[Non-Fiction] Now Who's the Bimbo?—The Story of My Strip Search

[barebuns]

NOW WHO'S THE BIMBO?

What’s someone like me doing in a place like this? I’m hardly the sort of gal to be in trouble with the law. But here I am, having been unexpectedly escorted from the front lobby to a room deeper into the police station. Seated in a chair primly clutching my purse on my lap while an officer across the room types up my arrest report. Hello, my name is Anne, and I'm about to be strip searched.

Strip search. My, how those two abrupt, ruthless little syllables convey the essence of the procedure so well.

Body searches, especially unnecessary ones, have always been a controversial issue. Most accounts of the procedure are polemics about the abuse of power or the erosion of our civil rights. This isn’t one of them. This is simply a story of what it means—what it feels like—to bare all.

I was barely twenty-three years old at the time, single, and a transplant to Southern California from the opposite coast. With a Mary Tyler Mooreish innocent optimism, I was making it on my own away from family, despite a bit of insecurity and naivety.

I had gotten a ticket for going across a double yellow line which, for multiple reasons, I very uncharacteristically didn’t take care of in time and it turned into an arrest warrant. When that ominous document arrived in the mail, I planned to pay it in person after work the next day and be done with it. My coworkers were amused at sweet little ol’ me being wanted by the law.

It had been a while since I had read the fine print on the ticket. So I didn’t know to pay it at the courthouse and not the police station. Well, upon arrival at the station, the cops seemed to view me as a spoiled girl who can’t be bothered to pay her ticket in a timely manner. And so they took the girl dumb enough to march into a police station showing everyone her arrest warrant and arrested her. With typical cop bureaucracy, no one would take the initiative or responsibility to handle it any other way. For the first few minutes it seemed my promise of heading straight to the courthouse to pay the ticket might get me off the hook. But no.

To calm my anxiety, they emphasized that by the time the case comes before a judge the ticket will have been paid, and with my having no prior record the judge will certainly dismiss it. So, no, they said in answer to my worried questions, we’re not going to put you in a cell with real criminals and there won’t be any community service or fines (other than the late fine for letting it go so long). We’ll just process you and send you on your way. A mere formality, that’s how they made it seem. Well, that and something to teach me to pay my tickets on time, as they said.

But for the most part they were being congenial. “Well, naturally,” I surmised, “they see my educated, well-bred self is not the riffraff with whom they’re used to dealing.” And after all, I am a bit of a cutie-pie.

So a cop led me to a seat and started his paperwork, calling out to me things like, “Is this still your correct address?” When finished, he walked over and gave me my ID back. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized that at no point did they read me my rights. Oh, well. I was left to sit there for a few minutes, wondering what more this would entail. I pictured myself being photographed while holding up a sign with name and number on it, like in the movies (which didn’t happen), or being fingerprinted (which did). I noticed some sly murmuring among the cops; the arrest of the pretty little office girl has given them something to gossip about.

A policewoman walked briskly into the room. She appeared quite no-nonsense and by-the-book as she stepped up to me and said my name. When I acknowledged that that was me she said, “Come with me.” Unlike her partners, my being of her same fair sex seemed to cut no slack with her. She motioned for me to start down the hall and then walked behind me.

Her entrance seems to have been anticipated by the cops; I saw them glance at us with surreptitious smiles. And this was a female cop now taking charge of me; hmm . . . I was suddenly reminded of something.

It was a Time magazine article I had seen when young. It shockingly described police searching detainees by having them strip nude and probing their orifices. This article formed my only knowledge of strip searching up to then. It spoke of vast numbers of people across the nation—usually women, I pertinently add—being subjected to this, sometimes for even minor infractions. Was I about to become a statistic? One such woman allowed herself to be named, quoted, and pictured for the article. Her image had stuck with me over the years, sort of a poster child for strip search degradation. She wore a low cut, chest hugging tank top and gaudy jewelry in the picture. So that’s the sort of woman who gets body searched, I thought at the time. Rather hubristic of me, huh?

After I had gone just a short way down the hall she said, “Stop,” and opened the door I had just passed on the left and held it for me. I froze. The door had a small glass pane but with cardboard taped over it from the inside. Oh my God. The fine arts building in college had one or two doors treated the same way because of nude models posing for art classes. She said, “C’mon,” firmly as her hand on the doorknob shook it impatiently. As I nervously walked past her she asked for my purse and I handed it to her.

The room was the size of a large office. No outside windows. Not much was in it beyond a table, a drawer cabinet and a small metal waste can, all oddly clustered rather close to the entrance. No desk, just some boxes and other sundry things piled along the other wall. She locked the door after closing it, pointed to the table, and told me to stand on the other side of it.

Standing opposite me across the table, she put my purse on it and began rummaging through it. In a friendly enough way she said, “Go ahead and take your coat off. Put it on the table.” Her tone sounded like she just wanted me to be comfortable since I’ll be inside for awhile.

She had my purse at the edge of the small table so I could drape my coat over the other half. As soon as I did so she said in a firmer tone, “Go ahead and take off your jewelry and put it on the table.” Uh oh, it’s not looking good. Trying not to think the unthinkable, I slowly took my necklace off, unclasped my watch, and undid my earrings. I felt cheapened; it all looked like trinkets when piled atop my coat.

When done with my purse she looked up and said in a smart-alecky but decisive tone, “Now go ahead and put your clothes on the table.” The way she folded her arms indicated she would brook no argument.

“That means I’ll have to take them off,” I meekly quipped.

“Mm hmm,” she said in a smarmy cop tone and stood there with her arms folded.

If there was anyone not made for this situation, it was me. I’ve already mentioned being a bit naive and insecure at the time, and I was also self-conscious of my body, and not just because of its imperfections. My goody-goody Catholic upbringing imbued me with the notion that no one has any business seeing your unclothed self except spouses and doctors. Oh, don't get me wrong; I wasn't a completely inexperienced ingenue by this time; I'd been around, I knew the score. Well, to some small degee anyway. Nevertheless, your formative years have an indelible effect on you, consciously or subconsciously. Nudity implied deeply personal privacy to me, as I assumed it did to everyone.

The magazine article described incidents of security cameras sometimes being present. I glanced around. No cameras. Thank God for that, at least. But in my nervousness, the suspicion that there is a hidden camera . . . well, all I can do is try not to think about it. After confirming to myself I did indeed see her lock the door, I began stripping. Not undressing, but stripping.

I started with my blouse. Button by button, down my chest went my stiff fingers. I suppose I looked like a 1970’s Sears catalog model with my mostly polyester outfit. The look and fit of such a wardrobe makes its removal feel more a deliberate peeling of the body rather than a simple uncovering of it. I pulled my blouse off. As a modest girl who never wore skimpy tops, the feeling of being bare-shouldered and revealing my soft white belly gave me a topless feeling even with my bra still on.

My mind was racing so much that linear time seemed to slow down. I experienced a hyperacuity of all physical sensations: the smooth hard buttons between my fingers, the cool air against skin that had been covered all day until now. The bereft feeling as each piece came off was quite palpable.

I wondered whether to fold my blouse or just toss it on the table. These were my office clothes which habit told me to neatly fold, but I didn’t want to get barked at for stalling. And there was some kind of dignity salvaged if I folded it as I normally would. What to do? Habit won out and I carefully folded it and laid it on the table. I couldn’t help pausing before going on, despite the risk of using up her patience.

Unzipping my slacks had a distinct “point of no return” feeling to it. With the zipper down and my hands poised to do the lowering I said, “This is so demeaning.” I just felt I had to lodge a protest at that point, but even as the words were leaving my mouth I realized how prissy I sounded; I was only making it worse for myself. With my pants halfway down I suddenly realized I had not taken my shoes off yet! Wanting to appear unfazed, I just forcibly tugged my slacks past them. I folded my pants and put them on the table. My high heels increased the feeling of being “on display” in my undies.

I had at the time a few—just a few, mind you!—extra pounds in the usual areas. Plus, I’ve a slightly fleshy derriere (yes, you could perhaps say a “bubble butt”), gossiped about a bit during high school, which I’m self-conscious of. The policewoman had an athletic build. I knew my wardrobe, hairstyle, and makeup would appear quite Barbie Dollish to someone like her. Sure enough, she had a smug demeanor as my clothes came off, which reduced me emotionally to the level of an insecure adolescent. Whether we admit it or not, most women are as concerned with how we appear to each other as we do to men; it takes much maturity to be free of such competitive vanities.

You can tell a lot about a woman by her choice of underwear and, damn her, she was seeing me in mine. My matronly brassiere was something my mother would have worn. And beneath my sheer pantyhose were my bottoms. Not a lacy, expensive pair. And not a casually nondescript cotton pair, either. Nope, they were chintzy department-store nylon butt huggers.

I held on to a small hope that her instruction might mean just my outer clothes. So in a concluding gesture I turned my palms forward with a meek smile, wordlessly implying There you go, my clothes are off.

“Did I say to stop?” she asked. I thought that if I’m going to make some kind of stand, the time is now. I put my hands on my hips in a gesture of defiance, but in my state of undress that only made me feel quite silly. For the first time, we were looking each other in the face, woman to woman. She raised her eyebrows in mock attentiveness, silently indicating Yes? You have something to say, Little Miss Civilian in her Underwear?

I thought of all the obvious things to say: I’ll sue, do I look like the kind of person who would be hiding weapons or drugs, especially when going to a police station, etc., etc. But all of that seemed pretty futile. It struck me that by now police departments would know what they could and couldn’t get away with when searching people. I didn’t want to be uncooperative and make the situation worse. And of course I was in my underwear and she wasn’t. This didn’t exactly make me feel like I had the psychological upper hand.

So after an awkward pause I just said rather lamely, “All this for a traffic ticket?”

She replied that this isn’t just a matter of a traffic violation anymore; I was now under arrest. She finished by saying, “C’mon, into your birthday suit!”

My birthday suit. Wow, I hadn’t heard that expression since I was a little kid. There was something about her use of that phrase that jolted me into a certain awareness. It was something I felt subconsciously ever since balking in front of the door, but only now did I admit it to myself. I was finding the prospect of being seen nude to be a turn-on. Not quite in an “exhibitionist” sort of way; it was different than that. It wasn’t in spite of the embarrassment, if anything it was because of the embarrassment. And I decided right then to go with it. My nudity/embarrassment fetish was born at that moment. For the rest of this narrative, whenever I describe indignation at my treatment or resistance to her commands, be aware that behind that outer facade I was savoring the delicious shame. No one need know, I thought, and when I leave this room I’ll leave these feelings behind. That turned out not to be the case. First rule of life: nothing is as simple as it first appears.

Normally I would slip my bra straps off, slide it around from back to front, and undo the clasps in front for convenience’s sake. But now I reached back and fumbled with the hooks with my chest jutted out until I had them undone. I remember wearing a simpering smile at that point, in self mockery at my awkwardness. After popping the bra off and laying it on the table my hands instinctively shot up and covered my breasts. We both knew my hands couldn’t stay there, so I felt like a fool.

Releasing my breasts, I started taking down my pantyhose. Then I realized—I did it again!—I still have my shoes on! I awkwardly squatted, my halfway down pantyhose compressing my legs together, and took off my shoes. Off came the pantyhose and onto the clothes pile they went. At that point I was asked if I was menstruating and I said no. Then I took my shoes and put them on the table.

I remember looking up and our eyes meeting. She was still standing there with folded arms, but now with an amused smirk at my fumbling demeanor. Damn her.

One piece left. My panties, my proverbial fig leaf, the bare minimum between me and a state of total indecency, according to my upbringing. I heaved a “here goes” sigh as I slid my thumbs into the waistband. The involuntary nature of all this—against my will, having no choice—hit me powerfully just then. I peeled them. As the waistband squeezed past the protrusion of my fanny and down my thighs, the swish of nylon against skin was audible in that room. Every stitch gone. The clothes pile with my panties crowning the top was like her trophy manifesting my final surrender to her will.

Well, all is revealed; my private parts are no longer private. Let me tell you how those parts felt just then. Normally, my dainty self would refer to them as my “breasts,” my “bottom,” my “crotch.” But now they were my naked tits, my naked ass, my naked cunt. Do you see what I mean? And then there’s the dichotomy between nudity and my facial makeup and carefully coiffed hair: such is not a natural or private state of undress.

“Go stand in that corner facing the wall,” she says, pointing to the far corner. Wow, just like when I was a little girl. Well, I’m in trouble and being put in the corner again, only now I’m an adult and I’m bare-assed naked. Go figure.

My naked self heads to the indicated corner. Having been in high heels all day, walking my bare feet across the cold hard floor feels disorienting and undignified. Because of my nervous energy brimming over, I walk with a hard heeled stride. So with each step I feel my bare breasts bounce and my bare bottom jiggle. This sensation hits me like a splash of cold water. Va va voom, lettin’ it all hang out. I’ve always had a fleering attitude toward girls who bared all due to a dare, a lost bet, strip poker, or whatnot. A bimbo and her clothes soon go separate ways.

Now who’s the bimbo, Anne?

I reach the corner and stand. There is a tangible feeling of my pasty white buns protruding back toward her; they’ve become the focal point of the room. I reach back and stiffly cross my hands over them, palms outward. How naive and squeamish: little princess is too demure to show her ass, even though Madam Officer will see everything soon enough anyway. A perfect example of how attempting to hide something just calls more attention to it.

Hmm, but my petite hands aren’t covering the whole surface area, are they? Well, cover the butt crack, instinct says. So I arrange my hands into a vertical row down the center, again palms outward. Hmm, no, that looks too weird; I move them back to the crossed position. If she is watching all this, oh dear, how ridiculous I must appear. Glancing back, I see her going through my clothes. The rationale behind my placement in the corner occurs to me; they need reaction time if the arrestee assails them while their attention is diverted, as people knowledgeable of such things later confirmed to me.

The feeling of someone examining every stitch of your clothes when you’re not in them really increases the feeling of vulnerability, makes you feel you’ll get them back only if and when they decide. The whole time I dutifully stand ramrod straight, the silly placement of my hands waging a desperate last stand for my modesty.

When finished tells my naked self, “OK, come here.” As I turn around I adopt the classic nude pose, one hand over my bust line, the other over my you-know-what. Of course, this makes her amused smirk reappear: doesn’t this bimbo know it’s futile to cover herself? With my hands in place I repeat my walk of shame. Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle.

She steps out from behind the table and, coming forward a few steps, taps the floor in the middle of the room with her toe and says, “Take center stage.” Damn, of all the things she could’ve said . . .

* * *

Well, I see there's a limit on the length of stories here. So, continued in Part 2.