A Rock in a Hard Place

I am a huge Chris Rock fan, with his race commentary and hilarious critiques of U.S. foreign policy. But why are his gender politics so whack? (skip to the 3 minute mark)

As a student, non-abused, day shift stripper, I gotta say - he's way off the mark! Then again, if you're reading this post, you probably already knew that...

In-kind is unkind

Lately I have had a slew of formerly generous customers show up without cash, but with some sort of gift. Thompson Thompson showed up with a huge box of cookies that he must have picked up at Costco or BJ's or Sams. I wasn't there that day, but Sheila kept them for me until my next shift, and gasped/doubled over laughing when I chucked them across the room into a garbage can filled with tampons and sweaty baby wipes. (I wish I knew basketball lingo; I'm sure I could be more descriptive...) I'm sorry, after that asshole's ever-shrinking wallet and ever-grabbier hands (see previous post), he makes me want to toss my cookies in more ways than one.

Then came Sumit, who has gone from taking me to the champagne room to buying me a few rounds of drinks and tipping me $20 to, most recently, swinging by after work to give me a DVD. I must admit, I was touched; I know he just stopped by to give me the DVD. But I shouldn't let the fact that we're friends take precedence over the fact that this is my workplace, yes? Couldn't he have tucked a $5 bill into the DVD cover?

So my recent frustration with gifts instead of cash had me briefly wondering if I was turning into a materialistic, money-minded automaton: the stereotypical stripper. But, really!? Perhaps this is just a reflection how impactful those 'stripper stereotypes' are; I think teachers, lawyers, and graphic designers would complain if they were given cookies instead of paychecks. I have every right to as well! So, Sumit and Thompson, pay up!! (Actually, Thompson, you're getting to the point where your money won't help you with me; I'm officially disgusted!)

Okay, this is not to knock gift-giving in strip clubs. Some of my best customers have given me comic books*, DVDs, perfume, and Victoria's Secret giftcards. And not in lieu of money, but in addition to it.



*Imagine gifting a stripper Art Spiegelman's "Maus." What would Marcel Mauss say?

Can I give you a laughdance? / Lapoiera

Laughdance:
Crazy Johnny came in the other day, and my coworker Sheila and I had the same routine we always have with him. He took her for a lapdance, then brought me back to join them for a 2-on-1 menage-a-crazy with him, and then kept her back there for another song or two after I left. He is so fucking hilarious (and not in a "you're so funny I want to date you" kind of way, but in a "how are you able to function in the real world" sort of way) that I can't help but laugh (I mean, hysterically! side-splitting laughter!) throughout every second of every lapdance I give this guy. First of all, he gets us both on his lap and grabs the back of my head, forces it between her legs, between her tits, and does the same to her with my body. Then he tries to get us to finger each other. All the while, he nods along with a maniacal look in his eyes, his mouth almost watering. (Picture the craziest of the three main hyenas from the Lion King.) Sheila is so used to his antics that she just screams "Johnny! I love you! I love you!" and fakes orgasm. At which point he looks at me like we're both in on some little secret, and gives me a nod, a wink, and whispers "she likes it!" At some point, when he gets too aggressive, Sheila says "We can't do that here, we'll get fired! Let's meet in a hotel room on Sunday night and we can all finger each other and fuck each other then." Then he asks me, very seriously, if I'm free on Sunday (hyena mode fades temporarily). Yet, the laughter has taken over my body and I can only manage to nod between gasps for air. Please note: She makes the Sunday promise every other week he comes into the club, and still, we manage to put on the same routine for him.

If laughter is the best medicine, then I will live to be a hundred and have Crazy Johnny's hyena antics to thank for my longevity.

Lapoiera:
They say capoiera is part dance, part fight, created by Afro-Brazilians hundreds of years ago. It combines elements of martial arts, dance, and sport. I swear, a lapdance customer of mine had me feeling like I was learning this beautiful art form! He had thrown a couple hundred at me, so I was putting up with his bullshit more than other customers and trying to be nice. But, man, was he grabby! It was like, he's slowly extend his arms toward my breast, and I'd lean back, or start shaking my ass in his face. Then he'd try to bite my ass, and so I'd drop to my knees and rub my fingers down his chest. Then he'd try to slide his hands between my legs, and I'd start dancing further away from him. I swear, it was part dance, part self-defense, part me attempting to look graceful, part fight! I think I'm going to call it Lapoeira, and start teaching classes to rich white people at upscale studios on the Upper West side. (starts writing craigslist ad)

Bobby Jin-dull

This guy came into the club on Monday and took 30 minutes of my life I can never get back. At first, I was kind of excited, because nerdy, self-conscious South Asian men are my forte. I was on him like curry on rice. This dancer came by and (I think this was very awkward) was like "Are you in love with our beautiful Pakistani girl yet? All the Indian guys love her." The thing is, I don't think he loved me, or anything remotely close. And the feeling was way mutual. He started yammering and went on uninterrupted for the longest time, and sounded arrogant and boring and irritating as hell. Here's pretty close to a direct transcript of the conversation. Imagine it being spoken in an extremely nasal, Jindal-esque manner. (Note: At first I was nodding along and acting interested, but but the end I was droopy eyed and yawning and glancing around awkwardly. It didn't seem to stop his monologue, though...)


"Yeah, I'm pretty much the whitest Indian you'll ever meet. My good friend, he's Italian, he calls me a coconut. Yeah, I'm a coconut. I mean, like, I was born in India. I don't know where you're from, but I'm from Calcutta. So, yeah, I speak Bengali, and my Hindi is pretty weak. But I mean, I moved here when I was two years old, so I'm pretty much American. But I'm also like the whitest guy you'll ever meet. I mean, I just don't understand why all these Indians have so much cultural pride. I mean, it's cool if that's what you wanna do, but it's just not my thing. Like, my older brother, he married a Bengali girl, and she's a doctor too. So it was like my parents' dream come true. I mean, it wasn't even an arranged marriage. It was like, they met on their own, even though our moms are close friends. It's like that movie the Namesake. But yeah, so they got married, and actually they're having a kid next month. I mean, I'm really happy for them, but I don't think I'll marry an Indian girl. It's gonna have to be a white girl. Yeah, I grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. And I don't mean Philadelphia, or like some cool part of the state, I mean, there were like 10 Indians in the whole town, and four of those were my family. So, yeah. I mean, most of my friends where white and stuff, and that's why I'm like a white guy too. Even like, Bollywood, I don't understand why Indians care so much about their movies. I mean, I watch Hollywood films, and I can't understand what the big deal is about going to see an Indian movie. Really. So, yeah. I mean, I kind of broached the subject of marrying a white girl with my mom, and I think it's been a little easier since my cousin married a white girl. He married a white girl, get this, they dated ten years before they got engaged. And they're having a kid too. But I think he broke the ice for me. I mean, like my cousin's mom, and his wife's mom, are like best friends. I mean, they talk on the phone and stuff. Before they got married, I doubt anyone in my family talked to white people on the phone. So yeah. But their wedding, they had a traditional Bengali one and a Greek Orthodox one as well. The girl, my cousin's wife, is Greek Orthodox. And her family actually didn't approve of her marrying my cousin. Her dad didn't even come to the wedding. I mean, my family didn't approve either but at least they showed up at the wedding. And eventually really started liking the girl. But her dad, no way, he didn't want anything to do with it. But I mean, I feel like watching how happily married they are, and stuff, he kind of made it a little easier for me to marry a white girl. I'm not dating anyone or anything right now, but I know once I do I can tell my family about it. I don't know, I mean, cultural pride is fine and everything, but I don't understand why they're so into traditional dance and stuff. And movies, and following politics in India or whatever. I mean, we live here now. So yeah I'm a real coconut. You and me, you know, we're not like the rest of Indians. Or, you're Pakistani? But I mean, we're not traditional like that. I mean, we feel at home in this country. So, yeah. I mean eventually races are all going to disappear, but I feel like Indians, you know, we're slowing that down by just staying within our own community. But like the town in Pennsylvania I grew up in, it was all white. Even the Dunkin Donuts was owned by a white family, probably the only one in the US. So yeah, I mean, I did come to New York a lot, and we moved here when I was young. But my real young years were in that town. But once I came to New York there were all these Indians. It was a new thing for me. I mean, when I go to these family gatherings, it's so annoying. All the men go into one room and the women into another. And the women, all they talk about is who's dating who, and which celebrity got divorced, and fashion and recipes. But then the men try to talk about politics but they don't have a clue. They just talk about Barack Obama and stuff. It's pretty crazy. But yeah. So yeah, I'm a real coconut."
"Excuse me, do you want a lapdance?"
"Yeah, but let's talk a bit more first."
"I gotta go." (puff of smoke in a shape of my silhouette lingers)

Monikers galore!

Over the course of the year, my coworker and I have amassed quite a long list of nicknames for some regular customers. I just realized this the other day as she showed me the contacts list in her stripper phone. (She has a prepaid phone and stores regular customers' numbers in it -- but not under their real names! She'd be likely to forget them if that was the case. She uses the phone on slow days to call these guys and tell them to come visit.)

-Biracial dick (a lot of the girls in the club have seen it and claims it's clearly two different colors; luckily I have been spared!)
-Vibrating ring man (the guy keeps a vibrator in his pants and turns it on during lapdances...I'm fairly sure that's not the only thing that gets turned on! All I can say is all us dancers hate it...He really wants us to grind up on it real hard! If he were to ask a petite girl if she had double A's, I'm guessing it'd be batteries he was asking for...)
-Teddy bear (I was shocked that my coworker called him this. He was my regular customer for a while until he got a little too aggressive and irritating. When she was like "How come you don't dance for teddy bear anymore?" I realized she was dead on! He does look like a teddy bear! Short, portly, ears stick out, big grin. But there is nothing soft or cuddly about him...)
-Sweater vest (see previous posts; hairy ass chest)
-Tuition guy (Ugh. The first day this guy came in, he told me he would help me pay my tuition. I think he should pay for some therapy for himself, though)
-Crazy Indian (This man from Bihar likes to shake his legs around like crazy during a lapdance! It's like a Sharper Image massage chair gone nuts)
-The Penguin (I think this is actually a rather mean nickname, but everyone in the club calls this guy the Penguin - he kind of walks in this shuffle/waddle way like Danny DeVito in the Batman movie. I'd rather call him Pees in Alley because people have seen him peeing outside the club. He is hilarious! Once he asked me during a lapdance if I minded if he did some dirty talk; I said sure. He proceeded to say "I'm gonna shower you with a hundred kisses!" If that's dirty talk, then I must be one foul-mouthed biatch!)
-Superman (This guy thinks he rules the world, but he's an idiot. He talked to me about Born Into Brothels once and how he just wishes he could save all the poor children in India from their uneducated parents. He once told me that I *have* to be a lesbian; what other girl would work in a strip club? He also buys and sells diamonds, but he must do a piss-poor job because he tried to appraise my $4 necklace once.)
-Academic Asshole (This is a white guy with a black fetish. He talks to me pretty humbly (maybe because we're both grad students?) but the other girls say he uses academic jargon as a way to degrade them and make himself feel cool. What would Franz Fanon say?)
-Lazy Eye Crybaby (I'm gonna devote a whole post to him, so some other time)
-Bearded Blow Job (This guy gets really turned off by girls who refuse to give him head in the VIP. He'll be really friendly at first, but once they say they can't do it, he'll be downright rude. Not so with me! He asked me if I would give him head, and I looked at his crotch and said there's nothing I wanted to do more, but recently club security had been really strict and fired a few girls for said act. I then went on to graphically describe what I'd do and how I'd do it, convincing him that blowing him was something I was really into. He became a semi-regular of mine! Psychology and stripping - strange bedfellows.)
-Rockefeller Racist (also deserves his own blog post)
-200 (A regular customer of mine who has had sex with over 200 prostitutes. We also call him "Tax Return Guy" because he once spent a large portion of his tax return on me.)
-Sweaty Rabbi (A Hasidic Jew who likes his nipples pulled *hard* during a lapdance)
-T-shirt guy (Not very creative. He sells t-shirts in Central Park.)
-Tibetan Fanboy (He's Tibetan. And a fan of mine. That's all.)
-Benjamin Button (See 3 posts back)
-Professor (A teacher who rolls into the club and grades exams at the bar; he has offered me and several other dancers thousands of dollars to have a child with him)
-Crazy Johnny (He's just crazy.)
-Lebanese Greek (Some days he's from Lebanon, other days's he's from Greece. He's the guy whose first name is the same as his last -- previous post. He used to talk to me at length in Arabic, but it was all Greek to me...)
-Coach Purse (This guy claims to work at Coach and has promised several of us a Coach handbag. I'm still waiting for mine, a year later.)
-Serial Killer with Glasses (This guy met me at the club a while ago and we hit it off talking about R. Crumb's drawings. He was super nice to me and I was certain he'd become my regular. Well, the next time he showed up he talked to another dancer and acted like he didn't remember me. I was surprised, but whatevs. Anyhow, later on that dancer he was talking to told me that he was asking her all these questions about me - like my real name, for instance, and where I live - and told her he's really into violent rape sex fantasies. Check, please!)
-Wet Kiss/My Boyfriend (This guy shows up every couple months, and will go up to a dancer and say "Can I get a lapdance?" Once the dancer walks him to the lapdance area, he says "Let's sit for a while before the dance." The naive dancers will sit with him for a minute before realizing he's broke and not about to buy a dance. Once you get up to leave, he tries to give you a kiss on the cheek - the wettest, most slobbery kiss ever. Somehow he got dubbed My Boyfriend recently - I think because one of the other girls, as a joke, told him that I really like him, so he kept following me around annoyingly.)
-Foot Fetish Nerd (Tall, big huge glasses, obsessed with feet. I've only danced for him once, because his favorite girl wasn't there, and he asked me to repeatedly say "WORSHIP MY FEET" and he kept calling me a goddess.)

Note: We generally don't have nicknames for people we like. A) We can remember their names without needed a mnemonic device because they are interesting and memorable enough on their own. B) We like and respect them enough that we're not trying to shit-talk them when they're not around. C) It's difficult to essentialize and condense the interesting/fun guys into a one or two word summary.

ON FIRE

Pigs, Swine Flu, and Normal Flirtation

I was already paranoid about this swine flu epidemic and working at the club in close proximity to people. But the fear was amplified when I got to work! Coworkers were talking about it, and the bartender was coughing, so I refused to drink anything she dropped a straw into. I must have washed my hands ten times! The hypochondriac in me gingerly stepped out today. What made it worse was two nasty customers, one who wanted to kiss me and the other who wanted to put his hands near my mouth. Man, did I fight them off! I should have epidemic-mindset at work every day - I'll show customers to challenge my personal boundaries! Anyway, some funny shit came up with a coworker who was even more paranoid than I was. Key quotes? "These whores are probably all carriers of the flu anyway. They give a guy a lapdance, then we give him a lapdance, boom, we're dead." "I don't want to get the flu! If I do, the CDC will be all over me asking where I work, and then boom, the next thing you know there's a front page story about me, the stripper, who spread the swine flu all over NYC."

Flu fears aside, I got to thinking about flirtation. Strippers always say they don't know how to dance like a normal person (not a stripper) when they go out dancing. But I was thinking, I don't think I know how to flirt like a normal person anymore! There are times when subtly stroking your breast or the guys' thigh just isn't appropriate or fun. Like, when the guy is not a strip club customer at all but someone you know outside. in the real world, and you're trying to charm him. How does one make the transition from trying to score a lapdance to trying to score a soft kiss, a date, or a relationship?

Discursively Dissed and Cursed

An experienced stripper warns a newbie about the dangers of telling everyone what kind of work she does. The newbie naively casts aside the caveat; she knows not to tell people a) dangerously close to family and b) those whose gender politics are questionable*. Other than that, she’s proud of herself as a dancer, and cavalierly lets people around her know it.

The decision is regrettable.

The experienced stripper was onto something. Be very, very selective in who you tell about what kind of work you do. Newbie is sad that this adage holds true; she was hoping that people who are in the sex industry would find comfort in progressive allies and use their tales (the flippant, the funny, and the frightening) from work to illuminate the realities of sex work and bring it into discourse. Not to say this hasn’t happened – indeed, Newbie has opened up a lot of dialogic spaces about sexuality, labor rights, health, and rape in personal relationships where they weren’t there before. But Newbie regretfully looks back at the brazen decision to tell anyone and everyone who didn’t easily fall into groups a and b about her decision to start stripping and provide consequent updates about titillating tales from work.

Experienced stripper thought it was a bad idea to openly declare what we do for a few reasons.

• · People will think you’re really rich and have all kinds of opinions about what you should do with your money.
• · Guys will think you’re easy and their relationships with you will become hypersexualized.
• · Word about your true identity might spread and reach your customers, blowing confidentiality.

But there’s more, Newbie learns…

Because strippers are considered performers in the entertainment industry, the performative aspect of the work may be thought to exist outside of the bounds of the shift itself. In other words, she’s a stripper to prove something to the world. Her stripper identity is as much an act off-stage as it is on…

Whore sexuality is threatening. It’s threatening to non-sex-positive women and men; it’s threatening to people who talk about progressive sexual politics but in practice that’s defined simply by promiscuous fucking.

Well, words are boomerangs, and Newbie’s naïve openness and excitement about her work are hitting her in the head. Can’t take ‘em back, but she can critically reevaluate spaces where she does talk about work, critically assess which allies are truly allies, and think more about the systematic ways sex work is excluded (again and again) from discourse at all levels.

That said, she’s damn proud of herself and the work she does. It takes something to deal with a cop begging for oral sex and flashing a badge; to fight off a 200 lb. guy who’s too aggressive in the champagne room and then be accused of hurting his wrist; to overcome discomfort with being outside of conventional standards of attractiveness and be ok with brownness and curviness; to handle jealousy or concern from intimate partners outside of work related to the job; to reevaluate her relationship to money, men, and her body on a daily basis. It’s a sense of empowerment that may cause discomfort or seem self-congratulatory, but she’s thrilled to embody it.

* Newbie incorrectly assumes that she can easily identify group (b)

The Curious Case of Benjamin's Buttons

It's taken me a while to get around to this post, likely because I was suffering from PTSD after this incident. A few months back, a stout young chap* came into the club when there were no customers there. He wasted no time; grabbed me, and took me to the champagne room. There, he asked if I would have sex with him. I said no. He told me all the other girls do. I told him I'd be happy to give him his money back and he could spend it on another girl, in that case.** He declined, said he wanted me. Asked me if I'd blow him. I said no. Asked if I'd jerk him off. I said no. Asked if he could "jerk off near my mouth." I said no. He congratulated me for not selling sex, telling me that perhaps the reason he liked me more than the other girls was that I didn't do it. He tried to shake my hand as he left -- I politely waved instead. There was something really gross about him. I was actually disappointed when he reappeared a week later, and I was getting myself all prepared to decline the champagne room. Instead, he suggested we go for lapdances instead. I agreed, but gave him "airdances" - he smelled better this time, but I still didn't feel like making real contact with him. At some point during the fourth or fifth song, he pulled out his junk. And I mean, all of his junk. The frank and the beans. And there was something seriously wrong. I tried describing it to a friend of mine who's in public health; I thought she might be able to tell me what the condition was. But to date, we haven't been able to pin down exactly what STI he has. The best way to describe it is this: it seems his balls were covered with what looked like those fabric-covered buttons. I was too traumatized and too busy staying far far far away to get a proper look, but any medical experts out there, feel free to weigh in. What might this have been? Flesh-colored moles? Smooth*** warts? Molluscum contagiosum? (That's the one my public health friend guessed.)

1) If your junk was covered in buttons, wouldn't you warn a girl before you whipped it out and traumatized her with the sight?
2) Why whip out your balls at all?





*I should also mention foul-smelling.
** Classic/brilliant response we use, if I may say so myself.
*** The only thing smooth about this guy.

Nice guys get blogged about last...

I was chomping down on a lamb kabob after my shift last night and it dawned on me that I only* write about the guys who show up without underwear, who turn into semi-stalkers, who are cheap and grabby, etc. This a) perpetuates the idea that strippers work in demeaning environments, hustling assholes for a buck and b) is completely inaccurate! Maybe this is just part of the whole, using a blog to process stuff thing, so talking about the regrettable shit seems more worthwhile. Or, maybe I just want to make people chuckle with titillating/disgusting tales from work. Today's post goes out to the nice guys, a sizeable minority among strip club attendees! Thanks for tipping well, not insisting on getting my real name/phone number, asking if you can touch, offering good money for my used g-string (I still haven't sold it to the poor bastard), being up front about how much you expect to spend, not getting jealous (often times, even getting excited!) when I go make money off of other guys, bringing presents that are not ugly earrings or redundant bottles of perfume, wearing underwear, not wearing sweatpants, not crying during lapdances**, not asking my friend/the bartender where I live or if I have a boyfriend, and liking sounds other than your own voice.


*Asian gambling man is the exception
** This blog post has been a long time coming