Sex and the Shield

By Steve Stanulis

Get ready to read the tantalizing true story of a former male dancer who went on to become a decorated New York City police officer. A tale filled with wild sex, street cop action, pathos and hilarity would be a must-read on its own, but when you add a stint as a celebrity bodyguard to the mix, it becomes the cherry on top of an already-tasty narrative that will keep you turning pages long into the night!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543922882

Book preview

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 9781543922882

Dedicated to my wife Lisa and my three angels, Sage, Chase and Sienna

Table of Contents

Cover

Prologue: Let Me See Your Scar 1999

Chapter 1: Edward and Tina

Chapter 2: The Innocence of Youth?

Chapter 3: Night Moves

Chapter 4: Oops...Again

Chapter 5: Police Academy Too

Chapter 6: Teresa

Chapter 7: Police Drama...Unscripted

Chapter 8: The World According to Dana

Chapter 9: Easy Come...

Chapter 10: Lisa...a New Lease on Life

Chapter 11: The Actor's Life for Me

Chapter 12: Full Circle of Life

Sex & the Shield

Prologue

Let Me See Your Scar

1999

As I stood offstage in a Manhattan nightclub, I could hear the announcer address the crowd of screaming women. That was my cue to get pumped. I adjusted my skin-tight, black leather pants, shrugged my shoulders to be sure that my short, silver-studded, black leather jacket fell just right, and jogged frenetically in place. For some reason, I always got the jitters before performing. It’s not that I lacked confidence. God knows, that was never a problem with me. I guess it was just my way of getting the adrenaline pumping, like a tiger ready to attack its prey. Yes, I was the tiger and my prey were the hundred or so women – bachelorettes, office girls out for the night, lonely, middle-aged divorcees – all sitting in the audience, all with lots of bills in hand.

The lights dimmed, the music – something with a lot of percussion and no lyrics, of course – started to play as I heard my introduction. It was go time. Before I knew it, I was on the stage, bathed in a flood of hot, bright lights. Something always took over at those precise moments. It’s as if I weren’t in my body, but an innocent bystander watching my stage persona perform. So, I relaxed and let that persona take over.

Bumping, grinding, hands running through my hair in seductive, calculated, suggestive moves. Hips swiveling, legs squatting, muscles flexing – all in precise time with the beat of percussion blaring throughout the club in decibels that were off the charts. Off came the leather jacket to reveal my cleanly shaven, chiseled torso. They screamed and howled like cats mating in a dark, back alley. Perfect! Now the leather pants – not too fast – nice and slow. Unbutton them. Now slip them down past my gyrating pelvis. No, wait, not too fast. What’s underneath the pants? Wouldn’t they like to know? Fuck, I love this job.

***

As always, I found myself backstage after the performance with a towel around my neck, almost not recalling exactly what just happened. Like I said, I was just a bystander watching myself dance. Was I any good? I’m sure I was. My red G-string was itching me, though. When I looked down, I realized it was just the copious bills – ones, fives, tens, twenties – stuffed into them by my prey. They were scratching my sweaty skin. Who cared? It was cash money. Yeah, I was good for sure.

Did I clarify that I was a male stripper? Guess I didn’t have to. What you don’t know is that I was also a NYC police officer. Yep, I was freelancing the male stripper circuit by night. There, now I really got your attention!

In any event, I was still counting my stash when a rather interesting looking man approached me. He was slight in build, an inch or two taller than me, and wearing designer, tortoise-framed glasses. He sported an impressive looking outfit that he had no doubt picked up somewhere on Fifth Avenue. Although I put him in his mid-thirties, his dirty blond hair gave him a twentyish appearance.

You’re an amazing dancer, he greeted me, smiling in a friendly manner.

I thought to myself, What the fuck does this guy want?

Would you be interested in doing a private performance tonight, he continued.

I wasn’t sure how to size this up at first. I wasn’t getting a gay vibe, and my gay-dar had always been pretty sharp. I was getting a money vibe, but it didn’t matter either way. I was tired and not interested in extracurricular activity of any kind.

Oh, no thanks, man. I appreciate the compliment, I mean, I’m flattered, but I’m heading home for the night.

Alright. Have a good evening, he replied, not looking terribly disappointed. He walked away and I headed downstairs to change.

As I was slipping on my shirt in the locker room, one of the dancers came down the stairs and told me there was this dude with glasses asking about me in the club. I was like, Okay, guess I was wrong. The guy is gay. It wasn’t unusual to have the occasional gay dude approach me. It never mattered to me how people liked to play. I mean, who cares? It’s just that I’m straight and don’t play that way. So, I figured I’d just have to tell him that he was barking up the wrong tree and suggest he take a hike. In a nice way, that is.

As I headed out the front door of the club, there he was. I approached him and didn’t give him a chance to speak.

Listen, pal. I told you I’m not interested, I said in the politest way possible.

I thought you’d change your mind, he replied.

I’m not gay, I blurted out, figuring that would be that.

"Neither am I. But I do have a proposition for you."

I reached into my jacket pocket, took out my shield and flashed it like they do in police dramas. A shield is what we call our badge, in case you were wondering.

I don’t know what you mean by ‘proposition,’ but let me make this clear, I warned. I’m a NYC police officer. I just freelance as a dancer. So maybe we’d better call it a night before this gets more involved than you want it to. I admit, I was getting agitated.

Whoa, whoa, officer! He held up both hands with a smile. I can understand how you might misinterpret my meaning. Will you give me a chance to start over?

Go ahead, I said reluctantly, as I put my shield back in my pocket.

My name is Dana Giacchetto. He held out his hand, so I cautiously shook it. I’m an investment banker. I’m straight, and that’s just the point.

Now I was really confused, and replied with a baffled look.

I’m not doing so well here, am I? he laughed. What I mean to say is that there are two incredibly hot women waiting for me back in my penthouse. I would like to hire you for a private show. You know, to get them primed up. Then you can leave and I’ll take over from there, if you get my drift. I’ll pay you two thousand dollars for your services.

I didn’t see that coming. As a police officer I was trained to size things up very quickly, and I was good at it. So, in a matter of a few seconds, I assessed the situation. First, I wasn’t getting a bullshitter sense from this guy. I had plenty of experience with liars, con artists and just plain bad people, especially when walking the beat. No, this wasn’t one of those scum bags. Second, I took a better look at his clothing. Light grey, beautifully-tailored Prada suit, open-collared, silk maroon shirt and casual, cordovan Ferragamo loafers. Yeah, I was always kind of a fashion-forward guy – even if my pocket change didn’t support it – and had a good eye for the very expensive designer stuff I was accustomed to seeing in GQ.

You know what? I thought to myself, This guy’s telling the truth. Now, I know what you’re thinking, You figured all of that out in a matter of seconds? Told you I was trained to be good.

What did you say? I asked, hoping to stall for a few more seconds while I thought this ‘proposition’ over. Two thousand bucks to dance for a couple of ladies in your apartment?

Yes, he replied. I’ll pay you in advance if you like.

Cash? I asked, knowing the answer, but still needing a few more seconds to make my decision.

Isn’t that the only way to do business? he chuckled.

Okay, believe it or not, all the time I was asking those questions I actually was figuring this out. The guy seemed harmless. He also seemed rich. He was paying me two grand to do a few bumps and grinds for what he said were two very attractive women. In case things did go sour, I was carrying my 9 mm Smith & Wesson, as always. Really a no brainer.

Sounds okay, man. You just hired yourself a dancer.

Excellent, he replied, shaking my hand again. You ready to go?

I was pretty beat and wanted to get it over with, collect my two thousand and get home to Teresa, my girlfriend, who I knew was going to give me shit about the late hour.

Sure. No time like the present, I answered, putting my hand in my jean pocket to retrieve my car keys. What’s your address?

Dana reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a gold business card case.

"Here’s my card. My home address is the same as my business’. I live on the top floor – the penthouse.

Okay, I’ll meet you there. My truck’s just around the corner.

Getting a cab’s gonna be a pain in the ass. Mind if I ride with you instead? he asked.

I hesitated for a second, but then realized that I had already had this guy sized up as okay so there would be no harm in letting him my truck.

Sure, I’ll give you a ride.

By the way, he asked, Is your real name Steve Savage? I mean, that’s how you were introduced at the club but it sounds like a stage name?

Yeah, it’s a stage name. My real name is Stanulis. You can call me Steve.

How about Stevie? he asked.

I thought that was kind of too familiar – almost strange – but didn’t see any harm in it. I just nodded in approval and took a closer look at his card, which said: Cassandra Group, Inc., Dana C. Giacchetto, President. Just as I was about to ask the cross street at 561 Broadway, Dana blurted It’s at Spring Street and Broadway.

SoHo, I said. Cool!

We’d better get moving. The ladies are waiting, Stevie!

***

SoHo is situated in lower Manhattan, only a couple of miles away from the nightclub. This district was experiencing a renaissance at that point in time and was quickly becoming quite a swanky spot to set up your tent and settle in, so to speak. We pulled up to 561 Broadway in less than ten minutes and parked my ‘97 Honda CR-V right in front of the building, illegally. Don’t look so shocked. I was a proud to serve as one of New York’s Finest and deserved the perk of parking any place I wanted – any time I wanted – as long as my PBA (Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association) card was clearly displayed in the windshield.

We jumped out of the car and locked the door. After a second, I realized that Dana lived in the Little Singer Building. This twelve-story edifice (you have to use words like that when describing landmarks) was the home of the Singer Sewing Company in the early nineteen-hundreds. It boasted distinctive cast iron fire escapes and beautiful terrace railings that protected impressive floor-to-ceiling windows on every floor. As I would come to learn later on, I could expect no less from Dana.

As we walked up to the front door and spotted the apartment buttons mounted on a shiny brass plate on the side of the entrance. With the help of a street lamp – and a younger set of eyes at the time – I located Dana’s name next to the top button. Okay, so I established that he really did live here. Dana used keys dangling from a no doubt expensive, designer key ring and opened both the front and lobby doors.

Let’s go, Stevie! he said enthusiastically. We walked into the elevator and Dana pushed P for penthouse.

When the elevator door opened, I was expecting a hallway. To my surprise, I stepped directly into Dana’s apartment, which spanned the entire floor of the building. Now, I told you how being a cop I was trained to assess a person in a matter of seconds. The same held true for my surroundings. Quickly scanning the place, I immediately took in dark, hardwood floors, high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows displaying city lights against the midnight blue of the evening. No window treatments needed. There were higher than high-end appointments and furnishings all over the place, a contemporary lighting system spotlighting both classical and modern art and a futuristic looking entertainment center spanning an entire wall. The kitchen was open and spacious with mahogany cabinetry and an immense, speckled-black granite island topped with state-of-the-art appliances.

I got all of this in a few seconds, but what really made me think to myself, This guy isn’t just any financial planner were the personal photos displayed here and there, especially on the baby grand piano by one of the