From Junkie to Badge | My Dirty Start in a New Second Life Job

Last Updated on: 1st January 2026, 07:53 pm

“Tanya,” Jess’s voice rang through the phone like a goddamn alarm bell, “I have a job offer for you. Something a bit different.” Oh hell yes.. or maybe hell no. Could go either way. I’m not psychic, but when Jess calls, you just know you’re about to get dragged into something that’s either incredibly profitable or potentially fatal. Welcome back to the glamorous life of Tanya.

Truth is, I’ve been off the radar for a while. After nearly dying from an overdose back in September (spoiler: I didn’t die), I kind of fell off the grid. I didn’t give up at first, but eventually I realized I had to. Recovery. Reflection. Fuck that. More like trying not to faceplant in my own puke again. But yeah, something about staring death in the face changes you. You start looking at drugs differently. At life. At everything. Shit hits different when your heart decides it’s done mid-party.

But Jess calling meant one thing, I was getting pulled back into the mess. The underbelly of Second Life where I seem to thrive like mould in a damp trailer.

So I dug through the trash pile I call home, aka my trailer, until I found my keycard. The one that gets me into Jess’s office. If anyone was going to throw me into another fire and hand me a gasoline can for good measure, it was her. And honestly I was ready for it.

Badge, Blow, and Bullshit

“I’ve got a new job for you,” Jess said the second I stepped into her office. No “how’ve you been,” no “glad you’re not dead,” just straight to the point.

“Sure,” I replied, cocky as ever. “If it makes me money and doesn’t nearly kill me, I’m all for it.”

She shot me a look that said “I’m absolutely going to lie to your face right now.” That smirk, that half-assed nod – she had danger written all over her.

“It won’t,” she said, all sweet and innocent.

“Sign me the fuck up then!” I shot back. Because clearly I have no self-preservation instincts left.

She lobbed a box across the table at me. I caught it, popped it open, and, what the actual fuck, out slid a uniform. Not a sexy stripper uniform, not some roleplay fantasy gear, but an actual, goddamn police uniform.

“You’ve been out of the game too long,” she said, voice like butter on a bullet. “I don’t need a benchwarmer. That’s your new getup. You’re going to be my latest recruit over at the Street Whores police station.”

Then she smirked and dropped the bomb: “Actually… you’re the only recruit.”

“A COP?!” I damn near choked on my own disbelief. Me. A fucking cop. Had she lost her mind? Was she high?

“I built the department months ago,” Jess explained, calm as if she wasn’t suggesting something completely insane. “But people are scared of it. They either avoid it or run like hell. I need someone to change the perception.”

Great. So basically, she needed a junkie-dealer-slut with a badge. What could go wrong?

“Two rules,” she continued. “Be lenient on the whores and sell drugs wherever you can.”

I let out a sigh so hard it might’ve caused a wind advisory in two sims. The drug part made me twitch. Dangerous, dirty and absolutely screaming ‘trap’. But also… it was a job. And Second Life jobs don’t exactly fall from the sky.

Gross? Yeah. Risky? Absolutely. But I was broke, bored, and apparently too hard to kill. So if this meant clocking in as the most crooked cop in Second Life, then fuck it. Let’s go.

Life as a Second Life Cop | Glamour Not Included

Let me be real with you – life as a Second Life cop is not exactly what you’d call “living the dream.” I mean, I’ve had my fair share of low points – getting railed in alleys to sell a cheap bag of cocaine, sleeping on my own puke. but this is a new kind of low.

The Street Whores police station is a joke. An actual fucking joke. Whoever designed it clearly didn’t think anyone would ever actually work there.

Honestly, I should probably write a nice little letter to Quinn and complain about the lack of basic human rights in this dump. But let’s be real, who the fuck is going to take a junkie seriously? “Dear Quinn, I respectfully request a staff toilet so I don’t have to take a break next to a whore vomiting into her heels.” Yeah, that’ll go straight to the top.

Here’s what you get: one desk that looks like it was dragged out of a fire, an interrogation room that might as well double as a kill room, and a few cells that are somehow the cleanest part of the whole joint.

What don’t you get? Oh, just little things like an office. Or a staff room. Or, you know, a fucking staff toilet.

No staff bathroom means if I’ve got to take a potty break, grab a nap, or even eat something that isn’t powdered or rolled up in a bill then I’m stuck doing it right next to the “criminals” I’m supposed to be policing. It’s like being both the prison guard and the inmate, except nobody respects you and everyone still thinks you’re high.

Working at Mel & Aria’s at least had the perk of my trailer being nearby. I could hit a line, take a shower, and get off in private like a normal fucking person. But now? If I’ve got to handle any personal business while at the Street Whores police station, I’m basically squatting in the alley out back and hoping no one takes photos.

And here I am, doing the job that’s literally the opposite of everything I stood for. I’m the narc now. The badge. Except without the benefits. No locker room, no snacks, and definitely no respect. I’m not sure if this is a promotion, a punishment, or some twisted social experiment.

But hey, at least I’ve still got drugs…

That I’m trying not to take..

First Day on the Beat | The Street Whores Patrol Begins

Ok, credit where it’s due – I did get a bike. One decent perk in this whole disaster. Of course, it came with a bone-dry fuel tank because why wouldn’t it? So yeah, step one of enforcing justice: don’t run out of fuel and get stuck pushing your ride past a bunch of tits-out streetwalkers.

Once I sorted that shit out and got the thing running, I set off on my first patrol around Street Whores. Met a few of the girls. Met their animals too and no, not their Johns, although let’s be honest, half of them bark, hump, and beg like they belong on leashes. Still, I kept that thought to myself. I’m a cop now, apparently. I’m here to protect and serve, not throw verbal grenades at horny men… no matter how accurate they might be.

The whores were doing what whores do – strutting around half-naked, tits practically saluting the sky, ass cheeks on display, waiting for some rando to come along and toss a few bills at them. The usual.

And me? I’m in this weird ass middle ground now. Do I get offended by this? Am I supposed to care? I mean, I’ve fucked in more alleys than I can count, and half of those same guys were probably standing in this exact same spot last time I was on my knees doing my own kind of customer service.

Now I’ve got a badge, a title, and a role to play. So yeah, I guess I’ll squint, furrow my brows, and pretend I care. Because that’s what a Street Whores officer does, right?

Note: I absolutely do not care. They look hot, they’re doing their thing, and I’m just trying not to run out of gas again.

Justice, Bribery, and… Well…

Later in the day, because of course it gets worse, a horny-ass John stumbles up to me, all confidence and zero shame, and flat-out asks me for my rates.

Excuse me, sir. I am a cop, not part of the merchandise. I wear a badge, not a price tag. Do I want your money? Fuck yes, I do. But do I want to earn it by sucking you off like some two-Linden slut behind the dumpster? Not exactly how I envisioned enforcing the law today.

So I did what any badge-carrying, barely-lawful narc would do – I threatened him. Asked him if he was aware that solicitation was illegal. I told him I could arrest his dumbass and throw the book at him. Not metaphorically either. I’ve got an actual, literal “Throwing Book”.

But that also meant paperwork. And if there’s one thing I hate more than limp dick Johns, it’s the soul-crushing act of filling out paperwork. I especially didn’t want any on my first day. So now I had a problem: either commit to the paperwork or twist the situation in my favour.

“L$1,500,” I said, deadpan, “and we’ll forget this ever happened. Plus, I’ll let you fuck me just so you get the hell off my street.”

He laughed, handed over the cash like it was no big deal, and followed me into the Street Whores police station.

“This doesn’t make me a whore,” I growled as I dropped my pants and bent over the front desk. And let me clarify – the desk. Singular. It’s the only desk in that dump.

“Sure it doesn’t,” he said with a smirk, rubbing his half-hard dick against me like he thought this was the pre-show. Then he shoved it in.

I felt dirty. Not for the act – fuck, I’ve done worse in darker alleys for less. But for the fact that I now had a badge pinned to my tit and I was still bending over for some horny rando like nothing had changed.

He thrusted, grunted, came, and zipped up like it was a regular thing. I pulled up my pants, wiped whatever dignity I had left off the desk, and got back to patrolling. Just another day in the life of a very questionable cop on the Street Whores patrol, I guess.

Same Life, Different Lie | Welcome to the Second Life Cop Life

Like the French guy said, “The more things change, the more they remain the same.” Never really hit me until now. Because yes, I might be rocking a badge, but let’s not pretend that makes me anything different than the junkie I’ve always been. Just one with a fancier title and maybe a worse uniform.

That’s my new Second Life cop life in a nutshell. Same filth, new frame.

The thing I won’t say out loud is this: I’m terrified of the fucking evidence locker at this job. Not because of blood, not because of knives. Because of what’s in it. Or what might be in it. Mel & Aria’s product. My old lover. My old god. The stuff I shoved up my nose for breakfast, lunch, and post-fuck dessert.

I was more addicted to that shit than I was to survival.

And yes, I’ve been clean for months. No medals, no chips, no fucking celebrations. Just me, white-knuckling it through each day, trying not to tear open the stash I still haven’t thrown out. Yeah, it’s still in my trailer. In a box. I know that’s dumb. I know it’s a fucking landmine. But tossing it feels like pretending that part of me never existed. And I did exist. I existed hard.

I remember what nearly dying felt like. It wasn’t some peaceful drift into nothing. It was violent, messy and painful, like my own body trying to escape itself. And the part that haunts me most is how good it felt right before it turned.

Then there’s this quote:

“There’s this emperor, and he asks the shepherd’s boy how many seconds in eternity. And the shepherd’s boy says, ‘There’s this mountain of pure diamond. It takes an hour to climb it and an hour to go around it, and every hundred years a little bird comes and sharpens its beak on the diamond mountain. And when the entire mountain is chiselled away, the first second of eternity will have passed.’ You may think that’s a hell of a long time. Personally, I think that’s a hell of a bird.”

That’s what recovery feels like. That goddamn bird. Pecking away at a mountain that doesn’t want to budge. Every craving, every twitch, every time I open that box and don’t touch – that’s one more peck. Tiny, pathetic, but still there.

So yeah, I’m a cop now. I guess. I sell pussy on the side apparently, shake down horny idiots, pretend to give a shit about law and order while the front desk still smells like cum. But that’s Second Life cop life, same old morals just in a different costume.

Right now, staying occupied is the only thing keeping me from crawling back into that box of powder and vanishing for good.

Swing by the Street Whores station if you’re feeling guilty – or just feeling horny. Crimes, confessions, or cumshots… I process all three apparently. Bring balls and a fat wallet.