As patrolman Jim Franko headed toward his captain’s office, he expected the worst. He knew he’d been pushing the limits of his employment with the Memphis police department, but so far he still had a job — mostly because of his police union. But lately, even his union rep had been getting exasperated.
Inside the office were the captain; Franko’s sergeant, Gomez; and a woman not in uniform. She was introduced as Sheila Shapiro, and she was, to Franko’s mind, cute — and well-dressed. None of the three cracked a smile or extended a handshake. That was a very bad sign.
“Good morning,” Franko managed, as Gomez and the captain mumbled a good morning before indicating where he should sit. The woman, whose legs were crossed, had one nyloned leg impatiently bobbing up and down.
Gomez, a somewhat pudgy officer with thinning hair, started things off with an expected, “You probably wonder why we called you in this morning, and why there are so many of us here.”
“Yes, I’m feeling I’m about to be ganged up on,” cracked Franko.
The captain rolled his eyes. Gomez continued, “Here’s the deal, Franko. I won’t waste everyone’s time with small talk. You’ve got a history here, which has only been getting worse. At first, your arrest reports were poorly done and late, and you had a couple verbal altercations with fellow officers. You were counseled and made some improvements. But within the past two months, three women have complained that during traffic stops, you engaged in inappropriate conversation with them. Here’s the way one described her experience:
“The officer, badge number 1256, after he told me I had exceeded the speed limit, and while writing up the ticket, told me I was dressed very attractively and wondered if I were an actress or model. I began to feel like he was getting around to propositioning me. However, I thanked him for the compliment. But it didn’t end there. He told me my skirt was so short that truckers could look down into the car and see my thighs. I didn’t reply, and that was that.”
“The two other women provided similar reports. Did you say these things?” asked Gomez.
“Well, not exactly,” said Franko. “I was just trying to be pleasant and offer them a few tips.”
“Bad behavior,” interjected the captain.
“Look,” said Gomez, “with this uncalled-for behavior, you are very, very close to being terminated. You’ve been in the department four years, and still seem to have a cavalier, and if I may say so, weird idea of service to the community. You want to make your own rules, it seems, but the result is a blot on the department. What if these women had gone to the newspaper or TV news? You’re just damn lucky they didn’t.”
Franko had begun sweating. “My god,” he thought, “what the shit would I do for a job if I got kicked out? $7 per hour security guard? What the hell would Chrissy think?”
“So Franko,” said Gomez, “there appears to be only one way for you to remain an officer. You could take it or leave it; it’s that simple. And that’s why Sheila Shapiro is here this morning. This is absolutely no joke.”
Franko perked up as his attention shifted from Shapiro’s good looks, nicely shaped boobs, and athletic legs.
Gomez proceeded. “You are aware, I’m sure, of the rapes and injuries, and even one death, among our sex worker population out around Bellevue Boulevard. Someone, or several men, are responsible, but we’ve been unable to pinpoint them or make arrests. The media is waking up to this small crime wave and is asking questions.”
“I’ve heard about the problem,” said Franko, “but that’s not in my district, you know.”
“Right,” replied Gomez. “But with the cooperation of Ms. Shapiro here, we have a plan. We’ve done it before, maybe 12 years ago, but now it’s time to try it again.”
All three looked at Franko intently for a moment before the sergeant resumed. “The plan is to have an officer pose as a prostitute, as a decoy, to trap the perp. I know what you’re thinking, Franko: that the decoy would be a female officer, working maybe with a wire along with one or more nearby officers. We tried that, we tried to recruit a female officer, but all four on our list turned us down, saying they found it degrading.”
Franko was gradually getting the picture. “So….. ”
Shapiro finally spoke. “I’m not part of the PD. I’m actually the owner of a downtown boutique for crossdressers. I expect you know what crossdressers are? One of our services, which we call Cinderella’s Lair, is to convincingly turn a man into the likeness of a woman for a day and have professional videos and photos taken.”
Gomez: “Sheila was asked to come in because she helped convert one of our male officers into a female decoy that past time. It worked; we caught the guy.”
“So when I came in this time around,” said Shapiro, “they showed me the photos of three possible officers for this duty. It was obvious to me that you would be the best candidate, because you’re relatively short and slender, your face isn’t angular or square-jawed, and your hands aren’t large. And I notice now that you don’t have a deep voice.”
Franko face was beginning to glow crimson-red. “Jesus,” he said, “you want me to dress up like one of those drag queens, or one of those gay guys that dress up and work as hookers? You’re kidding.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” ordered the captain.
“Look,” said Gomez. “We’re not forcing you to do this. But you go ahead, do a good job, and you save your badge. Just look at it as like dressing up for Halloween.”
Franko instantly remembered when as a kid, his mother coerced him into dressing up as a girl so he could go trick or treating with his sister and a couple of her girlfriends. When his male friends found out, he was relentlessly teased and a photo of him made the rounds on social media.
“I also feel this is degrading,” said Franko.
“It’s a service to the community, goddamnit,” said the captain. “Take this seriously, officer, and save your career.”
Franko reluctantly agreed to think it over. He had to make a decision by the end of the week.
His initial reaction was to chuck it all… rather than throw away his masculinity; his identity as a fisherman, hunter and boater; and become a Francine? The hell with it. But…. a large part of the equation was his wife Chrissy. A stay-at-home wife with three kids, she would definitely be against his leaving the police force. She knew little about his questionable performance at work. Her dad was a career military man, and she valued Jim Franko’s status as a Memphis cop. Then there was his fat paycheck.
So, Franko was obliged to run the idea by her.
“So, dear, that’s what they want me to do,” he concluded, adding with a lie: “which would probably lead to a promotion.”
“The question is, Jim, would you feel comfortable doing this? I mean, this is a pretty crazy thing.” Then, with a little chuckle, “On the other, I think it would be kinda cute to see you in a dress and heels.” She immediately regretted saying that, as he hit their table with a fist.
“I… will… not… take… this… as… a… joke, Chrissy.”
“Dear, I will seriously support any decision you make. I absolutely wouldn’t tell anyone, although I suppose some of your co-workers might blab about it.”
There really wasn’t much of a decision to make. He would have to bite the bullet for three or four months — wasn’t that how long they said the plan would run? Or until some perps were uncovered. When Franko announced his acceptance, Gomez told him only three or four other officers would be in on the deal, and they’d be sworn to secrecy — important, because if the word got out to the street, the criminals would avoid him like the plague.
The time came for him to meet with the Shapiro woman. He only had to go to her boutique once, in civilian clothing of course, to take some measurements. Some of his clothing would come from the boutique, but most would come from other stores. Then it was time to be instructed in the art of looking and acting like a woman — at her home.
There, Sheila Shapiro confidently took him under her wing. She was 25 years his senior, but kept herself up very well, thought Franko. She still had the curves and personality to get a man’s motor running.
“So, these crossdressers you serve, Sheila,” asked the cop, “what’s the story? I’ve met a few on duty, and a few were flamboyant, but most were on the quiet side, didn’t make any trouble. We used to joke about them at the station. Hairy hens, and fairies, and so on.”
“Jim, I found out about crossdressers because my husband was one. He died in his late 30s, unfortunately. I loved him greatly, and had met some of his femme friends. I felt they were usually so closeted and needed some support, so after his untimely death I quit my real estate job, and started the store, which fortunately was an immediate success. There was a real need for it!
“Here’s my take: Crossdressers in some ways are like children to whom dressing up female and acting the part is as real as real can be. It’s a huge turnon. Most, like you, have real fears of being outed to their male friends, and some even keep their interest from their wives. Most of them, Jim, have this as a portion of their lives, and return to it once in a while, or often. Some have told me they’re hard-wired to have the need to dress up throughout their lives.”
“Well, you make it sound so reasonable and normal. But I will never see it as normal. It’s freaky and takes away any masculinity a man has.”
“OK, OK,” laughed Sheila. “I did sit in on your bargaining session with your bosses, so I know where you’re coming from. Look, we’ve got to get going here. They gave us three weeks to get you ready. Isn’t it rather nice not to have to be doing your patrolling while I get you in shape?”
“That part’s OK.”
“Here’s the plan. First, we select your wardrobe, if you want to call it that. It will be provocative and slutty. I’ve been around enough to know that the girls on the street are wearing these days. We will, hopefully, make you into one of sexiest hookers on the block. Then, we get into appropriate makeup and how to behave. I guarantee you, Jim, that your role will not cause you to turn into a fairy. Wearing a bra will not turn you into a lifelong crossdresser!”
“Humphhh,” retorted Jim.
Note: The story will get hotter with time.