I met the most awesome guy at work the other day! He was Lebanese American, about 50 years old, and was born and raised in the U.S.
In other words, he was Tony Shalhoub! Adrian Monk! Absolutely adorable! He showered me with bills when I was on stage and told me to come sit with him. I did; he asked me where I was from. I did my standard "If you guess correctly, I'll sit on your lap. If you guess wrong, you buy a dance from me." Irani? Nope! Well, you're too well spoken to be Hispanic. (I'll pretend he didn't say that.) Afghanistan? Nope. Finally, I told him.
He was great, because he kept sticking four or five singles down my dress every few minutes, telling me I had wonderful breasts and should never get implants. (To me, that's code for "I like 'em sort of small!")
"Jesus, you're driving me crazy. Let's go for a lapdance." On the walk over to the lapdance area, he told me that he'd just had a _ put in his heart (can't remember the word) and that he was recovering nicely, but was supposed to avoid overexcitement. Halfway through the second lapdance, he gets up and says "I just got an erection, and I'm not supposed to get an erection, so I need to stop." He paid me for more than the two dances, and excused himself.
So I just got to thinking about erection stuff in the strip club. (If it were a dissertation, it'd be "De-Boned: The politics and poetics of erections in the gentleman's club scene".) I mean, I sort of assume that all guys get a boner during a lapdance, especially if it's high contact, and that ALL guys get hard with the heavy grinding/contact of the champagne room. But every once in a while, you get a character who says something like "sorry about that, I guess you can feel that I'm excited." And I'm like, umm, yeah! Isn't that the whole point?
But then of course, you DO have the other extreme, the rare guy with the raging hard-on sitting and watching the stage set, titillated by all the public displays of breasts, thighs, and ass. I actually met a guy once who came INTO the strip club wearing a condom (and a pair of pants, of course), sat around for a long time, and then blew his load during lapdance grinding. And who can forget the lanky guy in the suit who used to come into the club, sit in a dimly lit corner, and actually jerk off through his pants while watching the stage set!?
I guess we'd be in grave error to essentialize penis behavior in the strip club environment. The sexual fulfillment these boys look for can range from something shy of an erection to something that ends up requiring a mid-lunch hour trouser change!
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Saturday, October 16, 2010
No Common Ground (Zero) Between Us
Tiffany: perhaps the most stereotypical embodiment of what lay people think of when they hear the word stripper. Tall, slender, very tanned, bleached blond hair, a couple tattoos, fake breasts. Constantly in the middle of drama. Last week, it was that her boyfriend was doing steroids and lying to her about it. The week before was a feared accidental pregnancy.
She's also quite the freelance artist. She has one customer - a middle-aged Jewish lawyer - who comes in to drink with her and point out the other girls he likes. She plays broker between the other girls and him, convincing the girls to meet with her and the guy outside for a thousand bucks, and all they have to do is engage in two-way oral sex. Apparently, a lot of the girls are down for this.
Whatever, her and I don't interact too much.
But during a lull, her, me, my stripper friend Sheila, and the house mom are chilling in the dressing room and Tiffany begins with how much she hopes Donald Trump buys up the Ground Zero mosque property while she sucks on a cigarette and adjusts her clip-on hair extensions.
"We definitely don't need any more of that Arab, Muslim stuff. This is New York."
Sheila glances at me nervously and sympathetically. I shrug at her. Our exchange goes unnoticed.
The housemom responds like it's a no-brainer. "For real. I don't understand why people have a problem with Trump fixing this whole problem."
Remember the good old days when people would keep their bigotry private? You know, wait till the brown Muslim woman isn't in the room before you even go there? Or, is there something about the fact that I'm in a thong and clear heels that de-links me from my Islamic identity?
The whole "what Muslims are like" has surfaced several times at the club among the girls (and on my favorite Stripperweb forums as well!). I've heard girls talking about Muslim/Pakistani/A-rab customers as, of course, repressed and hypersexual. Well, what do you know, the military aren't the only people still subscribing to the bullshit put forth in The Arab Mind!
You know, for imperial armies it was/is often important to know the culture and psyche of those who were being conquered so that total domination would be that much easier. (Hence, the recruitment of "culture experts" for the Iraq/Afghanistan war efforts!)
But, I wonder if the same is true of strippers and sex workers? Like, are there off-the-book ethnographies of "how to be a good sex worker for your (insert race here) customer"? If so, my people sure do have a bad rap. They don't treat their women right; they are undersexed and oversexed all at once; they're really bad in bed; they cheat on their wives; they honor-kill when their daughters wear tight pants.
Also, there are ways that black, Asian, and Latino sexualities are essentialized as well, in this context of commodified sexuality. What goes unmarked is white male middle-class sexuality - totally normative and unmarked.
The already-depoliticized identities of terrorists are evident in the sexual identities attributed to them too. Of course, you don't have to hit a strip club dressing room to hear that: we already know that the War On Terror has gained mainstream gay and feminist supporters through the rhetoric that the Arab world's gender dynamics are fucked and need to be fixed. In other words, the need to bring our sexual-rights superiority to the rest of the world justifies bombing the fuck out of Afghanistan.
Alas, Muslim women DO really need saving. It's just, we need to be saved from hearing anti-Muslim sexualized bigotry while we're just trying to eat some animal crackers in the dressing room during a break between lapdances and stage sets.
She's also quite the freelance artist. She has one customer - a middle-aged Jewish lawyer - who comes in to drink with her and point out the other girls he likes. She plays broker between the other girls and him, convincing the girls to meet with her and the guy outside for a thousand bucks, and all they have to do is engage in two-way oral sex. Apparently, a lot of the girls are down for this.
Whatever, her and I don't interact too much.
But during a lull, her, me, my stripper friend Sheila, and the house mom are chilling in the dressing room and Tiffany begins with how much she hopes Donald Trump buys up the Ground Zero mosque property while she sucks on a cigarette and adjusts her clip-on hair extensions.
"We definitely don't need any more of that Arab, Muslim stuff. This is New York."
Sheila glances at me nervously and sympathetically. I shrug at her. Our exchange goes unnoticed.
The housemom responds like it's a no-brainer. "For real. I don't understand why people have a problem with Trump fixing this whole problem."
Remember the good old days when people would keep their bigotry private? You know, wait till the brown Muslim woman isn't in the room before you even go there? Or, is there something about the fact that I'm in a thong and clear heels that de-links me from my Islamic identity?
The whole "what Muslims are like" has surfaced several times at the club among the girls (and on my favorite Stripperweb forums as well!). I've heard girls talking about Muslim/Pakistani/A-rab customers as, of course, repressed and hypersexual. Well, what do you know, the military aren't the only people still subscribing to the bullshit put forth in The Arab Mind!
You know, for imperial armies it was/is often important to know the culture and psyche of those who were being conquered so that total domination would be that much easier. (Hence, the recruitment of "culture experts" for the Iraq/Afghanistan war efforts!)
But, I wonder if the same is true of strippers and sex workers? Like, are there off-the-book ethnographies of "how to be a good sex worker for your (insert race here) customer"? If so, my people sure do have a bad rap. They don't treat their women right; they are undersexed and oversexed all at once; they're really bad in bed; they cheat on their wives; they honor-kill when their daughters wear tight pants.
Also, there are ways that black, Asian, and Latino sexualities are essentialized as well, in this context of commodified sexuality. What goes unmarked is white male middle-class sexuality - totally normative and unmarked.
The already-depoliticized identities of terrorists are evident in the sexual identities attributed to them too. Of course, you don't have to hit a strip club dressing room to hear that: we already know that the War On Terror has gained mainstream gay and feminist supporters through the rhetoric that the Arab world's gender dynamics are fucked and need to be fixed. In other words, the need to bring our sexual-rights superiority to the rest of the world justifies bombing the fuck out of Afghanistan.
Alas, Muslim women DO really need saving. It's just, we need to be saved from hearing anti-Muslim sexualized bigotry while we're just trying to eat some animal crackers in the dressing room during a break between lapdances and stage sets.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Hannibal Lecture
Last week, I met a couple of guys who were visiting NYC from Puerto Rico. They both took a liking to me, but weren't quite generous enough to be noteworthy (I.e. one lapdance each). One of them (his middle name is Hannibal, FYI, and no, I don't normally share any "real" info about my customers but it was just too perfect to pass up the pun) was very friendly and asked for my email address so he could get in touch next time he was in the city, and of course I obliged. Sit back and enjoy the following e-mail "exchanges" (if you can call them that) that ensued:
him: its the PR guy you met
me: was great meeting you [please note: this is my first, last, and only response to him]
him: I wrote poem last year in a dream of this woman believe it was you I wrote as soon I get back I will send it to you I really enjoy it
him: In few hours I will be flying back to the island I wish I had the guts to take u with me
him: here's me [photo attached]
him: i wrote this a few years ago
Por el fuego de esos ojos...
Me he perdido en mi mismo
le declare la guerra a mi razón,
conocí el cielo y el infierno
una historia de amor...
Yo que era palabra.... me volví silencios,
y fui prisionero de esa luz
tenían esos ojos, el misterio,
el Cristo y la cruz.
Por el fuego de esos ojos...
Que dolía mirarlos,
era el mar más azul... Una risa
era el negro más oscuro... Una herida
y un color de adiós.
Gitana de magia y sombras
quiero ser tu aliento,
para estar en ti
cuando me nombras...
Por el fuego de esos ojos...
He mentido y he pecado,
tengo un padre nuestro
y la marca de los clavos en mis manos.
Llevo en mi pecho tu nombre
y en mi corazón diez mil latidos,
y cuando te marchas todo se vuelve oscuro,
si hasta la luz he perdido...
Por el fuego de esos ojos...
Vendería mí pasado
mi Dios.... Y mi destino.
Como morderé tu boca en el aire?
Como regalarte la ultima lagrima
de mi andar cansado?
Como decirte que soy el que esperas?
Si nunca...
Nunca me has mirado...
him: I never got your name but that’s one of the things i don’t like about NY, you never get warm enough. Just giving you a piece of me to remember me by, I don’t expect much but I would love to hear from you. Let me know the real you and if you don’t have any trouble this is my number xxx-xxx-xxxx Have a nice day and fulfill your destiny
him: i'm back on the island
him: here's a translation of my poem [for some reason the translation was into Hindi, in Devanagiri script; he must have gotten his hands on google translator]
him: How are you today? I know you wont answer my email but i will keep my promise to write to you. Today under heavy rain we were workng for a new project for homeless person, a construction of a safe heaven. Though we dont have a winter as yours we do have rainy season like this one. We hope to build this project in a few months / Well have to go , kisses
him: here, you can translate this with Babylon translator
Hay maderas oscuras y profundas
como tus ojos y tus cabellos.
Porque tus ojos y tus cabellos son
como maderas profundas y charoladas.
Hay maderas suaves y livianas
como tu piel y tu alegría.
Porque tu piel y tu alegría son
como maderas suaves y livianas.
Hay maderas recias y macizas
como tus piernas y tus espaldas.
Porque tus piernas y tus espaldas son
como maderas recias y macizas.
Hay maderas húmedas y rojas
como la piel de tus labios y de tu lengua.
Porque la piel de tus labios y de tu lengua es
como una madera roja y empapada de savia.
Hay maderas olorosas y vivas
como el olor de tu cuerpo.
Porque el olor de tu cuerpo es
como el olor de las maderas
cortadas en los tiempos de lluvias.
Hay maderas que al ser trabajadas
dan notas musicales y perfectas.
Tu amor es una nota musical y perfecta
como el sonido que dan ciertas maderas
cuando son trabajadas.
Hay maderas que se quejan en las noches de lluvia
y en las tardes de tormenta.
Porque eres triste, y esto te embellece y purifica,
te pareces a esas maderas que se quejan
en las noches de lluvia y en las tardes de tormenta.
Hay maderas que tienen un sabor y perfume
tan propios que, cuando se las huele o se las besa,
ya no son olvidadas nunca más en la vida.
Porque eres fatalmente inolvidable,
te pareces a esas maderas que se recuerdan
hasta la muerte cuando se las huele o se las besa.
him: Hi , Im still waiting for that miracle to receive a email from you. The last two days has been wonderful, sunny and breezy very nice for the beach. You met my brother that day and all my family is the states. Im the only one living in Puerto Rico. Just to give you some information about me. I was born by accident the six day of _ of 1957 in Fort Brooke, in the left side of landmark of Puerto Rico call the Morro (fortresses build seventeen century by the Spain). The accident was that I came to this earth two months earlier. The reason my mother was a singer with a big band called the Nighthawks and they were celebrating the day after they play at the Escambron Nite Club for member of the US army. At midnight she went to a fairy’s wheel at the third turns she broke water and this kid was born in a US military base in the old San Juan near a fortress a 3 king day at 2:17 am by name _ Hanibal _ ,jr.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I'm assuming this isn't the last I'll hear from Hannibal...But can someone please tell me what his problem is? Feel free to submit thoughts in any language; I can use Babylon translator if need be ;)
him: its the PR guy you met
me: was great meeting you [please note: this is my first, last, and only response to him]
him: I wrote poem last year in a dream of this woman believe it was you I wrote as soon I get back I will send it to you I really enjoy it
him: In few hours I will be flying back to the island I wish I had the guts to take u with me
him: here's me [photo attached]
him: i wrote this a few years ago
Por el fuego de esos ojos...
Me he perdido en mi mismo
le declare la guerra a mi razón,
conocí el cielo y el infierno
una historia de amor...
Yo que era palabra.... me volví silencios,
y fui prisionero de esa luz
tenían esos ojos, el misterio,
el Cristo y la cruz.
Por el fuego de esos ojos...
Que dolía mirarlos,
era el mar más azul... Una risa
era el negro más oscuro... Una herida
y un color de adiós.
Gitana de magia y sombras
quiero ser tu aliento,
para estar en ti
cuando me nombras...
Por el fuego de esos ojos...
He mentido y he pecado,
tengo un padre nuestro
y la marca de los clavos en mis manos.
Llevo en mi pecho tu nombre
y en mi corazón diez mil latidos,
y cuando te marchas todo se vuelve oscuro,
si hasta la luz he perdido...
Por el fuego de esos ojos...
Vendería mí pasado
mi Dios.... Y mi destino.
Como morderé tu boca en el aire?
Como regalarte la ultima lagrima
de mi andar cansado?
Como decirte que soy el que esperas?
Si nunca...
Nunca me has mirado...
him: I never got your name but that’s one of the things i don’t like about NY, you never get warm enough. Just giving you a piece of me to remember me by, I don’t expect much but I would love to hear from you. Let me know the real you and if you don’t have any trouble this is my number xxx-xxx-xxxx Have a nice day and fulfill your destiny
him: i'm back on the island
him: here's a translation of my poem [for some reason the translation was into Hindi, in Devanagiri script; he must have gotten his hands on google translator]
him: How are you today? I know you wont answer my email but i will keep my promise to write to you. Today under heavy rain we were workng for a new project for homeless person, a construction of a safe heaven. Though we dont have a winter as yours we do have rainy season like this one. We hope to build this project in a few months / Well have to go , kisses
him: here, you can translate this with Babylon translator
Hay maderas oscuras y profundas
como tus ojos y tus cabellos.
Porque tus ojos y tus cabellos son
como maderas profundas y charoladas.
Hay maderas suaves y livianas
como tu piel y tu alegría.
Porque tu piel y tu alegría son
como maderas suaves y livianas.
Hay maderas recias y macizas
como tus piernas y tus espaldas.
Porque tus piernas y tus espaldas son
como maderas recias y macizas.
Hay maderas húmedas y rojas
como la piel de tus labios y de tu lengua.
Porque la piel de tus labios y de tu lengua es
como una madera roja y empapada de savia.
Hay maderas olorosas y vivas
como el olor de tu cuerpo.
Porque el olor de tu cuerpo es
como el olor de las maderas
cortadas en los tiempos de lluvias.
Hay maderas que al ser trabajadas
dan notas musicales y perfectas.
Tu amor es una nota musical y perfecta
como el sonido que dan ciertas maderas
cuando son trabajadas.
Hay maderas que se quejan en las noches de lluvia
y en las tardes de tormenta.
Porque eres triste, y esto te embellece y purifica,
te pareces a esas maderas que se quejan
en las noches de lluvia y en las tardes de tormenta.
Hay maderas que tienen un sabor y perfume
tan propios que, cuando se las huele o se las besa,
ya no son olvidadas nunca más en la vida.
Porque eres fatalmente inolvidable,
te pareces a esas maderas que se recuerdan
hasta la muerte cuando se las huele o se las besa.
him: Hi , Im still waiting for that miracle to receive a email from you. The last two days has been wonderful, sunny and breezy very nice for the beach. You met my brother that day and all my family is the states. Im the only one living in Puerto Rico. Just to give you some information about me. I was born by accident the six day of _ of 1957 in Fort Brooke, in the left side of landmark of Puerto Rico call the Morro (fortresses build seventeen century by the Spain). The accident was that I came to this earth two months earlier. The reason my mother was a singer with a big band called the Nighthawks and they were celebrating the day after they play at the Escambron Nite Club for member of the US army. At midnight she went to a fairy’s wheel at the third turns she broke water and this kid was born in a US military base in the old San Juan near a fortress a 3 king day at 2:17 am by name _ Hanibal _ ,jr.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I'm assuming this isn't the last I'll hear from Hannibal...But can someone please tell me what his problem is? Feel free to submit thoughts in any language; I can use Babylon translator if need be ;)
Friday, October 8, 2010
Guy Ritchie/Gigolo Complex
Okay, my title is a failed attempt to come up with something like the gender-opposite equivalent of the "Madonna/Whore" complex. You know what I'm talking about; the psychological complex in which a male begins to see all women as either (and only) pure and non-sexual, or dirty and whorish. Fine, fine, Guy-Ritchie/Gigolo does nothing for this. Celibate/Stud or Priest/Player?
I think I'm starting to embody something like the female equivalent of Madonna/Whore! You're either a strip club perv OR a regular guy I'd be into.
This goes against everything I (theoretically) believe in! I certainly don't think there's anything inherently wrong with strip clubs, pornography, or paid sex. But you (o blog readers!) are familiar with the frustrations I've dealt with relating to customers. In general, the fact that a guy is a strip club regular, or pays for sex, automatically just serves as a turn-off - even if he's attractive in all other ways.
I found I've (problematically) divided the world up into two types of men: The guys who (1) lie to their partners (i.e. cheating when they're supposedly monogamous) and/or spend spare time and cash at strip clubs, and (2) the guys who aren't "overly" into porn, ogling women, or getting more sex than they already have in their lives. And the former category of men I want nowhere near my vagina. This sucks for me. I believe that sexual freedom between consenting adults is necessary and should be unstigmatized. And I think it's sad when women "don't let" their husbands watch porn (or get into watching it themselves!) or forbid their boyfriends from a lapdance or two at the strip club.
But at the same time, I can't deny the rising resentment I have toward straight men who (and not that these are necessarily connected factors) suck in bed because they're oversaturated with images of a world of plugging various holes being the definition of sex. Who secretly cheat on their partners. Who assume a sense of entitlement to getting themselves off, or see getting you off as a favor of some sort rather than a sexual act itself.
At work, I'm obviously confronted with the "Gigolo/Player" type (though certainly not all guys at strip clubs are that way!), and in my personal life I'm close to the other "type" of men. Of course, in recent months this dichotomy has become more and more complicated - with nice guys in the strip club space and pervy sketchos in my personal space, and I'm ending up frustrated!
But regarding my world view: what kind of dichotomy of heteromasculinity am I dealing with here? What would Freud say (other than to give birth to a boy...)?
I think I'm starting to embody something like the female equivalent of Madonna/Whore! You're either a strip club perv OR a regular guy I'd be into.
This goes against everything I (theoretically) believe in! I certainly don't think there's anything inherently wrong with strip clubs, pornography, or paid sex. But you (o blog readers!) are familiar with the frustrations I've dealt with relating to customers. In general, the fact that a guy is a strip club regular, or pays for sex, automatically just serves as a turn-off - even if he's attractive in all other ways.
I found I've (problematically) divided the world up into two types of men: The guys who (1) lie to their partners (i.e. cheating when they're supposedly monogamous) and/or spend spare time and cash at strip clubs, and (2) the guys who aren't "overly" into porn, ogling women, or getting more sex than they already have in their lives. And the former category of men I want nowhere near my vagina. This sucks for me. I believe that sexual freedom between consenting adults is necessary and should be unstigmatized. And I think it's sad when women "don't let" their husbands watch porn (or get into watching it themselves!) or forbid their boyfriends from a lapdance or two at the strip club.
But at the same time, I can't deny the rising resentment I have toward straight men who (and not that these are necessarily connected factors) suck in bed because they're oversaturated with images of a world of plugging various holes being the definition of sex. Who secretly cheat on their partners. Who assume a sense of entitlement to getting themselves off, or see getting you off as a favor of some sort rather than a sexual act itself.
At work, I'm obviously confronted with the "Gigolo/Player" type (though certainly not all guys at strip clubs are that way!), and in my personal life I'm close to the other "type" of men. Of course, in recent months this dichotomy has become more and more complicated - with nice guys in the strip club space and pervy sketchos in my personal space, and I'm ending up frustrated!
But regarding my world view: what kind of dichotomy of heteromasculinity am I dealing with here? What would Freud say (other than to give birth to a boy...)?
Thursday, October 7, 2010
How much do you want Tibet he's crazy?
My Tibetan-Indian customer who sells t-shirts in Times Square is interesting. Married, 2 children. We converse only in Hindi with each other. He's very easy - he never forces me to drink, never forces physical contact, never tries to get me outside the club. He's good for about $150/visit, plus a few drink tickets. He's also, notably, the ONLY desi guy I've ever met with a serious foot fetish. He'll grab my foot and put it on his crotch during a dance, or simply gaze at my big toe.
Anyway, last time we were talking, and he asked me (in Hindi): "Did Gandhi-ji have a wife?" I went into way too long an explanation of how Gandhi was married, had several children, and then declared himself celibate. I was looking at the stage while I told this story, not at him, so when I felt a drop of moisture hit my foot, I assumed it was my sweaty "fake" vodka tonic. Not so! It was a tear from his eye! He started crying during my Gandhi story!!! I was puzzled, but he said (in English): "I just like Gandhi so much." (Okay, but if you like Gandhi so much, wouldn't you have known about his celibacy proclamation?) Then I went on to tell him a few more facts about Gandhi, including his romps in the sack with the "bed warmer" Abha, and he fought back tears.
I'm sorry, but if you're going to cry about Gandhi, wouldn't it be when you hear about him shedding his South African English-speaking lawyer bullshit and spinning cloth in India? Why, oh, why, would you choose to get all choked about Gandhi's unusual celibacy? And why, when I google "Gandhi celibacy" does a photo of Nadia Suleman come up? Great, great mysteries...
Anyway, last time we were talking, and he asked me (in Hindi): "Did Gandhi-ji have a wife?" I went into way too long an explanation of how Gandhi was married, had several children, and then declared himself celibate. I was looking at the stage while I told this story, not at him, so when I felt a drop of moisture hit my foot, I assumed it was my sweaty "fake" vodka tonic. Not so! It was a tear from his eye! He started crying during my Gandhi story!!! I was puzzled, but he said (in English): "I just like Gandhi so much." (Okay, but if you like Gandhi so much, wouldn't you have known about his celibacy proclamation?) Then I went on to tell him a few more facts about Gandhi, including his romps in the sack with the "bed warmer" Abha, and he fought back tears.
I'm sorry, but if you're going to cry about Gandhi, wouldn't it be when you hear about him shedding his South African English-speaking lawyer bullshit and spinning cloth in India? Why, oh, why, would you choose to get all choked about Gandhi's unusual celibacy? And why, when I google "Gandhi celibacy" does a photo of Nadia Suleman come up? Great, great mysteries...
Thursday, September 2, 2010
True-ancy
"I can't come here anymore."
Eventually, your regular customer *will* say this, and may even disappear for a while.
In my experience, it's NEVER true. In fact, I have a hunch that "I can't see you anymore"/"I can't come here anymore"/"I'm done with strip clubs" is the guy's way to see if you'll get sad, ask him not to leave, offer to meet him outside, etc. Classic pathetic bullshit.
Remember "we are on a lake" guy? He'd emailed me the following: "we are on the lake. this is a fine evening.....not very hot....nor very cold....cool breeze from the lake....i am there....and you are there too....
now we are at the middle of the lake.....no other boats are near by......far away we can see the sun setting slowly.......full bright red sun.......sometimes hiding in the clouds....and sometimes peeping out of it.....slowly immersing into the water.....we can see ducks moving around.....maa goes in front and the ducklings follow....in a line. some times it lifts out of the water and shake its body....we are standing in the openness.....you standing in front of me....i am holding you from behind.....we are just standing there ... looking into the vastness....staring at the stars now slowly emerging.....the moon slowly ascends.....your face is shining in the moonlight.....what a beauty to look at your face......you smiling with your eyes closed now.....touching my heart you telling me 'what is inside here matters'......i am deeply touched.....tears come into my eyes.....how soon you found it, oh my baby......you are always with me since the moment i saw you.......always,always thinking about you......
my dear...i can't wait any longer to see you......i miss you....."
...and I'd shamelessly mocked him on my blog?
Well, several months ago he'd told me he wanted to take me to Macy's and buy me whatever I wanted, and I'd told him I can't go out with a customer. He got all sad and said he couldn't believe after all this time I thought of him as a customer (even though I faithfully charged him for each and every lapdance) and said he couldn't come see me anymore.
By August, after a several month absence, he emailed me to see where I was working, and moved his poetic ass over to my new club to patronize me. (Or maybe I patronize him. It's hard to say.) This new club, with it's privacy and lax security, has brought out a part of him I'd never seen before. Yep, the good ole cock 'n balls, which, upon whip-outtage, made me leap a good three feet away and demand that they be hidden from sight. His cock-eyed scheme to whip it out just didn't mesh with his previous romantic, teary eyed, sentimental persona, but hey, we've all got multiple voices, yes? (Yet, this incident had me thinking more Bactine than Bakhtin!)
There's another customer who I must have meet over a year ago. He's not a big money guy (maybe a few dances per visit), but he really wants to meet for dinner. (He asks all the dancers this, by the way.) Upon being told I don't date customers, he says the classic idiotic line: "Then I won't be your customer anymore!". I finally shifted my approach with him to "I heard you asked Viva and Alina to dinner to, and it sort of broke my heart because I thought I was special." Anyway, he "quit" strip clubs back in May and is back in full swing as of last week, still persistent with his dinner invitations.
These guys that try to terminate their strip-club penchants? They'll be back...
Eventually, your regular customer *will* say this, and may even disappear for a while.
In my experience, it's NEVER true. In fact, I have a hunch that "I can't see you anymore"/"I can't come here anymore"/"I'm done with strip clubs" is the guy's way to see if you'll get sad, ask him not to leave, offer to meet him outside, etc. Classic pathetic bullshit.
Remember "we are on a lake" guy? He'd emailed me the following: "we are on the lake. this is a fine evening.....not very hot....nor very cold....cool breeze from the lake....i am there....and you are there too....
now we are at the middle of the lake.....no other boats are near by......far away we can see the sun setting slowly.......full bright red sun.......sometimes hiding in the clouds....and sometimes peeping out of it.....slowly immersing into the water.....we can see ducks moving around.....maa goes in front and the ducklings follow....in a line. some times it lifts out of the water and shake its body....we are standing in the openness.....you standing in front of me....i am holding you from behind.....we are just standing there ... looking into the vastness....staring at the stars now slowly emerging.....the moon slowly ascends.....your face is shining in the moonlight.....what a beauty to look at your face......you smiling with your eyes closed now.....touching my heart you telling me 'what is inside here matters'......i am deeply touched.....tears come into my eyes.....how soon you found it, oh my baby......you are always with me since the moment i saw you.......always,always thinking about you......
my dear...i can't wait any longer to see you......i miss you....."
...and I'd shamelessly mocked him on my blog?
Well, several months ago he'd told me he wanted to take me to Macy's and buy me whatever I wanted, and I'd told him I can't go out with a customer. He got all sad and said he couldn't believe after all this time I thought of him as a customer (even though I faithfully charged him for each and every lapdance) and said he couldn't come see me anymore.
By August, after a several month absence, he emailed me to see where I was working, and moved his poetic ass over to my new club to patronize me. (Or maybe I patronize him. It's hard to say.) This new club, with it's privacy and lax security, has brought out a part of him I'd never seen before. Yep, the good ole cock 'n balls, which, upon whip-outtage, made me leap a good three feet away and demand that they be hidden from sight. His cock-eyed scheme to whip it out just didn't mesh with his previous romantic, teary eyed, sentimental persona, but hey, we've all got multiple voices, yes? (Yet, this incident had me thinking more Bactine than Bakhtin!)
There's another customer who I must have meet over a year ago. He's not a big money guy (maybe a few dances per visit), but he really wants to meet for dinner. (He asks all the dancers this, by the way.) Upon being told I don't date customers, he says the classic idiotic line: "Then I won't be your customer anymore!". I finally shifted my approach with him to "I heard you asked Viva and Alina to dinner to, and it sort of broke my heart because I thought I was special." Anyway, he "quit" strip clubs back in May and is back in full swing as of last week, still persistent with his dinner invitations.
These guys that try to terminate their strip-club penchants? They'll be back...
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Chased Women
"What's the difference between an orthodox Muslim woman and a stripper?"
No, this is not a setup for some terrible joke (for once), it's a serious question. The more you think about it, stripping and veiling are like two sides of the same coin.
Both assume a certain inherent tendency for men to ogle or objectify women's bodies.
Both presume that the way a woman dresses is responsible for deflecting or attracting that inherent masculine gaze.
Both strippers and hijabis are presumed, popularly, to be exploited, oppressed, perpetuating patriarchy, or suffering from a false consciousness. (And, I would argue that in several cases, both have actually subverted the power of the masculine gaze by controlling it themselves - either by veiling or charging a fee.)
As someone who has both worn a hijab and clear heels, I can say that the experience of each is a dramatically embodied one. Just as strippers pick gown cuts that minimize belly fat or colors that would look appealing on stage, hijabis hem (often times, literally) and haw over just what length tunic is feasible over jeans or a long skirt to conform to their interpretation of appropriate Islamic dress code.
The sad thing is, I've heard enough hijabis throw around words like "ho" and "skank," and enough strippers talk about the barbaric Islamic oppression of women, for either group to realistically - and substantially - get together to realize that their marginalization, stigmatization, and even their sources of empowerment are more similar than they'd realize.
No, this is not a setup for some terrible joke (for once), it's a serious question. The more you think about it, stripping and veiling are like two sides of the same coin.
Both assume a certain inherent tendency for men to ogle or objectify women's bodies.
Both presume that the way a woman dresses is responsible for deflecting or attracting that inherent masculine gaze.
Both strippers and hijabis are presumed, popularly, to be exploited, oppressed, perpetuating patriarchy, or suffering from a false consciousness. (And, I would argue that in several cases, both have actually subverted the power of the masculine gaze by controlling it themselves - either by veiling or charging a fee.)
As someone who has both worn a hijab and clear heels, I can say that the experience of each is a dramatically embodied one. Just as strippers pick gown cuts that minimize belly fat or colors that would look appealing on stage, hijabis hem (often times, literally) and haw over just what length tunic is feasible over jeans or a long skirt to conform to their interpretation of appropriate Islamic dress code.
The sad thing is, I've heard enough hijabis throw around words like "ho" and "skank," and enough strippers talk about the barbaric Islamic oppression of women, for either group to realistically - and substantially - get together to realize that their marginalization, stigmatization, and even their sources of empowerment are more similar than they'd realize.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Hated Hiatus
I've been on a short leave from work for personal reasons, which is likely to extend to a total of 2 months away from the clubs! It's been 2 weeks and already, since I started dancing two years ago, this is the longest I've gone without getting naked for money. It fucking sucks! I keep trying to justify to myself that everyone needs time off, and that this will give me time to do schoolwork, socialize, take care of my body. But guess what? I do those fucking things all the time, AND I get to strip/make money/have fun at work.
Being away from work is strange. I looked down the other day and saw something I haven't seen in a long time: pubes! I thought Bush's term was over, but nope! Shorn muff, I mean, shore'nuff, it's back!!
I had sort of a 'working lunch' with Irish Gold yesterday. He gave me a nice chunk of change to meet him in the real world (movie, followed by lunch and beer), since he can't meet me in the club these days. I generally don't go out with customers, but I'm starting to think that if the customer is a) attractive, b) not-sociopathic, and c) willing to pay for my time so we don't lose 'client' status, then why not? Okay, several reasons: 1) They may think it's the first step toward paid or unpaid sex. 2) Now that they can see you in the real world, they may not want to see you at the club anymore. 3) For the nice/charming customers you have to dejectedly turn down for dates, it's sort of hard to transition into the "yeah, I'll meet you for coffee. Wanna know my rates?" conversation. But him and I had a good time, and there was no pressure for anything beyond seeing me. Then again, he's decidedly "less sexual than most guys," according both to him and my assessment of him, which may be why it genuinely seemed that he just wanted to hang.
Regardless, it isn't the same as working at the club. This might be the first job that I both love and am good at; also, this is the first time since age 14 that I've been jobless.
Being away from work is strange. I looked down the other day and saw something I haven't seen in a long time: pubes! I thought Bush's term was over, but nope! Shorn muff, I mean, shore'nuff, it's back!!
I had sort of a 'working lunch' with Irish Gold yesterday. He gave me a nice chunk of change to meet him in the real world (movie, followed by lunch and beer), since he can't meet me in the club these days. I generally don't go out with customers, but I'm starting to think that if the customer is a) attractive, b) not-sociopathic, and c) willing to pay for my time so we don't lose 'client' status, then why not? Okay, several reasons: 1) They may think it's the first step toward paid or unpaid sex. 2) Now that they can see you in the real world, they may not want to see you at the club anymore. 3) For the nice/charming customers you have to dejectedly turn down for dates, it's sort of hard to transition into the "yeah, I'll meet you for coffee. Wanna know my rates?" conversation. But him and I had a good time, and there was no pressure for anything beyond seeing me. Then again, he's decidedly "less sexual than most guys," according both to him and my assessment of him, which may be why it genuinely seemed that he just wanted to hang.
Regardless, it isn't the same as working at the club. This might be the first job that I both love and am good at; also, this is the first time since age 14 that I've been jobless.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Self-Plug
I'm pumped! One of my blog posts will be read tonight at the Red Umbrella Diaries event tonight! Check it out - from what I've read, Audacia Ray's work is pretty awesome.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Production of Space
Imprisoned by four poles
(to the left, the swively one I hate dancing on
to my right, a drunken customer,
behind me, the mirror,
ahead of me, four investment bankers)
I did sexy-squats, but received no tips.
-Hat tip, Octavio Paz
Yes, LeFebvre might be horrified by my flippant and frivolous blog posts. But here's my nod to him in an attempt to understand the ridiculous, arbitrary, and orthodox ways in which strip clubs produce their social geographies and construct identities all their own.
This is based on my recent migration over to a third NYC club. The first club I worked at, a neighborhood-y club known for it's lax champagne room rules and range of "types" of women, was radically different from my second club, in midtown Manhattan - a commercial NYC strip club catering to a very particular type of "classy" experience (i.e. $11 for a bottled water at the bar). The third club is neither of these, and perhaps having some sort of identity crisis as it tries to package itself as a "classy" club to avoid the inevitable impending gentrification shut-down of local topless bars.
It got me thinking about the specific ways clubs manufacture this notion of "classiness" (and the inherent bullshit, racism, and - as the word classy itself implies - classism) of the process.
Is your strip club a dive? Are you trying to upscale your club and bring in top notch girls and clientele? Follow these simple steps and CLASS YOUR CLUB.
1) Dim the lights. I mean, way the fuck down. The dimmer the lights, the more you can get away with projecting an image of myriad girls without stretch marks or acne without actually hiring them. Also, dim lights serve as a mask for the very same skeezy behavior (heavy grinding, nipple contact) that happens in other clubs without it being easily visible.
2) Put your bouncers in suits and matching ties. At dive bars, the bouncers and customers are barely distinguishable. In fact, at my first club the bouncer used to wear t-shirts that read: "6.9: A great idea, fucked up by a period", or "I support single moms: I go to strip clubs." No joke. However, he did look out for me, even in the absence of being uniformed in a gold tie and secret service earpiece.
3) Have your girls cover up their tattoos. This will look tacky as fuck, largely because covering tattoo sleeves with Dermablend every other day at work is exhausting and not always entirely effective (depending on the ink). Also, there is a chance that a customer will have to explain to his wife just how he got heavy foundation on the front of his shirt. But still! Tattoo-less girls on stage will suggest that they're college-educated, drug free, and worth spending an hour of time with in the champagne-room.
4) Schedule only a small number of black girls per shift. This rule can be modified if the black girls are half white, very light skinned, or can pass for something other than "black." In fact, you might want to give your DJ explicit rules (as did my former club) not to put two black girls on stage at the same time. Don't worry, lawsuits about sexual harassment or racial discrimination don't apply to you.
5) Infantilize the girls who work at your club. Fine them for being late, talk down to them when they don't comply with your rules that they squeeze money out of customers from drinks and champagne rooms (even though you give them no commission for ordering drinks and a very small share of the champagne room earnings), scold them when they chat with the DJ, and limit the amount of time they can spend relaxing in the dressing room while taking breaks.
6) Two words: Fictive Commodities. Karl Pole-anyi would be proud. Find ways to commodify anything and everything in the club. Sell themed g-strings, offer half-price "fully clothed" lapdances at the bar, offer a $2,000 "blue room" (likely a glorified brothel) for those who are above the $500 champagne room.
7) Monitor the girls' whereabouts. Make sure they aren't chatting with the DJ in the DJ booth, that they are sitting at the appropriate end of the bar during slow hours, and that they are on stage for "roll call" at the beginning of their shift. Defiance of these rules can be addressed through scolding, fines, or both.
Follow these simple steps, and you can sit back and relax as Long Island-dwelling finance execs, Columbia University med school professors, and Park Slope-gentrifying artist types patronize your fine establishment!
Yes, the difference between the classy club and the others is mostly smoke and mirrors. Or, more appropriately, no-smoking except in the champagne room and well-placed mirrors to make the club seem more spacious. The $10 Heineken is just as cold and tasty at the dive bar where it costs $4, but the extra $6 you're paying ensures you don't have to sit next to a construction worker or guy in a du-rag, and you won't be disturbed by happy hour guys hooting and hollering at whatever game is on ESPN.
(to the left, the swively one I hate dancing on
to my right, a drunken customer,
behind me, the mirror,
ahead of me, four investment bankers)
I did sexy-squats, but received no tips.
-Hat tip, Octavio Paz
Yes, LeFebvre might be horrified by my flippant and frivolous blog posts. But here's my nod to him in an attempt to understand the ridiculous, arbitrary, and orthodox ways in which strip clubs produce their social geographies and construct identities all their own.
This is based on my recent migration over to a third NYC club. The first club I worked at, a neighborhood-y club known for it's lax champagne room rules and range of "types" of women, was radically different from my second club, in midtown Manhattan - a commercial NYC strip club catering to a very particular type of "classy" experience (i.e. $11 for a bottled water at the bar). The third club is neither of these, and perhaps having some sort of identity crisis as it tries to package itself as a "classy" club to avoid the inevitable impending gentrification shut-down of local topless bars.
It got me thinking about the specific ways clubs manufacture this notion of "classiness" (and the inherent bullshit, racism, and - as the word classy itself implies - classism) of the process.
Is your strip club a dive? Are you trying to upscale your club and bring in top notch girls and clientele? Follow these simple steps and CLASS YOUR CLUB.
1) Dim the lights. I mean, way the fuck down. The dimmer the lights, the more you can get away with projecting an image of myriad girls without stretch marks or acne without actually hiring them. Also, dim lights serve as a mask for the very same skeezy behavior (heavy grinding, nipple contact) that happens in other clubs without it being easily visible.
2) Put your bouncers in suits and matching ties. At dive bars, the bouncers and customers are barely distinguishable. In fact, at my first club the bouncer used to wear t-shirts that read: "6.9: A great idea, fucked up by a period", or "I support single moms: I go to strip clubs." No joke. However, he did look out for me, even in the absence of being uniformed in a gold tie and secret service earpiece.
3) Have your girls cover up their tattoos. This will look tacky as fuck, largely because covering tattoo sleeves with Dermablend every other day at work is exhausting and not always entirely effective (depending on the ink). Also, there is a chance that a customer will have to explain to his wife just how he got heavy foundation on the front of his shirt. But still! Tattoo-less girls on stage will suggest that they're college-educated, drug free, and worth spending an hour of time with in the champagne-room.
4) Schedule only a small number of black girls per shift. This rule can be modified if the black girls are half white, very light skinned, or can pass for something other than "black." In fact, you might want to give your DJ explicit rules (as did my former club) not to put two black girls on stage at the same time. Don't worry, lawsuits about sexual harassment or racial discrimination don't apply to you.
5) Infantilize the girls who work at your club. Fine them for being late, talk down to them when they don't comply with your rules that they squeeze money out of customers from drinks and champagne rooms (even though you give them no commission for ordering drinks and a very small share of the champagne room earnings), scold them when they chat with the DJ, and limit the amount of time they can spend relaxing in the dressing room while taking breaks.
6) Two words: Fictive Commodities. Karl Pole-anyi would be proud. Find ways to commodify anything and everything in the club. Sell themed g-strings, offer half-price "fully clothed" lapdances at the bar, offer a $2,000 "blue room" (likely a glorified brothel) for those who are above the $500 champagne room.
7) Monitor the girls' whereabouts. Make sure they aren't chatting with the DJ in the DJ booth, that they are sitting at the appropriate end of the bar during slow hours, and that they are on stage for "roll call" at the beginning of their shift. Defiance of these rules can be addressed through scolding, fines, or both.
Follow these simple steps, and you can sit back and relax as Long Island-dwelling finance execs, Columbia University med school professors, and Park Slope-gentrifying artist types patronize your fine establishment!
Yes, the difference between the classy club and the others is mostly smoke and mirrors. Or, more appropriately, no-smoking except in the champagne room and well-placed mirrors to make the club seem more spacious. The $10 Heineken is just as cold and tasty at the dive bar where it costs $4, but the extra $6 you're paying ensures you don't have to sit next to a construction worker or guy in a du-rag, and you won't be disturbed by happy hour guys hooting and hollering at whatever game is on ESPN.
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