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 My Missionary Position
by Dr. Susan Block
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Things were hopping. Lots of old friends and new, including a shy, awkward-looking couple named Jason and Marie. I tried to put them at ease, as I do with most newcomers. They thanked me, smiling nervously, saying that they’d learned so much from perusing my website and watching my show, and hoped I might be able to help them with their personal sex problems. I asked if they’d like to talk about it later in the evening? They said maybe… At 10:30 PM, I started my live Internet broadcast, bebopping along from calls to guests to monologues as usual, when suddenly, there was a commotion. With my headphones on, I couldn’t hear, but I saw Max and Jeffrey run upstairs, UPN-TV news cameras trailing after them. A few minutes later, Roy sidled up to the side of the bed and whispered to me that several police officers were surrounding our house that very moment. What the hell was going on? I knew we hadn’t done anything illegal, but I also knew that that might not matter. "Just keep doing the show!" the word from Jeff the lawyer came down. So I did. After all, why should I stop? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Let them come down and yank me off my pillows with my microphone at my lips and my vibrator between my legs! Let them drag me from my bed in my lingerie and heels, handcuff me, fingerprint and brand me as a criminal, a slut, a witch in the village, a scarlet woman! Oh, now I’m making it sound kind of kinky, but it was real, and I was scared. Let me put it this way: Have you ever had your house surrounded by 20 heavily armed paramilitary troops, with nothing to protect your heart but a lightly padded push-up bra? It was also pretty nerve-wracking for my guests, several of whom were more scantily clad than I was. Here we were, trapped, surrounded by police, not knowing what was going on. Later, I found out what went on: Lies, misinterpretations, stupidity, violence. Never in the 12 years that I’ve been broadcasting has there been an act of violence during my show—until the police infiltrated my home. That was what the commotion was about. A police officer assaulting one of my guests! Can you believe this? Believe it. A police officer, acting on mistaken impulse, kicked one of my guests in the kneecap, then jumped on him and had to be pulled off of him by my security guard, Robert, at which point, he pulled out his badge: Stop. LAPD. Who was this posing plainclothes gangsta? Why, it was Jason of Jason and Marie who’d said they wanted me to help them with a sex problem. Some sex problem! Jason and Marie were undercover agents. Secret agents of deception, armed and dangerous, creeping like a virus through our oasis of peaceful, consensual, sensual, intellectual and artistic endeavor. What a violation! Just before the beating, Jason (his real name is Officer Eric Moore) called in "backup." That’s when the 20-some odd force appeared—LAPD officers, building inspectors, vice, organized crime, patrol cars down the street, and a command center to organized this vast attack—on what? The Villa? Why? I’m actually not too clear on why. I guess I’m just a little bubbleheaded that way. But then everyone on this case is, especially the police. At first they said we were broadcasting live TV without a permit. But we don’t broadcast live on TV, we’re only live on the Internet. What you see on TV is a tape. Anyway, I don’t need a permit to broadcast or film in my private boudoir. And even if I did need a permit--and that was the only reason the police could come up with for being in my home--why couldn’t they have come over during the day? Why couldn’t they have called? Or sent us a warning notifying us that us we needed a permit? Why did they have to go undercover, lying and weaseling their way into my bedroom in the middle of the night, waking the neighbors, assaulting my guest and disrupting my Internet broadcast? As those of you who know me know, I’m usually a big supporter of the LAPD. My HBO special producer Dave Bell also produces the show LAPD. As a sex therapist, I counsel many police officers, some call my show, sometimes they’re even guests at my broadcasts. But I don’t care if you’re a police officer or a gang member: You don’t invade my home! You don’t surround my house and harass my guests! But that’s what you did. And why? Were you really here to talk to me about getting a permit? I don’t think so. Were you really here because you got one anonymous letter from a senile neighbor complaining about parking? I don’t think so. I think you were here for one reason. A 3-letter-word: S E X. You were here for the sex, huh Eric? You watched my show for three months, you went through my website, and your eyes bulged. You saw horny housewives, humping bonobos, lace panties, feather boas, dildos, vibrators, vulva puppets, handcuffs used for lovemaking not policework, couples kissing, naked bodies, lush lips, hot clits, people masturbating, playing, touching, reaching out to each other, trying, and sometimes actually succeeding, in loving each other. And who knows exactly how your twisted mind interpreted all of that, Officer Moore, turning something beautiful and good into something ugly and evil, but somehow you decided that anything this brazenly sexual must be investigated in the middle of the night. You decided, in your arrogance, or perhaps in your ignorance, that our privacy deserved to be grossly invaded simply because we are in the sex field. Because we have friends that include scantily clad women. Because we advocate sexual openness and education, common sense, understanding, ethical hedonism, and good old-fashioned sexual liberation. Or maybe because the only statement you made to me that wasn’t a lie was that you really do have sex problems. And I have compassion for your problems, whatever they are. But you’re a civil servant. You’re my servant, Mr. Police Officer, and you should not invade my home. And attack one of my guests! Shameful! The guest, Chuck "the Nastyman" Naste, had graciously invited me to share the mike with him every Tuesday night on KLSX, and I’d been having such a good time with him that I invited him to be my guest here at the Villa. He arrived with his girlfriend and son, since he couldn’t get a babysitter. After letting the kid play with my snake Eve for a minute, I told Chuck that he or his girlfriend could stay with him upstairs away from my boudoir broadcast. Personally, I don’t believe that there is anything in my show that a child shouldn’t see. I’d prefer that children see healthy semi-naked bodies—like they have all over the beaches in Europe—than the guns and gore that permeate American TV. Basically, on this delicate matter of what kids should or shouldn’t see, I defer to the parents. Apparently, our police department does not. At least, certain individual police officers do not. When the undercover agents posing as Jason and Marie saw Chuck’s kid on the second floor, Marie yanked and shook the child, saying, "Are they holding you here against your will?" whereupon the kid started crying, of course, and Chuck went after him (that’s his kid they’re pushing around). That’s when Officer Moore posing as Jason jumped on Chuck and had to be pulled off of him by Robert, my security guard. When Moore flipped out his LAPD badge, Robert apologized, "I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were cops! I just saw you beating on somebody!" That’s when the reinforcements appeared at the door, including Child Protection Services and the rest of the Big Brother Morality Circus. Then, surrounded by enough firepower to mow down all my guests and half my neighbors, they all chatted a bit and decided Chuck was a responsible enough dad, the kid was okay and everything was fine. But my god, Officers, with all due respect, did you have to grab that child and assault his father in front of him? He had no problem being here, except that he was bored and tired. No one touched that kid but you, and your grab-and-assault tactics were certainly traumatic, something that boy won’t forget. Officers, please! Hold your holsters! Seriously, I don’t want to fight. I’m an ethical hedonist. I practice the Bonobo Way of peace through pleasure. I respect, support and certainly don’t envy the police in their mandate to protect and serve us. It’s not easy dealing with real criminals. But come on; Max and I are pussycats. We’re artists, therapists, educators, masturbators. Our weapons are vibrators and dildos, cameras and radio waves. Why did you surround us with guns?It’s a good thing UPN-TV news was here. It’s a good thing Jeffrey Douglas was here. And of course, it’s a good thing Max was here. I’m sure that that combination of the media, the law and Max kept those cops on their best behavior. I imagine they were just panting to come down and frisk all the scantily clad ladies who just might be hiding automatic weapons in their panties. Max really cooled the cops out. He’s had experience, having been busted for publishing twenty-two times before. The building inspector looked embarassed to be there (later he told Max he’s a fan of our public access show). Finally, one of the cops handed Max a citation for broadcasting on the Internet without a license (huh?). Then they hung around outside the Villa for a few hours, following various guests as they drove home (guess there were no other pressing crimes going on around LA that Saturday night). It all didn’t amount to much, but the damage had been done: the police invaded my home, my castle, my Villa. Why am I telling you all this, my darling website visitor, whoever you are? Well, partly because whenever anything big happens in my life—weddings, funerals, book publications, HBO shows, really great orgasms—I like to share it with you. And partly because it’s important to counteract the broadcast liars—woman-bashing puritanical prophets like Dr. Laura Schlessinger and priggish, thickheaded numbskulls like Ed Tyll and hypocritical hippopotomi like Rush Limbaugh—with the simple sexual truth. And partly because, I want you to understand, my darling reader, that no matter who you are, whether you’re in a mansion or the projects, whether you’re in the Villa or the White House, the government through the police can invade your home. They can spy into your bedroom and wreak havoc upon your life for the most specious of reasons. Sex is like catnip to them. It entices and inflames them. They pounce on it like jackals, then mouth irrelevancies about permits and protecting the children. If they can’t put you in jail, they make you pay and pay in lawyers and fees and lost time, all the while spending billions of your tax dollars to prosecute and persecute you for what amounts to nonsense. God and Goddess bless our police for protecting us from the real, dangerous criminals out there. But do not let them invade your home without proper cause! And do not let them invade my home without proper cause! Peace. Freedom. Personal Responsibility. Vibrator power…….
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