It is the nature of authority to court its deflation. Centuries of pornography devoted to the debasement of nuns, priests, and royals testify to as much. American cops aren’t exactly aristocracy, but few other professions come with a gun and the prerogative to act with near impunity: a chilling privilege that warrants, if not demands, neutralization. “Go ahead, call the cops, I’ll have sex with them!” declares a favorite meme of mine. Often emblazoned over a girl Tweety Bird, braless, in a wifebeater and low-rise jeans, it’s an exuberant claim of personal power that rejects the well-known reality in which cops commit violence, sexual or otherwise, with few consequences. And why deny the erotic charge of a power differential? Every uniform suggests the prospect of removal.
“A few years before I became a dancer, I was going to get into law enforcement,” Santiago, forty-seven, says. “I was discouraged toward the end because it’s one of the highest-stress jobs. That’s why a lot of cops flip out. But I,ve always admired it.” When I ask Damien his opinion on policing, the twenty-five-year-old demurs. “It’s all work to me. I wouldn’t say I have an opinion toward the uniform. . . . Honestly, I like to stay out of politics as much as I can.” Santiago’s been in the business for fourteen years, while Damien started when he was eighteen; they work together regularly. Policeman is one of their most common client requests, alongside firefighter, construction worker, and vaquero—nearly a classic Village People lineup, though they usually dance for women, not men. Sometimes, Damien adds, “people will say, I want anything except for cop.’”
For months, local policing has been under less scrutiny as ICE’s gruesome spectacles draw mainstream ire. Cops and their many supporters have seized the opportunity to reassert run-of-the-mill law enforcement as the more orderly and reasonable way to kill civilians. Santiago rightly points out that no one would mistake his costume for a masked immigration agent in special operator gear—“I appear like a normal cop”—but he still makes a point not to ask for the guest of honor by name when he shows up to a party in character, lest they be undocumented. Last year, when Trump sent ICE into Los Angeles for a wave of brutal raids, Santiago avoided his cop costume altogether and stuck with firefighter. “Recently,” he adds, “it’s been Caucasian and white people that have requested police officer. The Latin crowds that have been booking me have asked for the other uniforms.”
Though sex workers are a population highly vulnerable to predation by cops and customers alike, being male dancers whose work is entirely legal minimizes risk. Santiago’s only work-related run-in with the police occurred when they stopped at his broken-down car. Dressed as a California firefighter, he managed to keep their questions at bay by staying on the phone with AAA; eventually they left. One of his friends who wore his work costume in public wasn’t quite so lucky. While it is admittedly a misdemeanor in most jurisdictions to impersonate a firefighter for profit, it can be a felony to impersonate a cop.
While writing this, I became curious about the originator of “I’ll have sex with them!” The poet’s name is lost to the sands of the internet, but I did find the phrase’s predecessor: “Go ahead, call the cops! They can’t unrape you!” This was birthed on Twitter as an edgelord joke about the indelible permanency of assault—and later repeated by a cop in Austin, Texas, who was recorded saying it after he whistled at a woman passing by his squad car.
“Ha, yeah, exactly,” replied his colleague, who then added, “You didn’t turn your camera off, did you?”
The line’s implicit commentary on police, as the second cop acknowledged, is correct. They can’t unrob you, can’t unmurder you, can’t unrape you. They can only, as another joke goes, show up an hour later and shoot your dog. Despite the children’s-picture-book propaganda that places cops alongside benign and helpful public servants like postal workers and teachers, in real life, kids often see through the facade.
A year or two before the recent raids, Santiago was booked to surprise a woman at a family house party. He asked that his contact inform the men present of his impending arrival to avoid misunderstandings. Still, a young man at the front of the house stopped him: “Hey, what are you doing here? You have no business being here!”
Santiago was allowed to pass after another guy vouched for him. But in the backyard, when he began to usher the women into a designated, child-free area of the home to see the show, a girl of about ten years old began crying and clinging to her mother. “I kneel toward her,” he says, “and I say, ‘I’m an actor, I’m not a real officer.’ And she goes ‘No, no, I have to be with my mom.’” No amount of coaxing could convince the girl to let go. Because her daughter wouldn’t trust the man in uniform, the mother missed the performance—a small price to pay, perhaps, for raising a kid wise to the ways of the world.
