Strip

by Catlyn Ladd

  While it may be true that strippers are likelier to sell sex than the average 20-something, the extrapolation that all exotic dancers are thus at “high risk” is questionable and completely overlooks the different kinds of stripper. “Essentialist claims about the ‘intrinsic’ nature of sex work (whether oppressive or liberating) clash with the variation in sex work,” notes Weitzer (3). Furthermore, 25% of the young women in the study did not work as exotic dancers, and the study did not include any information about these young women working in “other professions.” This study is a prime example of researchers reading onto women’s bodies what they assume they will find.

  Researchers studying sex work often suffer from confirmation bias. It is notable that “[h]istorically, the opinions and experiences of sex workers have been consulted only when they confirmed (or could be used to confirm) one or the other partisan position … Missing from the literature … is any analysis of the temporal experience of stripping” (Barton 587). Lacking the first-person account, assumptions, yet again, are imposed on women’s bodies, and our experiences are viewed through a contemporary, patriarchal lens that often overlooks the complexities of the job. When we read “the literature of radical feminists, we learn that dancers are all victims of sexual and physical abuse whose employment in the sex industry perpetuates patriarchal disdain for women” (Barton 586). I noted in the concluding chapter in Section I that some studies have highlighted that dancers come from dysfunctional families. But “dysfunction” is not defined nor is any comparison made with women from dysfunctional families who do not strip. Lastly, there are no percentages or any indication of the numbers of women working as strippers who come from functional family backgrounds. No cross-analyses of class background, educational level, or race exist to my knowledge.

  Very few studies ask the women themselves, and those that do ethnographic work in strip clubs are often limited in scope and sample size. The varieties of experiences must be considered in order for anyone who does not have direct experience of this environment to begin to grapple with the complexities of this kind of work. Many authors draw conclusions that do not appear in the narratives they have collected.

  One egregious offender is Andreas G. Philaretou in the article “Female Exotic Dancers: Intrapersonal and Interpersonal Perspectives” (2006). The author claims that female exotic dancers are “particularly vulnerable to developing chronic alienation and becoming overwhelmed by their pseudo-sexual selves at the expense of their real selves” (44). The findings are based upon five interviews done with dancers in five different clubs in three different states. My read of the excerpts of the interviews is that the dancers have a nuanced perception of the job that includes both positives and negatives. And yet the author concludes that the dancers must “acknowledge and rewrite their subjugated sexual narratives in more positive and empowered ways … Through self-reflection and re-narration, [female exotic dancers] can be enabled to mold their subjugated sexual narratives and proclaim themselves as sexually emancipated human beings” (48). While the author does acknowledge that club managers and owners can support healthy work environments by embracing dancer insights and listening to suggestions, ultimately the conclusion is that dancers are lying to themselves when they report finding aspects of their job empowering. This is a prime example of confirmation bias and completely overlooks much of what the dancers actually said. Strippers are considered unreliable narrators, but women’s voices are often not believed in general.

  An even more problematic claim appears in the article “Exotic Dancers: Gender Differences in Social Reaction, Subcultural Ties, and Conventional Support” by Constance Barton, Christen DeGabrielle, Lynette Cartier, Elizabeth Monk-Turner, Celestine Phil, Jennifer Sherwood, and Thomasena Tyree (2003). The authors suggest that dancers can develop rejecting attitudes toward men as a result of being constantly objectified. Thus, dancers are likelier than the rest of the population to develop bisexual and lesbian relationships. This perpetuates the very troubling idea that abusive relationships turn people into homosexuals. The article completely overlooks the environment of the club as experimental and potentially subversive and perpetuates the antiquated idea that orientation can develop in response to negative experiences with the opposite sex.

  Many authors fear that dancers are at risk of sexual violence. However, women are often the victims of sexual and physical abuse, profession notwithstanding. The accepted statistic in the USA is that 1 in 3 to 1 in 5 (depending on the sources one accesses) women will suffer sexual assault in her lifetime. My guess is that this average will hold pretty true in the environment of strip clubs. If it is higher it will only be slightly higher. But I can’t say for sure because no one has studied it. My point is that no one can say for sure because, again, the studies have not been done. As Moore et al … admit, “exotic dancers are a rarely studied subset of sex trade workers” (1833).

  Ironically, however, the claim that there hasn’t been much work on strippers is contradicted by Katherine Frank, who writes, “Authors often claim that the literature on exotic dance is sparse or that the subject is not taken seriously in academia … Yet even a cursory review turns up dozens of articles on these issues” (501). She goes on to include a bibliography with over a hundred articles and books. Yet, in spite of the plethora of studies, there are aspects of clubs and those who work in them that have never been studied. Rates of sexual assault among dancers as compared to the general population is just one example. I listed, above, several other aspects of the job that have not been studied. So, while there has been a lot of work done on strip club dancers, much of it is repetitive. There remains a huge domain for research that has not been touched.

  Furthermore, strip clubs are not homogenous. There are profound differences between clubs. They can be roughly divided into working-class clubs and high-end clubs (Barton 2002), but even this categorization obscures vast differences within each type. Dancers usually research different clubs in their areas in order to determine which club fits their needs. I certainly did and I spoke with many women who had done the same. We shared tips, experiences, and insights with one another in order to make informed decisions about where we wanted to work. Some clubs do have high numbers of employees who also work in other aspects of sex work: the pornography industry, prostitution and escort services, and so on. Other clubs pride themselves on being “clean” clubs where the use of hard drugs, prostitution, and other sorts of high-risk behaviors are minimal. The level of safety differs between clubs. Some clubs have open private dance areas that can be easily monitored by bouncers and security systems. Other clubs effectively put the dancer in a closed room with a customer, increasing the possibility of harm.

  In the five years I worked as an exotic dancer I only know of one co-worker who prostituted herself. If others engaged in that sort of behavior, they kept it very discreet and out of the club. Prostitution was an offense resulting in immediate termination in the clubs I worked for. Customers who propositioned dancers violated state law and would be banned permanently. Furthermore, while alcohol and marijuana were consumed fairly openly, other drugs were frowned upon and also constituted fireable offenses if taken publically or abused. I knew one dancer who went off the rails on methamphetamine and was summarily fired. Some girls used a bit of cocaine, but they kept it off the radar.

  The clubs I chose were safe; the women were in control. We were carefully monitored and our word was enough to get a misbehaving customer expelled. The parking lots were cleared at the end of the night and bouncers walked us to our cars. Often, local police patrolled the area during shift change and at closing.

  Ultimately, what is missing from academia is a “female gaze.” Dancers watch customers, each other, and ourselves. The club is paradox: we participate in our own objectification, but we do so with purpose and intention, subverting the very patriarchal environment that subjugates us. We form relationships with customers, men who buy the right to look, and these relationships are not “fake” be
cause of the commercial transaction involved. We negotiate with managers and club owners so that employment is mutually beneficial and we feel safe in the club environment. We learn to frame negative experiences in order to learn that our worth is more than how we look, more than what we earn in an evening. The club is intersectional, and power and oppression traverse our bodies. It can be enormously humiliating. And it can be liberating. It is both.

  Section III

  The Abyss Gazes Back

  The result of all the telling only deepens the enigma and makes woman’s erotic force something that male storytelling can never quite explain or contain.

  —Peter Brooks

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Cross-Dresser

  Stage one is packed, Marilyn Manson blasting through the sound system. Every chair is full and the crowd is raucous. As the beat crescendos, strobe lights flash and money rains from the sky. A man sitting at the end of the stage places a folded five-dollar bill on the tip rail. I crawl toward him, my eyes locked on his. I see him swallow and lick his lips. In his eyes, I am the only thing that exists.

  He is white, early fifties, with thick grey hair pulled back into a low ponytail and a matching grey beard. He looks like any average white, middle-aged, American male, little stomach pushing over his belt but otherwise fit. Except that he’s wearing women’s clothes.

  Large glasses with pink frames cover his eyes; they are of the early 1980s style still favored by my grandmother. His blouse is a complementary peach paired with a mid-calf grey skirt, tan pantyhose, and low black heels. As I approach he slowly reaches up and unbuttons the blouse, one faux pearl button at a time, until I can see the top of a functional white bra. It’s stuffed, pushing out the front of his shirt over a flat chest covered in grey hair.

  My gaze never wavers, the small smile curling my lips widening slowly. But behind my seductive gaze my brain is whirling. I know that cross-dressers are almost exclusively cisgender, heterosexual men. Drag queens are of a different category entirely but cross-dressers are often assumed to be gay. I know that they’re not, but I have never before encountered one. I’m powerfully curious.

  I kneel before him, wearing only a G-string and heels. His eyes travel up my body, lingering on my belly, up over my breasts, to my face. He licks his lips again. I rotate my hips slowly and his gaze drops to the slow gyration of my pelvis. When I pull the string of my thong out, he places the five-dollar bill against my hip, conscientiously avoiding touching my skin.

  Before I can move away, he peels a second five from the roll in his hand, but instead of placing it on the tip rail, he inserts it into the exposed edge of his bra. I laugh and he smiles back. We are not supposed to take money with anything other than our hand, and so I lean forward, placing a hand on either shoulder, bringing my chest close enough to feel his breath. Holding myself with one hand, I run a fingertip down his chest, covered in wiry grey hair, and under the top of the elastic. I feel him take a quick breath. Slipping the bill out of his blouse, I let my breath tickle his ear and then flip neatly backward, somersaulting away.

  After my set I quickly skirt the stage, thanking the customers for the tips. The man still sits at stage, but he’s tipped over $10 for a single set and so I pause and ask his name.

  “Doug,” he says and then gives a small shake of his head, as though correcting himself. “But can you call me Donna?”

  “Donna.” I hold out my hand and he shakes. I notice that his nails are carefully manicured and painted pale peach. “I’m Nora.”

  “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says.

  “Likewise,” I reply. “If you want to have a drink together later, let me know.”

  He glances at the stage where Bambi is working her magic. “After this set?”

  “Sure,” I say and step away. That stage is now the territory of another dancer and I try not to poach. I catch Bambi’s eye and she tips her chin toward me. I lean in over the stage and she hugs me, her body against mine.

  “What’s up with the faggot?” she purrs in my ear, her hair hiding our exchange.

  “He’s not gay,” I say, biting back irritation. “And he’s loaded.”

  “Fair enough,” she says and releases me.

  I go to the bar and watch Bambi dance. I notice that she doesn’t stay in front of Donna long; for each customer at the stage she performs for a minute or two depending on the size of the tip. With Donna she turns her back, twerks her butt, and moves on. He gets up and leaves halfway through her second song.

  I give the waitress a nod and walk to the table he’s taken against the wall with a good view of the stage action. “May I sit with you?” I inquire and he nods enthusiastically, leaping up to pull my chair out for me.

  “So. Donna.” I rest my chin on my hand, looking up at him coyly through my eyelashes. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “I haven’t been in for a while. You’re new.”

  “I am, I guess. I started a few months ago.”

  “You’re so beautiful,” he tells me.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I like your top.” I don’t, but flattery works a variety of magics.

  His smile widens. “Thank you so much!”

  I can tell that he’s not complimented a lot.

  “But do you think this color goes with grey?”

  “Hmm.” I narrow my eyes as I consider the outfit. “It depends on what you’re going for. It’s very office chic.”

  “Like what a secretary would wear.” He nods, satisfied. “I think office girls are sexy.”

  “Are you an office girl?” I shoot him my best suggestive smile.

  “Why?” He flutters his eyelashes coquettishly. “Do you think office girls are sexy?”

  I laugh. “That depends on the office girl.”

  He laughs along with me and then returns to my question. “No, I am not an office girl. I’m a lawyer.”

  “Oh, I have a cousin in law,” I say. I always try to make personal connections. “He likes it. What do you like about it?”

  He considers. “I like helping people,” he says finally. “I feel like I’m making some small contribution when I can really make people feel like someone’s in their corner.”

  “That’s beautiful,” I reply honestly. “What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Mostly workers’ comp cases. People who have been jerked around by their employers after being injured—I like to help them get the care they need.”

  “Do you ever get people you think are lying? Or injured themselves out of real negligence?”

  He shrugs slightly. “I find that most people are honest.”

  I nod. “I find that, too.”

  “Even working here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just assumed …” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Don’t men try to take advantage?”

  I laugh. “Oh, yes. But they’re honest about it! Most of the time they tell me exactly what they want, or what they want to do to me. Then I get to say yes or no.”

  “Then let me be honest with you.” He leans across the table and takes my hand.

  “Okay.” I lean in, matching his serious tone.

  “Do you have a gown? Something elegant?”

  “I do.”

  “Can you change into it and give me a private dance?”

  I grin. “Of course.” He releases my hand and I stand. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the dressing room I peel off the black vinyl micro skirt and crop top I’m wearing and root quickly through my locker for a floor-length gown in emerald velvet. Its halter top is crusted with rhinestones and a slit runs up one leg to my thigh. I pair it with a pair of patent pumps and silver bangle bracelets.

  His eyes light up when he sees me. “That’s perfect! You’re so elegant.”

  I hardly think that skintight velvet qualifies as “elegant,” but I keep my mouth shut. Stripper elegant, maybe.

  I take him to the private dance
section and sit on the edge of the small stage while he situates himself in the cushy chair clients sit in.

  “May I ask you a question, Donna?” I ask.

  “Shoot.”

  “What pronoun do you prefer?”

  He positively glows at my question. “Thank you so much for asking!” he exclaims. “That is so thoughtful! I am a man and I identify as ‘he.’”

  “That’s what I thought. But I wanted to be sure since you prefer a woman’s name.”

  The next song begins and I begin my dance. I keep the gown on, seeing how his eyes are drawn more to the garment than my body. I play with the clothing, squatting, legs apart, so that the slit gapes open, flashing the rhinestones on the velvet thong I wear underneath, untying the straps but letting the top ride low on my breasts while still covering me. Only at the very end do I let the dress glide down my body to puddle on the floor at my feet.

  When the music ends, Donna claps long and hard. “That was wonderful!” he gushes.

  I’m amused and touched by his appreciation. I’m getting the feeling that he needs to feel seen for who he really is.

  “May I have another dance?” he asks, handing me a 20-dollar bill.

  I check the dancers on stage. “I have to go to stage here in a bit.” His face falls. “But right after?”

  “Yes! That’s great.” He takes my hand again. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  When he looks shyly back up at me, I meet his eyes steadily.

  “For taking me seriously.”

  “Lots of people don’t?”

  He shrugs and looks down. I see his chin quiver. “I come here because most people don’t treat me any different than anyone else. But only some of the girls will dance for me. And some guys threatened to beat me up in the parking lot once.”