot of us source our identity and sense of value.
As we talked I noticed this guy was prickly. His mouth was saying all the right things, but the way he said them and his physical rigidity told me he was hiding. It made me not trust him. Unfortunately my purse was a lot lighter than I had wanted it to be for the time of night it was, so I decided to sit a few minutes longer and continue to feel him out. I needed to know, was he a bad person? Someone capable of violence or at the very least being a disrespectful customer and more hassle than he was worth. In which case, I’d cut my losses and move on to someone else. Or was he, as I'd initially picked up on, fronting as a way to not think about or expose whatever he was dealing with outside the club?
I flirted a little more and as he talked, I realized his Hawaiian shirt had grenades on it. Then it dawned on me. The mustache, the prickliness, the douchie shirt, this guy was a cop. As if he had heard me think it, he suddenly stated that he was on leave from his job as a police officer.
He kept talking, but whatever he said after his reveal faded away. I was too busy slowly reapplying my lipgloss and taking note of the number of songs that had played since we sat down. Then I looked at the waining crowd in room, mentally recounted my night's earnings, and made the calculated decision to try and close the sale. I lowered my voice, touched his arm, and went in for the kill. With a hefty dose of fuck it, he slammed his drink and stood up. We were off to the VIP room.
Read Part 2: December 18.
