I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am, David Copperfield

By Lacey Carroll

To read more about Lacey Carroll, read the article here.

KENNEWICK- Let me begin by saying that I am no saint. Just like everyone else, I have made mistakes in my life, and I like to think that I have learned from them as I move forward. But just because I have transgressions in my past, that doesn’t mean that you can do with me whatever your depraved heart desires, Mr. David Copperfield.

First, let me lay it all out on the table so you don’t accuse me of trying to mislead you. Yes, I am a stripper. I work at a nightclub called The Candy Shoppe in Eastern Washington. You may have been able to deduce my profession from the fact that my name is an adjective followed by a noun- that’s usually a dead giveaway. You may have also got the hint that I was not prudish when you came to my strip club and slipped several $20 bills in my g-string while I grinded my ass into your crotch to the beat of Pour Some Sugar On Me. Six of one, half dozen of the other- bottom line is that I don’t have a problem using my sexuality to my advantage.

[RIGHT- Your wiles won't work on me, you sexy, sexy man!]

I should also probably let you know about my previous arrest for alleged (ALLEGED!) extortion and prostitution attempts in Bellevue, Washington. This guy says that we met at a bar, and when he took me back to his hotel room, I whispered into his ear “You can have it all for $2,000,” and when he declined I ran out of the room and he called the police. My story is that he roofied me, and when I awoke, he was on top of me, I squirmed out from under him and accused him of rape. No matter that I dropped the charges as soon as he documented the events and threatened a counter-suit. It’s a classic case of he said/she said. And on the advice of my lawyer and a binding non-disclosure agreement, I will not be telling you the “she said” side of that equation.

But I digress, David Copperfield. The past is behind us. When we met at that seedy strip club in rural Washington and you paid me hundreds of dollars to simulate sex acts in a dark room, I thought we were just friends. When you offered to whisk me away to your $50 million private island in the Bahamas for a week, I thought it was another generous, friendly gesture. How was I supposed to know that you expected me to engage in unlawful carnal knowledge? I don’t know what I did to lead you on, but let me be clear that at no point during my explicitly sexual dance or my acceptance of your offer to spend time secluded together, half-naked on an deserted island did I mean to make you think that I was interested in having sex with you.

I came to this island because I thought it would be a fun getaway, not for some depraved sexual romp. I don’t live in the world’s most exotic locale, so when I was invited to the Caribbean, my imagination went wild with thoughts of beaches, snorkeling, fresh seafood, and tropical music. To think that you had sex on your mind the whole time is appalling and disgusting. Just because you paid thousands of dollars to fly me here and house me on the island for a week, that does not entitle you to my holy trinity. Oh, you’re not familiar with that term? Use your imagination.

By the way, how does a fruity magician make enough money to buy a $50 million island in the Bahamas. I mean, I was at your show in Kennewick, and these aren’t exactly the halcyon days of HBO specials and sold out stadiums. Don’t try to deny your way out of this decline. I have been around the block enough times to hear Andrew Dice Clay claim that he’s glad that he’s now playing to his “core audience,” and the lead singer from Warrant justifying his shrinking audience by saying that he prefers the “intimacy of a club setting” over the five figure ticket revenues of giant arenas. Let’s face it, I saw the sweat stains on that gay puffy shirt that you wear on stage, and they were dry enough that they had been there for a few shows. Can’t pay the dry cleaning bills? Then you’re going to have a hell of a time paying your settlement for the rape charges I’m about to file against you. Listen, I really need you to be honest about your financial situation. If there’s a lien on this property, I need to know before I invest in a lawyer to sue you for everything you’re worth.

I will spell it out for you very clearly: you’re going to need to summon all of your magical powers to make these charges disappear. Your curly mullet is not going to save you this time, Mr. Copperfield. I am going to sue you for everything you are worth, and you are going to pay me a hefty settlement to prevent people from permanently associating the world “Copperfield” with “rape” instead of their current association, “nerdy, gay magician.” Just don’t bring the charges to trial, because any jury will realize that I am completely full of crap and have dedicated my life to using my body to extort money out of men. Oops, did I say that out loud just now?