Every now and then the city fathers will decide that it’s time to “Clean up” and deal with some of the street-level vice crimes. So, a few of us get selected to go out and try and pick up hookers. Some cops are masters of doing this; some (like me) are terrible at it.
The problem is that I just can’t talk dirty. While other cops are picking up girls faster than Snoop-doggy, I seem to have a neon sign that says “Cop” hovering over me. One time a working girl approached me, I struck up a conversation and her response was, “Hi Officer”; this was typical.
I thought I could turn my luck around by accusing them of being cops. This was met with only limited success, I’ll tell you why: none of the prostitutes around this city look like Julia Roberts, or for that matter as good as the south end of my northbound pet Schnauzer. Tragically, most all of the prostitutes are heroin, cocaine or meth users, and using these drugs interveiniously leaves them ravaged with a variety of health problems (not to mention the various sexually transmitted diseases). So, picture this: me talking to a woman with weeping sores from impetigo, two teeth rotted from malnutrition and dried blood on her sleeve from shooting heroin; and I ask, “Are you a police woman?” A few were flattered enough to give me the price list and go to jail.
Now my old partner Wayne could talk the talk, and sometimes he would show me pity and let me tag along with him to pick up two at once. One time we got a couple of cagy hookers in the car, now we had to hear them agree to a sex act for money. The one with Wayne in the front seat decided that he had to prove he was not a cop. The way for him to do that was for him to put his fingers where the sun don’t shine (except on a few French beaches); that is for him to put his hand into her pants, which she unbuttoned and pulled down a bit. Of course Wayne did not want to put his good right hand into the bio-hazard vault beneath her jockeys, so he refused.
Now it seemed as though this gal (not being of the rocket-science sort) decided that if Wayne would touch "third base", he was no cop; so she grabbed his hand to force it down, as if in doing so she could force him into not being a cop. I sat in the back seat watching this arm wrestling go one for a minute, not knowing whether to laugh or help keep my partner’s hand from doom; I’m afraid the laughing won out in the end. The harder he fought not to have his hand go south, the harder she fought to force his hand into her crotch.
All of a sudden, our portable radio, which had been tucked under the front seat, came on with our back-up asking what the heck was going on. The girl came to her senses and let Wayne's hand go and hiked her pants back up, and I finally stopped laughing long enough to take a breath.
I guess in the end the girl’s ploy worked- if a guy picks you up and you have to fight for 2 minutes trying to get him to touch you before agreeing to have sex… it just may be a cop.