by Catlyn Ladd
The shoes are brutal. They’re my size but the heels are a full 6 inches with no platform. There is a bit of a cushion under the ball of my foot but my arch is held painfully bowed. They’re also ugly: white snakeskin with a bit of silver detailing around the scales.
“Let me go change,” I say. I’m wearing black and red and the shoes clash. “I have just the thing.”
The shoes are better with a silver catsuit. It’s one of my favorite outfits. There are skintight pants with a small bell at the ankle and a top with crisscrossed laces up the back. It makes me look as though I have been dipped in liquid metal.
As I slip the shoes back on after changing, I notice that they’re lightly worn. These shoes are used. They have been on other feet. I don’t think he bought them at all. I think he already had them. Which begs the question: does he travel with women’s shoes in every size, passing them out as gifts to the pretty feet he meets?
Gary doesn’t even really see the outfit. He’s totally fixated on my feet. My feet, which are already aching.
“May I buy you off the list?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Let me go tell the DJ.”
It’s relatively rare to have a customer buy a dancer off the list. The rate is $20 a song and the customer gets us all to himself. We can do private dances or he can just sit with us.
The DJ raises his eyebrows at me as he crosses my name off. “Have fun,” he says.
I smack him on the shoulder. “You’re just thinking about the big tip out you’ll get.”
He smacks me back. “Nope. Just about you in that silver outfit.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“‘Whatever,’” he mimics me. “You sound like a valley girl.”
Luckily, Gary doesn’t really expect me to stand in the ridiculous shoes he’s brought. I spend most of the rest of the night lying on my back with my feet in his lap or on the arm of his chair.
I make $1200 that weekend. Then I don’t see Gary for a year. I stash the shoes in the back of my locker and consider tossing them a couple of times. But I don’t. A year later, the following summer, Alexandria bursts into the dressing room as I’m getting ready. “Star!” she exclaims. “Remember that foot guy?”
“Yes,” I answer hesitantly.
“I think he’s out there.”
I can barely remember what he looks like. I approach without letting my hesitation show. But it’s him. He returns every June for the years I work at this club. And I always have the shoes waiting.
Chapter Seven
Object of the Gaze I Become
The determining male gaze projects its phantasy on to the female figure which is styled accordingly.
—Laura Mulvey
I became a stripper at the age of 19. I had just returned to the States from spending time studying at the University of Oxford and I did not want to live on campus in a dormitory. I wanted my own place but could not afford it on the meager salary of my work-study job. I also did not have time for a regular job, and minimum wage was not much better than the work-study money I already made. I needed a job that paid a lot and had flexible hours.
A friend had been working at a local club and I knew she made a lot of money while keeping up with her classes. I have no problem with modesty and so I decided to give it a try. I ended up working for five years, quitting only after I graduated with my master’s degree. Working in this industry for as long as I did illuminated the tensions and contradictions of being a woman in a patriarchal culture. Patriarchal attitudes, reinforced by our recent Victorian past, continue to inform perceptions of female sexuality and the sexuality of women of different racial backgrounds, and affect women’s safety, self-esteem, and confidence. The lessons I learned inside the clubs have stayed with me, continuing to inform how I teach, what kind of a feminist I am, and how I understand my position as a daughter, wife, (female) professor, and woman.
American culture is permeated by the legacy of puritanical Victorian attitudes. Sex workers are stigmatized and sometimes also feel guilt arising from self-judgment. In their article “Women and Health,” authors Eleanor Maticka-Tyndale, Jacqueline Lewis, Jocalyn P. Clark, Jennifer Zubick, and Shelley Young write:
Women’s sexual role is to attract, entice and sexually arouse men. This is precisely how exotic dancers describe their work. Women’s gender role, however, prescribes relative passivity, with active initiation of physical contact ascribed to the male. In addition, sexual interaction is prescribed, particularly for women, as private, intimate, monogamous, and non-commercial. Thus, while women engaged in sexual labor may not be violating the female sexual role, they are violating their gender role. This produces an outcast status, with sex workers stigmatized and labeled as indecent, immoral, or “bad girls” (88).
Gender roles reinforce the impression that “good” women don’t take their clothes off for money. When confronted by someone who breaks these norms we ask, “What kind of woman dances for money? … We assume she is not very bright, sleeps with her clients, and has a surplus of predatory, sexual power. [Popular movies teach us that] a ‘good’ dancer actually hates dancing and only does it when driven by circumstances beyond her control” (Barton 585). Selling one’s body, or permission to look at one’s body, to the highest bidder breaks every sanction we place on female sexuality. I suspect it also confirms other assumptions that are harder to admit: the concern that women really do only pursue men for money, the fear that all women are whores: manipulative, lying, predatory. At the very least, we expect for women in this profession to not enjoy what they do. If they profess to find enjoyment in the job, we either dismiss them as irredeemable or assume that they are lying.
Andreas G. Philaretou, in the article “Female Exotic Dancers: Intrapersonal and Interpersonal Perspectives” (2006), summarizing the conclusions reached by almost 20 studies of exotic dancers, writes:
The aforementioned studies point to several commonalities concerning the lives of [female exotic dancers] and their occupation. These include: (a) their low socioeconomic status and dysfunctional family backgrounds; (b) the considerable monetary payoff of the occupation compared to other low wage, low skill or high wage, high skill full-time jobs; (c) the exciting and interesting nature of the job compared to the drudgery of highly routinized, low self-directionless, low satisfaction mainstream occupations; (d) the temporary illusory feelings of female power experienced while on the job; (e) the sexual titillation experienced from engaging in consensual erotic dances in front of a cheering male audience; and (f) the companionship, social support, and fun times experienced with fellow co-workers (42).
Society assumes, first of all, that women who take their clothes off for money are people “whose prospects for economic well-being outside exotic dancing are limited” (Maticka-Tyndale et al. 103). In other words, they are the undereducated from low economic classes who recognize that they can take advantage of the fact that sex work is the only occupation in the world where women regularly earn more money than men. Studies also acknowledge that many women find aspects of the job fulfilling: they have fun, make friends, can drink on the job, and still have time to pursue other interests including families, hobbies, and education. However, a common assumption is that women in sex work are objectified and in an occupation that is beyond their control—consider the findings above that refer to the feelings of female power as “temporary” and “illusory.” Sex workers, we assert, cannot really be empowered.
Sex work is defined as “a service to satisfy a sexual fantasy, produce sexual excitement or arousal, and/or provide sexual satisfaction to the customer” though the satisfaction may be delayed (Maticka-Tyndale et al. 88). The assumption is that a (female) dancer caters solely to the needs of the (male) client, subverting her own desires, and even her own personality, in order to fulfill the wishes of the client. Understood this way, stripping can only be viewed as degrading, dehumanizing work in that it reinforces the stereotype that women’s sexual desires c
an never be found in revealing her body for money and that it is only men who pay for gratification of sexual fantasies.
One example of this subjugation is “customers purchasing various body technologies and giving them as ‘gifts’” (Wesely 655). A “body technology” is a method of controlling the appearance through clothing, makeup, costuming, and cosmetic surgery. Wesely goes on to tell us, “By buying breast implants for a dancer … the customer takes control of the effort to reshape the woman’s body in the fantasy image. At the same time, the women sometimes felt powerful when they convinced customers to pay for body technologies” (ibid). Read in this way, the male customer literally transforms the body of the sex worker as an object of his desire. The dancer fulfills her gender role by passively allowing her body to be modified and, from the position of the enslaved, finds gratification and fulfillment in the attentions of her master.
Another example of the dancer-as-object is that she exists in order to make the club money. Thus, dancers are often required to conform to expectations set by the (male) club owners and general managers. Some clubs set weight requirements or measurement requirements. Other clubs dictate what types of costumes the dancers are allowed to wear. It is not at all uncommon to dictate the shifts a woman can work based on her perceived marketability. Over my time as a dancer, I had owners and managers try to tell me the kinds of clothes I could wear, what type of music I could select, and which shifts I could work. I witnessed clubs limiting the number of women of color on a shift because “black women are not what ‘bring in the money’” (Wesely 658). I never saw a club limit the number of white dancers on a shift.
Women in our culture are not only objectified for the color of our skin but also simply because we display secondary sex characteristics. Dancers often report fearing for their safety, because, “[t]oo frequently, customers are excited by strippers precisely because they occupy the role of the dirty slut in fantasies shaped by Madonna-whore dualities and other sexist notions about sexually available women” (Barton 591). Some customers assume that they are purchasing more than the right to look. I was always careful to work in safe clubs where customers who got out of hand would be expelled and even permanently banned, the parking lots were cleared before the staff left for the night, bouncers escorted us to our cars, and local police patrolled the area.
However, there’s a lot more to the issue of safety than many of the studies recognize: strippers are not the only women who fear for their safety. The writers of the articles on stripping seem to assume that only women in sex work fear for their safety. But all women have this fear. I’m now a college professor and I still check the dark corners of parking garages.
Furthermore, the access I gained to higher-end clubs committed to keeping me safe is intertwined with my white skin, blue eyes, and blond hair. Privilege functions in the clubs just like it functions in society as a whole. White women feel safer.
My experiences are more nuanced than what many of the studies portray: “Missing from the literature … is any analysis of the temporal experience of stripping” (Barton 587). Moreover, “We cannot unpack the complexities of stripping without speaking with dancers themselves and letting their narratives drive our understanding” (Pilcher 522). Numerous articles note the importance of first-person narratives but are limited in scope: interviews are difficult to obtain, sample sizes are small, the number of clubs a researcher can feasibly visit is limited. Furthermore, the studies that do account for dancers’ experiences focus mainly on life within the club. Therefore, we need for “researchers to ask more questions of exotic dancers, such as their perspective of their work and other aspects of their life style in relation to body objectification, relationship satisfaction, and self-esteem” (Downs, James, and Cowan 751).
My work is also limited. I am white, from a well-educated family, and I have substantial economic opportunities. However, I worked in the clubs for five years. While not officially an academic at the time, I was on my way to becoming one. My insights are based on informal ethnography, in that I had not taken a research methods class at the time. Thus, I join the ranks of other dancers who have written autobiographies. However, I was also receiving training as an academic while a stripper: I kept a journal and recorded my experiences and observations. I interacted with hundreds of dancers and many hundreds of customers. I worked in several clubs in different parts of the country. I have insights to offer for those who wish to really seek understanding of the taboo, complex, and enlightening world of exotic dancing.
Section II
The Dialectic of the Abyss
Narrative identity takes part in the story’s movement, in the dialectic between order and disorder.
—Paul Ricoeur
Chapter Eight
Fast and Loud
Working holidays is a gamble. I stand at the bar, bored. It’s going on 9 p.m. on July Fourth, just about the time fireworks will be starting, people in lawn chairs and on blankets, bottles of beer hidden in paper bags that do nothing to disguise them, barking dogs, screaming children.
I think back to the first fireworks I can remember. My mom and dad, standing pressed against the pedestrian rails along the Tennessee River, me lifted in my mom’s arms to see. She had held me up high, above the pressing crowd, and the first burst of sparks had been accompanied by a mighty BOOM and then fire rained down toward me. The fact that it burned blue and purple did not even register. I opened my mouth and screamed. I remember how puzzled my mother had been, reassuring me that she would never place me in harm’s way, never, but I remained unconvinced. It seemed as though we would all catch fire and burn to ashes.
Now I stand against the gleaming polish of the chest-high bar, leaned back on my elbows, surveying the empty club. Or mostly empty. A couple of the regulars sit at their normal table but they’re not good for money, just passing the time. They come to drink beer and eyeball pretty girls, tipping a buck a set between the two of them just for the sake of appearances.
The club doesn’t have that many dancers. We run a short staff on holidays, the normal number cut from 15 or 16 to barely half that. Two of the stages won’t even open tonight; we just run one in the main section and the other in the smoking room.
For something to do I decide to change out of the outfit I’ve been wearing since shift change. In the dressing room, Sienna sits at the long counter that serves as the dressing table, her bare feet propped against the edge, deep in the pages of a book. The general manager explicitly forbids hanging out in the dressing room but a couple of the old-timers can get away with it. I’m still too new to risk the GM’s wrath. Sienna is in her early thirties and she’s been working at the club for more than five years. She’s one of those perfectly beautiful women: long legs, narrow waist, firm B cups, long brunette hair. She doesn’t draw crowds but her few regulars are loyal and wealthy. She has one coming in later, the only reason she’s here on the Fourth. Until then, she’ll read her book and dance her sets when she’s called to stage.
I open my locker and pull out the outfit I’ve brought expressly for tonight, the only nod to patriotism I’m capable of making. The little red shorts are from another outfit, but tonight I pair them with a black tank top that I’ve modified with red glitter paint to read “think! it’s patriotic” over an embossed American flag. I kick off the black stilettos I’ve been wearing and take my seat at the dressing table. If I fuss with my hair and makeup long enough, I can avoid the GM’s watchful eye by claiming that I have a legitimate reason to be in the dressing room.
I carefully touch up the heavy black eyeliner I wear and then dot red glitter over my lids and cheekbones. Bright red lipstick completes the look.
Sienna glances at me over the top of her book. “You can’t wear that,” she says.
I glance down at my outfit defensively. “Why not?”
“Too political.” Her nose buries in her book again. “Strippers aren’t supposed to be political.”
“Yeah, well if I’m going to work hol
iday shifts I’m gonna express myself,” I retort.
“What? You think you’re a person?” There is no animosity in her voice, just the matter-of-fact tone of a genuine question.
I grab the miniature lunchbox that serves as my purse. “I guess that depends on who you ask.”
Her chuckle follows me out of the dressing room.
I stand at the top of the three steps leading up into our private area, leaning my arms against the railing while I survey the club. Destiny is on stage, her body stretched against one of the poles, pulsing in a gentle rhythm to the music. A couple of crumpled bills lie on the stage. She’s doing the absolute minimum amount of work for the nonexistent crowd.
At the door I catch a glimpse of motion and amble over toward the bar for a closer look. A group of at least seven guys stand in line, money in hand, waiting as the doorman checks their identification and makes change for the cover. They’re young, in their twenties, and while there is a certain amount of energetic conversation among them, they don’t seem too rowdy.
On holidays sometimes groups come in completely wasted after partying elsewhere. Sometimes drunk crowds have loose wallets but mostly they’re just troublemakers. These men show some promise.
I hear my name as the DJ calls me to stage. I make my way over and stand on the steps as Destiny gathers up her clothing and meager earnings.
“Group just came in,” I tell her.
Her eyes light up. “Good deal,” she says. “Maybe we’ll actually make some cash.”
“We’ll see.” I shrug as the first strains of my music come through the speakers. It’s something by The Cure. The DJ knows how to play for me; early in the evening or when it’s quiet, I prefer slower industrial music. If there’s a crowd I prefer faster and harder in order to get the crowd worked up. I rarely have to choose my own music anymore. I just let him do his job.
