Religion Cops: They Call Themselves Vice


[Seattle riot cops asked to use Fantasy bathroom during WTO]

Religion Cops: They Call Themselves Vice

Every now and then the Seattle PD, or Vice to be exact, make their puritanical rounds, mostly busting girls at strip joints for giving dirty lap dances, i.e.: grinding on cocks.

I have a girlfriend who worked at one of the local clubs in Seattle. She told me that the cops usually don protective cups and that if a dancer suspects a customer is a cop, she will accidently brush their crotch first to feel for such cup before doing a dirty dance. Unfortunately, a lot of girls in the clubs do dirty lap dances in order to make a living. If they don’t, there are 20 other girls who will . . . not to mention the girls who are willing to do hand and blow jobs in the VIP section. [Note: In Washington, when asked by a sex worker, a cop does not have to say whether or not he is an officer.]

Some clubs in Seattle get raided more than others. If a girl gets busted, the poor dear is handcuffed on the spot and taken away . . . sometimes scantily clad. When they arrive at the station, they get booked for prostitution and put in a cell for a couple of hours before the club posts bail (although some clubs don’t). The larger clubs have attorneys that represent the girls in court.

When I worked at the dungeon, Vice would come in monthly. The head mistress sat me down when I started working there and told me what to look for and what to do if I suspected a customer was a cop. She said the cops that come in are clean cut and wear comfortable shoes.

“They’ll try to get you to do things . . . they’ll ask you how much will it take for you to flash me your pussy? You know you can’t negotiate services for money in the State of Washington, right?” she’d quiz me. “And you can’t take money from their hand. If they want to ‘tip’ they have to place it on the table. They’ll try to trick you so watch out. If you get busted, we all get busted. They’ll say we’re a whore house and they’ll close this place down.”

She ended by saying, “The cops that come in here are pretty cool. After the show, they usually leave a twenty dollar bill on the table and say something along the lines as ‘good girl’ before walking out the door.” [Thank you, Seattle taxpayers]

At the peep show, the cops also make the rounds. A couple of years ago, they made frequent trips, which were likely due to the fact that upscale condos were going up nearby. It was speculated that the owners placed some calls to the City, hoping they could close the place down.

However, there wasn’t much for the cops to find. That is, to justify closing the place down. The City did require that some changes be made. The bottom of the doors to the peep show booths had to be raised a couple of feet in accordance with RCW blah blah blah and some signs had to be displayed, stating it was illegal for more than one person to occupy a booth at a given time. The changes were made and the visits seemed to ebb.

During the WTO protests, however, a troop of cops came into the peep show donning riot gear, asking permission to use the restroom. The clerk kindly gave them the thumbs up, pointing in the direction of the lavatory, which directly faces the girls in the peep show booths. An interesting visual juxtaposition it must have been to say the least.

The cops still drop in here and there. They are mostly interested in what’s going on in the theater, making sure no one’s doing drugs, masturbating, or engaging in other illicit activities. The cops don’t bother too much with the peep show girls, although there is one cop that comes in from time to time. He only came into my booth once. It was probably the most boring show I ever did. You would think he would be a little less obvious.

Cop: How much does this cost?

Me: $20.00. [We never offer the other shows if we suspect the customer is a cop.]

Cop: What do you do for 20.00?

Me: I get naked for you, baby!

The cop puts the money into the bill acceptor and the shade rises, revealing a middle-aged, clean-cut white male. He stands with his arms crossed, his face expressionless.

Me: Have you been here before, sweetie? [taking off clothes]

Cop: Nope.

Me: Ah, feeling naughty tonight? [smiling]

Cop: Not really.

Me: So what’s your fantasy?

Cop: I don’t have any.

Me: You don’t have any? You don’t have to be shy around me, baby. I’m open-minded. Do you like watching two girls together? [playing with my breasts]

Cop: It’s all right, I guess.

Me: Have you ever been with another guy?

Cop: No! [looking disgusted]

Me: Oh, I think two guys together is so sexy! My biggest fantasy is to have a threesome with two guys. I have a strap-on at home that I like to wear sometimes. [making a thrusting motion]

Cop: You got any toys in there?

Me: No . . . I’m a good girl. I could get in trouble for that.

Cop: Can you put a couple of fingers inside your puss? [brow furrows]

Me: No, I can’t do that, either . . . that would be illegal. You don’t want to get me in trouble do you? [stroking the inside of my thigh]

Cop: [shrugs]

Me: You like watching girls masturbate, don’t you? [smiling]

Cop: Maybe.

Me: Do you masturbate?

Cop: No. [looking disgusted]

Me: It’s all right if you do. It’s natural, right? [wiggling my ass]

Cop: I suppose. Do many guys masturbate here?

Me: Some do.

Cop: Should I?

Me: I guess that’s up to you. It’s a free country. [rolling my hips]

Cop: You ever do anything outside of here?

Me: What did you have in mind? [eyes narrowing a bit]

Cop: I dunno . . . massage, private shows?

Me: No, I make enough here.

Cop: But you could make more.

Me: No thanks. I’m a good girl. [slapping my ass hard]

Cop: Too bad.

Me: Well, it looks like your time is running out. Hope you had a good time.

Cop: Yep. [barely audible]

With time still on the clock, the cop turns and walks out of my booth not saying another word. Sensing that he will go straight into the other girl's booth, I jump out of mine to give her a heads-up.

We girls gotta stick together.



I think I'm in love . . .






I think I'm in love with this girl. You can see her entire gallery at I Shot Myself in addition to many other wonderful galleries. I really love this site because the models take their own pics of themselves, which adds another layer of sexiness. It is amazing how much talent and beauty there is out there and I love the independent medium which embraces creativity, diversity, et al. It is no wonder that Playboy and the like are reeling as a result. (So much so that Playboy recently hooked up with Suicide Girls to try to hip their image, and, while Suicide Girls features many beautiful models and was probably the first to feature the alternative girl [with tats, piercings, etc.], we here at Sensual Liberation Army detest the Suicide Girls right-wing pro-Bush stance as led by the site's co-founder Spooky.)

So not only does I Shot Myself also feature countless beautiful alternative girls, they also link to IndyMedia, as well.

Now, that's sexy.


Morning in Repose



Morning in Repose

It is summer somewhere in Manhattan. A young man wakes up at 7:00 a.m. to the sound of his alarm clock. He sits straight up in bed with a smile on his face. He looks over at his beautiful wife, embracing their newborn child, perfection in sleep. He swings his legs over to the side of the bed where his feet meet the cool, hardwood floor. He yawns and stretches his arms to the sky, admiring the rosy glow of the window shade, signaling the birth of a new day.

It is fall somewhere downtown Seattle in the doorway of an old bookstore. A homeless man stirs under a soiled sleeping bag, smelling of piss and vomit, while the city wakes around him. Men and women on their way to work scurry by, eyes lowered. His dirty face pokes out and looks around. His warm breath curls up like smoke as it hits the bitter fall air. He seems to search the faces of those passing by, looking for some proof of his existence - his worth. Maybe today will be different. He sees nothing and retreats back to his synthetic womb.

It is winter in the bowels of some great city in the good ol' US of A. A man wakes up in a cold prison cell all alone. He opens his eyes and blinks madly, adjusting to the bright white, artificial sunlight. He looks around the room - bare gray walls over smooth gray floors. A toilet hangs near his bed, smelling of stale urine. His bladder is heavy, but he cannot move. He will die today. It has been authorized - the papers stamped. Everything today will be his last. His last meal will sit in his gut, but will never pass . . . although last night’s meal will, along with the contents of his bladder when he falls into his sleep of death.

It is spring somewhere in a small seaside town. In the back of an old beat-up stationwagon, parked on a sandy dune, a woman wakes next to her lover. The air is stale and heavy, smelling of oily hair, sweat, and sex. She is drawn by the white glow of her lover’s back in the dark blue light of early morning. She moves closer to him, pressing her soft breasts into his back. Her bush, stiff with the remnants of their lovemaking, brushes his buttocks. She kisses him below the ear, whispering, “I love you.”

Who Links Here

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