Personal Security & Women of Questionable Values

One thing I've learned about retirement is that you have to have something, on occasion anyway, to keep you busy.  Oh yeah, and perhaps generate a little income along the way.  If I can be amused while making a few bucks, that’s even better.

That thought ran through my mind when a buddy of mine, whom I first met in Iraq ages ago, called me a couple days past with an opportunity to make a little walking around money.

After he left the service, he started a little security company in the Orlando area with a specialty in providing personal security to high profile, or wanna-be-high-profile, people.  Primarily in the South East United States.  He had a one night job in the Miami area for which he needed another warm body.  OK, I'm listening.

The principal (a person to which the service is intended to protect) was described as "a person of wealth" who was traveling out of town for an extended weekend.  However, the company was being hired to provide service to the man’s "girlfriend" while he was traveling.  He was apparently a little concerned with her party habits and the potential of bad influence, of some of her (as it turned out) former European companions and friends.  The job sounded simple enough.  The principal would make his limo available to the GF, a person to pick up all the bills, and a 2-3 person security detail that would accompany her, and whomever, around the South Florida area while they attended a series of parties.  We were expected to work from about 2030 on Saturday night through early Sunday morning.  Cool, I can handle this.  It might even be educational.

The lead security guy and I met the Principal, a nice gentleman in his mid-60’s, at a high rise condo in Adventura and listened to his concerns and expectations.  Since I had never done a detail like this outside the Military I found it fascinating to have some guy tell us how we essentially were going to act as babysitters to keep his girlfriend out of mischief and avoid the mayhem and associated publicity that would be associated if she found herself involved with the wrong people and / or ended up in an “undesirable” public display.  Listening, I began to sense that being arrested, for something like lewd public acts, could accurately be described as awkward, and could very well happen during the course of the evening if we didn't stay on our toes.  Well, I have to pay my dues and start somewhere I guess.            I'm just saying. . .

Weird.  These people are just different.  Weird, describes it best.

At any rate, we met the young lady in question, and like a stern father, he gave her the guidelines he had established with us on his expectations of her, and as it turned out, a girlfriend of hers that would be going along. He pointed out to her, several times, that the lead security man would have the final say on when the night was over and it was time to "go home."  She pouted a little, but finally agreed (I must admit that I didn't give much hope that we would actually be able to accomplish that part of the task quite so easily as it sounds), but she held out on a minimum time to stay out as 0400.  Oh joy. 

It also may be pertinent at this time to point out that she (and the girlfriend) was described to us as "models" currently doing odd jobs for various photographers in the South Beach area.  Just for the record, the “ladies” are early to mid twenties in age – after giving it some thought, I’m pretty sure I have a souvenir t-shirt back home that’s at least that old.  Frankly, they're good looking enough but the thought that ran through my evil-ex-law-enforcement mind kept using an alternative description more associated with "escort."  First impression was that they were probably not wearing a lot of clothes in front of a camera while “working” and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they are intimately familiar with the working of a web-cam.   But what do I know about such things?

We met at the condo a little before 2030 and talked to the limo driver about the agenda (he had a list of 3 places the girls wanted to go), then went upstairs to get the show as it were, on the road.  First stop, South Beach for a quick dinner, and some tucked away techno club with lots of velvet ropes, loud music, sweet drinks, and beautiful people.  Of course.  We soon learned that our lady had lots of Slavic-speaking friends (or at least people who drank her bar bill through the roof within 15-20 minutes) and hanger-on's who looked like they would be more comfortable without a couple of stoic guys, in suits and ear pieces hanging around who looked suspiciously like cops, even if they’re doing their best imitation of potted plants next to the seating area.  Sorry, I digress. . .

We survived that first outing, even when faced with our first unexpected obstacle of the evening.  Query?  What do you do when your protectee (of the opposite sex) wants or needs to use the wash facility, accompanied by another person, whom you suspect may be intent on sharing, how to say, something that may be illegal in a number of jurisdictions?  (We thought we would have another security person (female) with us on the job, but that didn’t pan out.)   Answer?  1) Is your proper place inside the facility, but outside a stall?  Or 2) Outside the facility door like some high school boy at the drive in with his first 15 year old devoted-virgin / ice-princess that has just rejected his well thought out seduction plan and has marched off in righteous indignation to the bathroom to readjust her clothing?

Apparently, “2” is the correct answer.  Although, frankly, I would have been much happier with answer “1”. For the record, I’m a professional, therefore, hard to shock, and I don’t stare.               Much

It took some adjustment, but I soon found myself getting into the proper potted-plants-rejected-high-school-boy-babysitter mind set for the rest of the evening.

Our next stop was much the same, another condo / suite visit in North Beach (nice view of the Atlantic and a room full of party people), a quick exchange of cash-for-unidentified-green-substance-tucked-into-a-palm-size-baggie on the balcony with a suspicious-looking-light-on-his-feet-Latino-gentleman (Again, what do I know? It could have been herbal tea, right?), and then back to the Adventura condo (which surprised both us and the limo driver) for “a quick change of clothes” for the two girls before moving on to a club in Hollywood.

And this, my friends, is where the evening took an educational turn.

We were surprised, because the ladies – and yes I use the term somewhat loosely – were already attired in trendy dresses and looked pretty decent when we picked them up earlier.  We knew nothing about the let’s-change-clothes stop in route to Hollywood.

Our first clue that something out of the ordinary was about to occur, was the new clothing on our lady and her friend when they returned to the foyer.  Latex and rubber garments (or more accurately pieces of garment) being the primary parts of the outfit.  Various silver studs, posts, and pieces of fine silver chain, along with leather accouterments, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels, finished off the ensemble.  Oh, and flesh, lots and lots of flesh.  (As a side note – during our travels, my partner and I rode in the jump seats of the limo facing the rear with our backs to the driver – i.e. at floor level across from our protectee at eye-level with her knees.  We determined, on the first ride of the night, that she and her mate must be suffering from some previously-undisclosed medical condition / range-of-motion injury that prevented them from keeping their knees together or wearing under-garments.  At least that was our professional conclusion.  We of course, were attempting to keep “situational awareness” and it was the only reason we noted this in the first place.  You’ll be happy to note that we did not include this observation in our summary report submitted this morning, as we considered it unworthy to note to the Principal.)

To say we were a little nervous about the change in attire, and whatever-the-hell-we’re-getting-into-now, would be an understatement.  The info we had about the club was that it was called, “Downtown 28” in Hollywood on Harrison Street.  For those of you that do not know, that’s a popular street full of restaurants and other establishments…very popular among the locals, including yours truly.  I’m in that area 2-3 nights a week.

The club is less than 100 feet or so from at least two of my local hangouts in the neighborhood.  How could I walk by this place, god knows how many times a week, and be naïve about its true form and function?  Oh, yeah, I’m no longer in my party years so obviously I’d be clueless.  Never mind.

Upon our arrival – with my partner in the lead towards the interior of the club – he told me to read the sign next to the door.  Since I was already bringing up the rear I took a moment to do so.   “Electrolux Hosts the “Ongoing Adventures of the Liquor Lezbians, Latex-LubeParty7””   

Oh my.

(Arguably, had we seen the torn-from-the-paper ad (below) that the limo driver had on his clipboard before we arrived we may have been better prepared)

From the moment I entered, and honestly for the next couple hours, it was a cross between Disney Land, your weirdest sexually perverse dreams as a teenager, and an utter and complete lack of words to describe a crossover of sexual-themed role playing and everyday people of all shapes, size, color, and background. One thing stood out, ages ranged from early 20’s through one older couple who had to be in their 70’s.  The majority were likely mid 30’s.  In other words, the people that you are likely to interact with everyday in all types of settings.

Query?  Can people, primarily women dressed in next to nothing, with little room to hide a weapon, really be considered a threat?  Come on, really?

There were “straight people” in the crowd as well that were not in costume, although none stood out quite so much as my partner and myself – the whole stoic-looking-white-guy-in-a-suit-acting-like-potted-plant-rejected-high-school-boy-babysitter thing doesn’t work in that environment.  In fact, we were both approached separately during the night by several “persons” (I suspect that a few of them might have actually been female) who wanted to know if we would “discipline” them since we were obviously in our “dominant” attire.   Lord, save me (at least until I can come back on another night – a few of them were damn cute!)   Anyway, trying to describe even the attire is damned difficult.  Can I just say “revealing”?  I really should have invested in Fetish Attire clothing lines long before this. . .I’ve been at or in a lot of parties in my day, yet I never considered how many leather, Latex, or rubber thongs, and cross-x bra’s made from latex actually existed.  The piercings were actually creative enough, and with the light being somewhat dim, that I actually caught myself thinking “what-the-*&^%-is-that-stuck-through?” on more than one occasion.  (And this from a guy who has two piercings himself!)

Our high point of the evening (you understand I’m not saying that the cross “X” whipping post, or “submission” stage, nor the “pinch-me-till-I-yell” room wasn’t educational right?) had to be the private, oh-so-very-swank and private, was by-invitation-only to the Lube Room.  At first they denied us entry to accompany the “ladies” but eventually relented when it became clear that the money they would lose would be significant.  At any rate, standing in a corner of the Lube Room was certainly lively and entertaining.  The only people in the room – and that includes bar staff – not in latex or rubber, were my partner and I doing the whole “stoic-looking-white-guy-in-a-suit-acting-like-potted-plant-rejected-high-school-boy-babysitter thing.”  Wow, I was surprised that I can still blush at my age.

There is no denying that the new generation of degenerates, oh damn, I meant to say “youth” are carrying on the spirited sexual enlightenment & experimentation of the parents of the 60’s (although said parents are likely to deny that activity vigorously).  On a personal note, I was rather impressed with some of their, I suppose “creativity” for lack of a better way to describe it.

We finally dragged our two charges (albeit without all the clothing items they had arrived with) out of the club a bit after 0400.  They were both trashed, drunk, and more than a little messy with lipstick, makeup and what looking suspiciously like lubricant of some sort, all over various body parts and in their hair.  I can swear that nothing unusual (who am I kidding, unusual?) happened within our view, but the restrooms – which were visited often – were off limits to us – so I can’t swear about anything that happened behind closed doors.  By the time we dropped them at the condo, actually walking one and half-carrying the other past the amused (or was that disgusted?), look of the security guard, I was damn near deaf from music and still suffering from what I have to assume was a contact high from all that smoke in the club.  But even tired, I was amused and glad the evening was over.

It was tougher on my partner as the night grew longer.  We’ve talked about this somewhat this morning and it boils down to where is that mysterious line between protecting and enabling?  Is it the palm-size baggie?  The public nudity?  Public consumption of (what could be) controlled substance? If your protectee is a willing participant, you can’t very well rush to a stage where they’re bent over a horse saddle getting their bare bottom swatted with a short leather riding crop now can you?  At what point do you question or query the intention of a perfect stranger who, carrying a hand full of battery operated devices & a tube of mystery lube, is approaching your protectee with a look of pure bliss on her face – is that a threat or an invitation? (At some point it occurred to me that we never had these examples of real world scenarios at the Federal Law Enforcement Academy in good ole Glynco, Georgia and I wonder if I should make a recommendation for them to update their syllabus?)

Alas, those questions may have no answers.

We did agree on a couple of things that we had come to individually through the evening (we didn’t have a chance to discuss much in the club due to noise overwhelming the shaky commo link).  We agreed that our principal purpose was the physical protection of the girls and to get them home safely.  We’re no longer law enforcement guys so unless there is a felony or criminal act attempted or committed on her person (or I suppose an innocent within our view) we have no responsibility to act.

Is that enabling?  Some of you will say yes.   So be it.

For myself I learned a few things.

I kind of liked this gig.  It was entertaining, full of unexpected activities, fulfilled my desire to watch people interact, and I made a little money.  Not to mention, learning there is a new place to keep my eye on for future parties; I wonder how I’ll look in latex at my age?

I also learned I need to carry several pairs of disposable gloves (trust me, “Ladies” covered with the aforementioned unidentified fluids, tend to be a little slippery), and find one of those low light Minox Spy pocket sized camera’s (I wonder if I could write that off my taxes as a job related expense?)  It would be used to chronicle and update the work summary naturally.

And last, that giving into the urge to shout “gimme that whip girl and let me show you how it’s done!” is probably not a good way to enhance your career in this field. 

Not that I was thinking about it mind you.   I’m just saying. . .

Cold Weather or Abuse?

People have often asked me why I have such an adversity to cold weather.  That's easy, it's much easier to take clothes off when it's warm than to try to find enough clothes to put on when you're cold.   That seems simple enough.  As an aside, the all-important “shrinkage” factor also has to be taken into account in matters such as this.

Recently, as I've been going through storage and attempting to consolidate, among other things, all the photo albums from the years, I've found shocking new evidence that perhaps my cold weather adversity is rooted in something far more sinister.

I won't accuse my now departed parents of child abuse exactly.  But the evidence seems clear that they, at minimum, had a cool and hard streak in them that must have traumatized me far beyond even my own recognition at the time, and didn't manifest itself until much later in life.  Although I enjoy a snow storm, even snow covered peaks for their beauty, I hate cold weather.

To set the stage, I was born in Mount Vernon, Ohio.  Yes, by birth, I am a Yankee.  Get over it.  At the time, my Mother, the daughter of a Polish shoe maker born herself in Ohio, and my Father, born to a PA miner.  So, obviously, two Yankees begat a son.  Fortunately, my grandparents, themselves from the North, had already decided by the time of my birth, that Florida had a much more attractive climate to offer and moved themselves to the West Coast of Florida to operate a cab company, and later, run the bowling alley at MacDill AFB (another story onto itself).  This becomes important later in this sad tale.

As it turns out, I apparently (why don't I recall these details more clearly - perhaps it's the trauma of my youth?) spent the first 24 months of my life living in and around the Mount Vernon and Toledo, Ohio area with my (abusive-but-I-forgive-them) parents before being taken on a visit to my Grandparents at around age 2 and half.

As the photographic evidence clearly shows, the visit was long overdue!  I wonder, now, if perhaps I threw such a temper tantrum at the time that they moved to Florida from Ohio to mollify me?  Whatever.

Exhibit A clearly documents the raw abuse I was made to suffer as a native Ohioan.  Obviously, from the look on my face, I knew early in life this was a lifestyle to be avoided.  The photo's show what can only be described as a cruel act to play on such an innocent (and attractive) child.  It's difficult to see even after all these years.

Exhibit B however, shows a much happier young man first discovering the joy (and casual life style through clothing) of beach living in Florida.  Thank God for Grandparents eh?  My parents moved, and thankfully took me along, to Florida in early 1953. . .the jaunty angle of my cap suggest to me that I find the lifestyle a little more attractive!  I vividly recall, on more than one occasion, my Mother saying something along the lines of "yes, you have to wear clothes" while playing on the beach in my youth.  Even then I was difficult.  But happy.

I've learned to forgive my parents, but I really should find some way to post this as a Public Service Announcement to my friends living in the North so that they will not abuse their own children, and make them suffer, as they grow into adults.

Be forewarned, your kids may grow up just like me once you've exposed them to the beach.