I was nine, maybe ten. I wore a gray suede vest, (which was probably meant for a petite professional woman to wear on casual Fridays in the '80s). Too many visits to the bowl of pastel after-dinner mints had bloated my stomach a bit. I sat on the carpet, below my seated parents, at the 40th birthday party of one of my many aunts.
My heart stopped when a police officer knocked on the door and was let inside. I fearfully watched the man request my aunt, wondering what happened. What had she done? My fear escalated as he snapped metal handcuffs on her wrists, but she wasn't scared. She was laughing, her head shaking but her yellow blonde helmet-hair immobile.
I understood this was not a real cop when he started to take off his clothes. He might have been dancing to music, I don't know. Another aunt left the room with her young child in tow.
He was down to a red thong when he explained that my handcuffed aunt could liberate herself from the shackles. But she'd have to retrieve the key. Then he dropped it in his thong. My aunt was red and I was appalled and embarrassed. I think this was the point my mother covered my eyes.
I had seen enough.
(Inspired after reading Cleveland Happenstance's first visit to a strip club)