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Old 01-14-2017, 12:56 PM   #1
barebuns
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Default Now Who's the Bimbo?—The Story of My Strip Search

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.

Last edited by barebuns; 01-15-2017 at 10:07 PM.
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Old 01-14-2017, 01:14 PM   #2
barebuns
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Default Part 2

I step up, still covering myself, as she takes a couple of steps back, facing me. So much for the strip part, now for the search part. Her commands are quickly delivered, a set routine. She demonstrates the moves, like a coach in front of her gym class.

“Put your arms out.” She has her arms forward, palms down. I do the same. “Palms up.” She rotates her arms. I do the same. Crossing her hands behind her head and pivoting slightly at the hips from side to side, she says “Lemme see your armpits.” I do so.

Not actually touching her breasts but holding her hands just in front of them she says, “Lift up your breasts.” I simply cup my hands under them and push upwards. “No! I need to see under them! Like this!” I do it again, this time touching just below my nipples with my fingertips and pulling upwards, like she indicated.

“Turn around.” I do so, almost certain of what’s next: spread my buttocks, grab my ankles, something like that. But no. “Lift up your hair.” I do so. “Show me the sole of your right foot.” I drop my hair and lift my leg, bending my foot vertically. “Wiggle your toes,” she tells my naked self. I girlishly wiggle my slender little piggies. "And now the left." I put my right foot down and lift the left. “Wiggle your toes,” she repeats. I do so. No nefarious contraband dislodges itself.

“Turn back around.” I do so. She is no longer demonstrating the commands. I’m made to lean forward, hang my hair down, rub my fingers across my scalp, comb my fingers downwards, and am barked at for not doing it vigorously enough. As I often do, I had used mousse and a little hairspray that day. My luxuriant auburn tresses are the pride of my appearance; now they’re a tangled mess. I hope they have a bathroom with a mirror; I’m going to need it before I leave here.

”Turn to one side.” I’m made to pull my hair back away from my ear and, with just my fingertips, pull my earlobe back so she could see behind it. Then face the other way and repeat it with the other ear. I indignantly observe that much of this could’ve been done while still in my underwear, or even fully clothed, so don’t try to tell me a strip search is all routine; there is bullshit in the procedure intended to humiliate you and thus keep you docile.

Then face her again. “Put your legs well apart and spread your vagina.” I did so, after rolling my eyes and sighing. “Gimme three deep squats.” An exact detail from the aforementioned magazine article, and now it’s happening to me. The purpose, of course, is to force anything secreted up there downwards. I worked up the gumption to ask, “Is this really necessary?”

Objecting to it, instead of just getting it over with, only means I’ll lose the battle of wills and the humiliation will be increased. Also, I noticed that any time I broke silence and spoke to her clothed self I felt my nakedness more keenly. She answered me in her sternest tone yet and said to just do it.

A deep squat, how unladylike, let alone fully nude, my legs apart, and holding my privates open. But there’s no way out of it; hunch those hindquarters down, Annie. Down, up, down, up, down, up. I forced myself to look her in the eye the whole time. Yeah, that must have been quite unnerving for her; that’ll show her who’s boss.

When I finished my kinky calisthenics she said, “Turn around,” again. With my heart in my mouth I did so.

I heard her take a couple of steps and a drawer open. When I looked back over my shoulder she was pulling out a latex glove. The whole time I’d been wondering if I would end up “getting the finger,” and now I know. Yup, I would get it in the end. Pun intended. I said over my shoulder, “Just what do you think you’re going to do?” But it had the tone of someone already resigned to the inevitable. My token protest brought back that smile of hers and she paused for dramatic effect before answering.

“You and me are going to get to know each other a little better.”

Normally I would reply, “You mean ‘you and I.’” Somehow I wasn’t feeling the snooty grammarian just then.

My naked self just stood in the center of that room, my head twisted around and watching her over my shoulder. The suspense I created by watching her seemed to make her go teasingly slower. She donned the gloves (both hands) and wasn’t shy with how much of the squeaky latex sound she made doing so. She took a tube of KY and some paper towelettes out of the drawer and stepped up behind me, putting the towels on the table.

“Put you’re feet well apart.” I did so. “Bend over.” She said it with a sense of finality in her voice, like she meant Yes, you knew it would come to this.

I was raised to instinctively feel that bending over in close proximity to someone, especially with my back to them, was improper. If I had to pick up something from the floor I dropped to one knee to do it; that was the sort of delicacy instilled in me.

I just hunched my shoulders forward a little bit, resting my palms just above my knees. It wasn’t sufficient and I knew it. From behind me I hear, “Oh, it’s going to have to be better than that. Come on.” I gave an indignant grunt between clenched teeth. I showed my indignation by sarcastically bending over in the most extreme way I could. Putting my hands flat on the floor, I brought my head and shoulders down as far as balance would allow. And stuck my tush out as far as I could. I went pigeon-toed, pointing the front of my feet inwards to further open things up back there.

“There,” I said peevishly, raising my voice as much as I dared, “is this what you want?!” I felt the kiss of cool air against everywhere the sun don’t shine. A slight strain holding this position but still tolerable due to my yoga practice. I never thought it would come in handy in a situation like this.

“Thaaaat’s it,” she cooed. She dropped back into her routine voice and said, “I’m going to search you internally; it will be over soon, and will go better if you relax.” Wanting to see what was coming my way, I relaxed my positioning just enough to crane my head around to observe her. She extracted some KY and lubricated her index finger; by the time she was done I was dutifully bottoms up again. Without having to be told. Whether this seemed a bit overeager to her and made her suspect my fetishistic motives, I'll never know.

She spread my labia open (as if she really needed to, considering my wide open positioning) and paused long enough to say, “Just relax.” After insertion, her finger went wiggle, wiggle, wiggle for about fifteen seconds. It seemed unnecessarily prolonged to me. You either have something hidden up there or you don't, and wouldn’t a finger poking around at full length verify it immediately? (I’ve since learned that two fingers are not at all uncommon for a vaginal search. How ironic to think that I got the “gentle” treatment . . .)

After withdrawing her finger she said, “Stay down,” and rather firmly at that. I know what’s next. Is this really necessary? Does she really expect to find anything up there? I suppose I should be grateful that she fetched another dollop of lube. I grimly note that being a tall big-boned woman, she had large hands.

With her fingertip poised against my anus, again I heard, “Just relax." Then she oozed it in. Quite slowly, as if to taunt me. During both probes she penetrated as far as she could; I could feel the degree of her effort. Again, penetration was about fifteen seconds, which may not seem long to you. Yeah, well, bend over nude while a stranger does that to you, count off the seconds, then tell me if it feels brief or not. Round and round went her finger against my tight insides. My God, to think that less than thirty minutes ago I was a fully clothed person at their front desk, thinking all could be taken care of by getting out my checkbook . . .

She withdrew her gloved digit, again quite slowly, and then, plop, it’s out. Simultaneous with that plop I felt an insouciant little smack on my left butt cheek delivered with her other palm as she blithely said, “OK. Get dressed.” Just like that. The way she punctuated the moment with that playful slap, giving my bare buns one final reminder of her authority; never have I felt so put in my place. Well, it’s been fun stripping and violating you but I’ve other things to do now. Be on your way. That’s what it felt like.

As I pulled my naked self erect she was slipping off the gloves, saying I could use the towels to wipe off the lubricant. She went to the metal waste can, opened the lid with the foot pedal, and dropped the gloves in. I took some towels, gave a quick swipe between my legs while trying not to squat more than necessary, then stepped over and opened the can with my delicate bare foot. I fetched some towels for my posterior. She was back against the door with her arms folded again, watching me. I asked her, “Do you have to watch?”

“Yup.” I was in her custody and she wasn’t to divert her attention from me. I wiped my ass as she watched.

Piece by piece, my clothes went back on. After all she had just done to me, to get dressed as she intently watched was as humiliating as everything else; it felt like a corollary to stripping, like “stripping in reverse.” That’s the best I can describe it.

I reclaimed my clothes with little ritualistically indignant mannerisms, such as the abrupt way I tossed my hair out from under my collar after pulling my blouse on. Zipping up my pants with an angry whip of my wrist. That sort of thing. I smoothed or adjusted each piece after putting it on, in the manner of someone who methodically dusts themselves off after being thrown to the ground by a bully, just to show they still have their pride.

My clothes back on my body felt ineffectual, superficial, pointless. I felt like a phony being back in them; it’s a farce trying to cover yourself after having been laid so bare, body and soul. This feeling lasted for days afterward. My local police actually succeeded in making me feel I’m not worthy of clothes.

Putting my jewelry back on felt especially pretentious. While threading my earrings through my lobes she emanated impatience at me, a vibe that silently conveyed Oh come on, can’t you just throw them in your purse? You think you can cover your shame with your elegant facade?

She stood with her hand on the doorknob as I gathered up my coat and purse. She opened the door and held it for me.

Sure enough, heads in the other room popped up and looked toward us the moment we stepped out of the room. They knew. And oh gosh, my tousled hair, like we just had a wild quickie.

The first cop walked up to take me to be fingerprinted. I suppressed a smoldering resentment at what I felt was his betrayal of me. He had been so polite when explaining my arrest. Now I know he and his buddies delighted in having their fun with pretty little me, even if only vicariously through their female partner. Before she walked away, I somehow half expected Madam Officer to drop her air of authority long enough to express words of woman-to-woman reassurance or apologies for the indignity, but no. She gave him a certain smile. I may have been naive back then, but I could tell what that smile meant. It meant, “You’ll love hearing all about it; she was a quirky little bimbo.”

She walked away. As we started down the hall the male cop looked at me smilingly and asked, “Have fun?” The cad. Walking along I immediately realized my loins had pulled all my bodily tension into them, so much so that the act of walking felt funny.

After fingerprinting I was ushered back to the booking room for them to finalize things and give me my court paperwork. I avoided everyone’s eyes. When I finally looked around I saw Madam Officer had entered the room. Our eyes met; it had the feel of a stare down contest, to see who would look away first. I put my hands over my crotch and breasts in self mockery. No one else saw it; it was just between her and me. A bit of poignant dry wit, and the courage and cleverness it took made me feel oddly pleased with myself. But it also felt like my final act of submission to her. And then a pang of humiliation when she didn’t quite smile.

And then I caught Mr. Smiley Cop and another viewing my rear end and exchanging smirks, causing me to put my on my full length coat to cover up. I, of all people, should know the spectacle that tight stretchy pants make of my backside, but I had never admitted it to myself. I would never again be able to lie to myself about such things.

Finally, when all was done and I was walking out, I had a surreal epiphany. You see, I had come to this place of my own free will. Upon arrival, I explained the purpose of my visit and they addressed the issue. And now, the business concluded, I’m free to leave. My beautiful hair rebrushed as best I could. Bodily clothed but still emotionally in the buff. With the clickety-clack of my high heels I’m striding primly back across the parking lot to my Toyota. It all feels as if showing up here to bare all and be violated was just another chore on my way home from work, like picking up my dry cleaning.

O Anne, do not seek to know who the bimbo is, for the bimbo is thee.

Inside the car I sat for a time collecting my wits, feeling part of me was still in that room. My “birthday suit,” the positions I assumed, that finger of hers: it was all still so tactile I was almost squirming in my car seat.

I resolved not to drive away until my sensitive self found a way to put the memory of this afternoon into perspective. Well, we all have indignities visited upon us in this life at one time or another. And after all, “your most embarrassing moment” is a perennial conversation piece, and now I’ll always have an interesting story to tell. Strip searched: sort of gives me a little street cred in a way, huh? (That is the phrase they use nowadays, isn’t it? Street cred?)

The next morning at work the questions about my trip to the police station began as soon as my coat was off. I was evasive, hinting at some affront to my dignity. By lunchtime they got the story out of me.

With a tense mixture of unsure hesitancy and sarcastic glibness, the details rolled out, building upon one another: “escorted to a windowless room,” “my birthday suit,” “lettin’ it all hang out,” “completely bent over,” “no nooks or crannies spared.”

Within a few days the more extroverted ones were gently teasing me about it, softly chanting a lusty burlesque-style “boom, ba ba ba boom, ba ba ba boom” when I’d arrive in the morning. I humorously played along, doing things like striking the nude pose, hands over chest and crotch, whenever finding someone’s gaze fixed upon me. But behind my smile I felt shame, the more so for doing this voluntarily. A gossipy vibe permeated the place. How often am I nude to them in their minds’ eye? (Quite often, it was later admitted to me.) My thin-skinned self would have to grow a bit savvier if I was to cope with all this. And so I did, and I’m a stronger person because of it.

I moved back to my home state about a year after my strip search. I’m now in my (well preserved, if I may say) late forties and happily married, incidentally. Though the big five-oh is creeping up, I’ll probably be saying late forties for as long as I can get away with it. We all are, I think, vainer than we like to admit.

Psychologically, that policewoman has become identified in my mind with anyone who ever made me feel intimidated. An overbearing boss. A scheming or pushy coworker. An imposing friend who knows how to push my buttons. My officious landlady at the time. I’d encounter them in my sleep during Freudian dreams where they tell me, “OK honeybuns, peel. Everything. Into your birthday suit.” And me somehow not knowing how to refuse.

But Madame Officer also served as my initiatrix into a more resilient outlook to life; an attitude that allows me to grin and bear it and, if necessary, to grin and bare it. I now treat dignity as something to be worn lightly, even jauntily, and not desperately clung to whenever it's stripped from you (along with your clothes). If someone wants to undress me with their eyes while talking to me, go right ahead, I’m flattered. As a profligate once said, "If you take your dignity to a pawnbroker, he won't give you much for it." Not that a bimbo in her birthday suit has much bargaining power anyway.

EPILOGUE

A few final thoughts. Quite understandably, many people who have experienced an unnecessary cavity search have been traumatized by it. These people have my most genuine empathy. This narrative may seem to treat the situation with flippancy, but please know it’s not my intention to make light of what others have gone through. It is truly an outrage and is utterly humiliating. The experience touched the very core of my being, and my “kinky” reactions to it were partly own way of not feeling victimized.

I’m often asked if my strip search was, strictly speaking, legal. Well, it was then and I suppose would still be now. Oh, and was it really standard procedure? Ha! Does it really matter? I mean, it wasn’t specifically illegal, and cops are cops, get it? You see, it turns out that that particular part of Southern California was indeed a hot spot for excessive police strip searching at that time, with all the resultant bad press and everything, the whole nine yards. Yup, and I was right in the middle of it, in both time and place. Many people (especially women, I add again) have gone through similar searches while being merely detained instead of actually under arrest. Remember the cops’ sly smiles and mutterings I mentioned? The moment they saw my arrest warrant and how naively compliant I was, my fate was sealed; I was a fly who had flown right into their web.

I’ve playfully indulged my nudity/embarrassment fetish a bit over the years. If you’ve read this far then you might share, in one way or another, my taste for its erotic potential. If so, I encourage you to find ways to have fun with it as I have, just be prudent and safe. It’s certainly been a journey of self discovery for me; it’s amazing the things I’ve learned. Such as I could get my dry cleaner to give my clothes priority by flashing him my inserted butt plug.

Last edited by barebuns; 01-15-2017 at 09:16 AM.
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