Strip

by Catlyn Ladd

  On my twenty-first birthday I roll in money. Bills stick to my skin and I sit up on hands and knees as music screams through me on the cheers of the crowd. The metal heels of my 5-inch stilettos sparkle in the strobe lights, and I pound myself down on the stage, drunk with lust for myself. A man sitting at the stage throws a handful of money and the bills fall like confetti. I laugh, rocking back on my heels, bent at the waist, looking between my legs at the pulsing crowd. I am sex incarnate. I am a drug. I am the most powerful woman who has ever lived.

  The stage is covered in money and more falls around me, tossed by a crowd standing five people deep around the stage. The screaming rises above the music and I somersault backward out of the splits, brushing away the money sticking to my skin. This is almost better than sex. I slip the straps of my G-string low on my waist, thrusting my hips into the air, loving the way the thin black cloth outlines my pelvis, stretching across my hipbones. I pinch my nipples to keep them hard, rubbing the glitter coating my skin, watching myself in the mirror above the stage. A hundred-dollar bill floats down to land on my stomach and the crowd screams with approval.

  I leave the stage with a grocery bag bulging with money. My hands shake with adrenaline shock and I gulp deliriously at the sweet drink someone shoves in my hand. Counting the money later, I will discover that I have made more than $1200 in ten minutes; I leave the club that night with $1900 in ones and fives, twenties and hundreds. Tonight I have won. I have conquered my body image. I have molded myself into a goddess. I am Athena stripped, brilliant, powerful, untouchable. I have become my own Jungian shadow. The child frightened of going to school for fear of the older boys roaming the junior-high halls has become the ghost.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Into the Deep

  The stripper is not solely the passive object of the masculine gaze. She maintains agency through her own watchful eye.

  —Alexandra G. Murphy

  A lot of the literature and research on sex workers denies us agency. The irony is that patriarchy denies women agency and academics participate in the denial by asserting truths about the experiences of sex workers that may not dovetail with what the workers themselves report. Of course, an outsider’s perspective is valuable in any ethnographic endeavor, but the most we can say is that the truth is somewhere between what sex workers describe and what researchers see.

  Researchers who study sex work are most often female graduate students (Frank 2007). They approach their work from one of two standpoints: radical feminist or sex-positive feminism, sometimes called progressive feminism (Williams 1989; Barton 2000). Radical feminists argue that women are not only objectified in patriarchal culture but often participate in their own subjugation. Radical feminists thus conclude that strippers are abused, from dysfunctional backgrounds, and lie to themselves about their position in society, leading to self-medication and psychological trauma.

  Sex-positive feminists see stripping as a way for women to take control of their bodies, recognize and deconstruct prescribed gender roles, and seek liberation from patriarchal norms that desexualize women. What both sides have in common is that “feminist theory itself deploys an analysis of power, gendered and otherwise, as a central problematic” (Frank 507). Power is most often understood as an either/or dialectic: if one person gains power then another loses it. The two feminist standpoints “suggest an either/or problematic, in which stripping is either heteronormative or liberating” (Pilcher 523). The possibility that it is both is less often recognized. Furthermore, the possibility that a woman can be empowered in such a way that no one loses power, or gives her power, but that she finds and nurtures it within herself is completely overlooked. “One might expect feminists and sociologists to be more nuanced and less caricaturing of their attitudes toward strippers … feminist research and theories on sex work have been monopolized by two equally extreme and reductionist positions” (Barton 585–6), and it is time we gain a more nuanced and complex understanding of the reality of the subset of modern culture where women sell their sexuality.

  I was a feminist before I became a stripper. I was also young and didn’t fully understand what feminism meant. Privileged by my white skin and educated family background, I had never recognized sexism as a factor in my own life. Patriarchy was something that affected other people. By engaging objectification on my own terms with intentionality (because my privilege allows me to do so), I came to a much more nuanced understanding of what it means to be female, and white, in this culture. Katy Pilcher (2012) discovered that “dancers expect to be objects of a sexualized ‘gaze’ at work, but outside of this space they seek to challenge ideas about women’s bodies as sexual objects” (532). By profiting from being treated as a sexual object I learned to challenge sexualization.

  I also learned that being seen as sexy is fun. It is fun to play, and flirt, and tease. Girls are taught by our culture that our value lies in being seen as desirable by males. I learned how to take control of how men see me, how to communicate with men who view me as alluring, and how to negotiate in order to get my needs met. The men who became my regular customers came to see me as more than a pretty face.

  The lessons I learned inside the clubs have served me well both professionally and in my relationships. As long as all parties engage consensually in sexualized play, even as a financial transaction, it can teach us about our own desires, boundaries, and preferred ways of being in the world. The presence of money in this business is typically seen as a coercive factor that either disempowers the women who perform for it or the customer who is manipulated out of it. In my experience the financial exchange was understood by both parties, and, like any other transaction, it is an exchange that benefits both people. The vast majority of clients with whom I interacted understood exactly what they were buying and the game in which they were engaged with me. We all participated willingly in the construction of a fantasy. And we recognized the fantasy for what it was. Only rarely did someone mistake reality in the club for reality in the outside world.

  The male gaze is considered to objectify women and serve as a form of control in that the woman performs for him. However, this entirely overlooks the fact that strippers are not objects: we look back. Furthermore, stripping often plays with “traditional” female roles such as the housewife, the librarian, and the schoolgirl. But the reason these roles are sexy is because they are considered asexual and, as the clothing is removed, the sexuality is revealed. The transformation of the asexual Victorian stereotype into the sexual adult female is transgressive in that female sexuality is celebrated. And this matters even when the male client doesn’t realize it. Because what he’s experiencing is separate from the dancer’s experience. Her experience is completely her own. To define her experience through the lens of the male customer perpetuates the misogynist stereotypes that feminism is supposed to identify and deconstruct. Finally, though studies on frequenters of strip clubs are sparse, “customers themselves are quite critical of their own engagement with the dancing” (Pilcher 533). Customers are not (typically) slavering, animalistic men. Some of them are women. Most of them are self-reflective and engaged. “Men frequent strip clubs not only to watch women dance, but also for male homosociality, as men may experience a sense of ‘communal ecstasy’ from collectively watching a taboo activity,” Pilcher notes (531). I’d add that it’s not just a “taboo activity”; people seek a sense of camaraderie in sporting events, concerts, conventions, and conferences. Customers get to know one another; they form friendships with one another and the staff of clubs. We support one another; we’ve got each other’s backs.

  So many researchers approach strip clubs, and sex work, as if the conditions are somehow unique. There are very few research projects on stripping that actively compare this work with other occupations that overtly objectify women: modeling, hostessing in restaurants, cocktail waitressing, ballet, and acting being likely candidates for comparison. The research that does attempt comparison does so within the realm of
sex work, drawing conclusions about the differences between different realms of sex work. While this is valuable, it overlooks that women are always objectified, no matter what we’re doing or how much clothing we’re wearing. Strip clubs are not much different from the rest of society; in fact, they’re a microcosm in which patriarchal culture can be clearly understood.

  The greatest benefit I received from working as a stripper is that I learned firsthand how gender norms are constructed. I learned that “stripping is at least potentially transgressive through exposing the instability of gender and showing that it is performative rather than ‘natural’” (Pilcher 523). I am grateful for the insights I gained that have allowed me to be very intentional about how I understand myself and represent myself to others. As a heterosexual female I had never considered other options prior to entering the permissive environs of the strip club. I gained a deep appreciation for the diversity of female beauty and human sexual expression. I found that the clubs in which I worked also allowed space for customers to express their sexuality in a variety of ways. I became more open-minded and accepting. As Pilcher writes, “erotic dance is situated within, yet potentially disruptive of, traditional heteronormative and hetero-patriarchal boundaries” (522).

  Another valuable lesson is that I gained a much more nuanced understanding of power. I alluded to some of these realizations previously, and I’ll add that I became aware that sexual power can be liberating or degrading depending on context. Some people look at a woman’s marketing of her sexuality as inherently demeaning. Barton (2002) notes that dancers understand themselves “as the power figures at the same time that [they] explained [their] strategies for dealing with men who do not respect [them]. Such a seeming contradiction is, indeed, the reality of daily experience for most strippers” (594). These experiences taught me to negotiate the realities of being a woman in a profession. I have been dismissed by colleagues and even students for being female, and I have a much better grasp of strategies to address being discounted merely because of my sex. I often joke with my friends that stripping was a great crash course in politics that set me up to be successful in the highly political environment of academics. Ex-stripper Erika Lyremark wrote a book titled Think Like a Stripper: Business Lessons to Up Your Confidence, Attract More Clients & Rule Your Market (2013) in which she applies the lessons she learned dancing to business strategy and negotiation. Patriarchy disempowers women. Stripping taught me how to take my power back.

  Reading Questions

  1. What do you think this book is about? What does the author claim it’s about?

  2. The author never defines feminism. What do you think feminism means to her? How do you think she defines it?

  3. The author writes about her own privileges—education, economic class, race. Do you think her privilege affects how she understands and defines feminism? If so, how?

  4. One of the researchers cited by the author says that dancers must “acknowledge and rewrite their subjugated sexual narratives in more positive and empowered ways” (Philaretou 48). The author goes on to refute this claim, instead arguing that real power can be found by strippers. But is she simply “rewriting” her “subjugated sexual narrative”?

  5. The author claims that strip clubs are “a microcosm in which patriarchal culture can be clearly understood.” What does she mean? Are there lessons about modern culture that can be learned from this book?

  6. In what specific ways did the author grow as a person as a result of working in strip clubs? As an academic?

  Bibliography

  Barton, Bernadette. “Dancing on the Möbius Strip: Challenging the Sex War Paradigm.” Gender & Society, Vol. 16, no. 5 (2002): 585–602.

  Bernard, Constance, Christen DeGabrielle, Lynette Cartier, Elizabeth Monk-Turner, Celestine Phil, Jennifer Sherwood, and Thomasena Tyree. “Exotic Dancers: Gender Differences in Social Reaction, Subcultural Ties, and Conventional Support.” Journal of Criminal Justice and Popular Culture, Vol. 10, no. 1 (2003): 1–11.

  Brooks, Peter. Body Work: Objects of Desire in Modern Narrative. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993.

  Downs, Daniel M., Shaan James, and Gloria Cowan. “Body Objectification, Self-Esteem, and Relationship Satisfaction: A Comparison of Exotic Dancers and College Women.” Sex Roles, Vol. 54, no. 11 (2006): 745–52.

  Frank, Katherine. “Thinking Critically about Strip Club Research.” Sexualities, Vol. 10, no. 4 (2007): 501–17.

  Lilleston, Pamela, Jacqueline Reuben, and Susan G. Sherman. “‘This Is Our Sanctuary’: Perceptions of Safety among Exotic Dancers in Baltimore, Maryland.” Health Place (2012): 1–14.

  Lyremark, Erika. Think Like a Stripper: Business Lessons to Up Your Confidence, Attract More Clients & Rule Your Market. Minneapolis: Bascom Hill Publishing Group, 2013.

  Maticka-Tyndale, Eleanor, Jacqueline Lewis, Jocalyn P. Clark, Jennifer Zubick, and Shelley Young. “Women and Health.” Women and Health, Vol. 31 (2000): 87–108.

  Moore, Eva, Jennifer Han, Christine Serio-Chapman, Cynthia Mobley, Catherine Watson, and Mishka Terplan. “Contraception and Clean Needles: Feasibility of Combining Mobile Reproductive Health and Needle Exchange for Female Exotic Dancers.” The American Journal of Public Health, Vol. 102, no. 10 (2012): 1833–6.

  Mulvey, Laura. Visual and Other Pleasures. London: Macmillan Press, 1989.

  Murphy, Alexandra G. “The Dialectical Gaze: Exploring the Subject-Object Tension in the Performances of Women Who Strip.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, Vol. 32, no. 3 (2003): 305–35.

  Philaretou, Andreas G. “Female Exotic Dancers: Intrapersonal and Interpersonal Perspectives.” Sexual Addiction and Compulsivity, Vol. 13, no. 1 (2006): http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/10720160500529243

  Pilcher, Katy. “Dancing for Women: Subverting Heteronormativity in a Lesbian Erotic Dance Space?” Sexualities (2012): 521–37.

  Weitzer, Ronald, ed. Sex for Sale: Prostitution, Pornography, and the Sex Industry. New York: Routledge, 2000.

  Wesely, Jennifer K. “Exotic Dancing and Negotiation of Identity: The Multiple Uses of Body Technologies.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, Vol. 32, no. 6 (2003): 643–69.

  Williams, Linda. Hardcore: Power, Pleasure, and the “Frenzy of the Visible.” Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989.

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