Below is one of many stories from my memoir, American Stripper:
The Stolen Bike
A birthday party requested a male stripper in a police costume to surprise the birthday girl. The party took place in a middle-class subdivision on the outskirts of Gainesville. It was dark, around 9 o’clock. No one walked the sidewalks at this time, and the only vehicles around were parked along the streets or in driveways.
I knew better than to drive around dressed like a cop, so I wore a thin nylon jacket over my uniform. When I got out of my car, I took off the jacket and fastened my gun belt.
I walked towards the modern ranch-style house to begin my show.
The customer, a middle-aged woman, met me on the outside porch and handed over a wad of cash. “We’re running a bit behind. Can you give us ten minutes before you knock?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Thanks!” she said. “Try to keep out of sight from the windows, because I’m worried she might be able to see you on the porch.”
The porch light illuminated the surrounding area brightly, so I walked across the lawn and waited in the shadow of a tree.
Suddenly a shrill voice yelled, “Officer! Officer!”
A boy ran towards me. I had nowhere to go. I stood there dumbstruck as he came to a stop in front of me, panting. He looked no older than ten.
“Excuse me, officer,” he panted. “I’d like to report a stolen bike.”
What exactly do I tell this kid? I thought. I couldn’t tell him the truth – that I wasn’t really a cop, but a male stripper who was going to bare it all for his female neighbor – but I didn’t want to lie to him, either. Perhaps a vague approach would work best. “I’m a little busy here,” I said.
“What’re you doing?”
“I have to go in there,” I said, pointing at the house.
“What did they do?” he asked.
“I can’t discuss that.”
“Can I stay and watch?”
I took a breath to hold my patience in check. I wanted snap at him, but didn’t want him running home to his parents crying about how some cop told him to fuck off.
“Look,” I told him firmly. “It’s late. You need to go home so I can do my job.”
“What about my bike?”
“You can file a report at the police station. For the time being, don’t leave your things outside so people can steal them.”
The boy gave me a look of shocked disappointment, as though I had betrayed him. He turned around and walked away, shoulders slumped. I felt horrible. At least I didn’t have to lie to him. Before he had a chance to change his mind and return, I clambered up the porch and knocked on the door, not caring if the party was ready.