Discipline, or Pun-ish?

This evening, I'm reading some of my reflections on my career as a stripper at an event that's meant for scholars to share what they do in their creative/less academic moments. For me, there's no greater gulf than the one between my stripping and schooling. Grad school for me has often been alienating; I sometimes feel my brown skin and less-than-academic pedigree sticks me out like a sore, subaltern thumb. While I've found some buddies along the way, in general I feel that the grad school experience has been depoliticizing at times, or maybe pseudo-politicizing. In other words, a whole lot of sitting around and reading about stuff, and not so much interrogating how we - right there in the left-leaning academic department - are perpetuating, encouraging, even relying upon the oppressions we critique in our dissertations and panel presentations.

This will be the first time I go in front of an audience of people - many of them peers, some of them "superiors" - and talk about my work. At first, I wanted to talk about race and intersectional issues around dancing; I realized pretty quickly that it felt like pandering to the thirst for Third World Feminist knowledge that I anticipated my audience to hope to hear. (I thought they might expect some high-brow theoretical, overtly political reflections on sex work, race, and gender.) So I scrapped that, and instead I'm going for the raunchy humor - stories about gross customers, good customers, loyal customers, customers with funny nicknames, etc. Yeah, I'm sort of worried about the raunch factor. It's sort of giving a middle finger to all those Foucauldian ideas about how sex should be talked about, right? I mean, no one has a problem with Elizabeth Bernstein teaching a class on sex work politics, or with critiquing the law that has cast "unnatural" sex acts by prostitutes in Louisiana into the same category as pedophilia.

But, why then, do I perceive a greater anxiety emerging when an actual sex worker - not only incidentally a brown woman - talks about boners and grinding and bikini waxes. Is it in my head?

Sneak Peek

Several months ago, I heard rumor that Sanjay Leela Bhansali was going to make a movie about Heera Mandi (entitled Heera Mandi!), the famed redlight district. More interestingly, it was to star Kareena Kapoor and Abhishek Bachchan! I thought the two families hated each other since loser Abhishek broke off his engagement with the equally-unremarkable Karishma Kapoor (Kareena's sister) several years ago. I guess there's no business like (s)ho(w)business and the two are speaking again. I mean, if Abhishek's dad can make out with Aishwarya Rai and Abhishek still goes on to marry her, what's a broken engagement here and there? Am I right? Am I right? (crickets chirping)

Well, anyway, if and when this movie is made, it's sure to be done in the regular Bhansali fashion: very high production value, very heavy handed, about as pretentious as the chopstick-in-hair girlfriend (Patrice) George Costanza dumped in the episode The Truth. (more crickets) Here's hoping Kareena's two-facedness (dollar for every Seinfeld reference in this post?) veers closer to hot than not in this film, and that Bhansali is able to score some good song and dance numbers. And, of course, that the sex worker doesn't end up a) dead b) widowed/abandoned by her lover, or c) being rescued from the profession.

Remember how fuckin' boring Black was?

Many happy returns of the day

A bit of a belated post, but one I've been meaning to do. I went into work on December 31st, hoping to pull a double-shift. New Years Eve, after all! A lucrative holiday to be at work! Luckily, the club was raining by 2 p.m. and I had a feeling I would be able to countdown with friends at a party instead of counting stage tips after a set.

First, there were SO FEW girls during the day at the club, and SO MANY customers! I'm not sure if the dancers preferred to celebrate the holiday and take the day off, or if they assumed that it'd be a slow shift, but thankfully, there were just a few of us to a club FILLED with customers by 12:30 in the afternoon. And generous customers too! Everyone was in the mood for buying you a drink, tucking a fiver into your g-string when you walked by, or (and this was actually rarer) buying a lapdance. It wasn't much of a lapdancey day; it was more like groups of guys starting their parties early and feeling real generous and festive.

I was flagged down on stage by an Eastern European guy who had some cuteness potential, so I joined him after my set for a round of drinks. He could tell right away that there was no alcohol in my drink (my vodka tonic = tonic) and insisted that the bartender mix my drink right in front of him. She looked at me sympathetically, but somehow managed to mix me a real alcoholic drink and STILL (through some sleight of hand) slip me a virgin drink without him noticing. God bless her! Cuz, this guy was hell-bend on getting me drunk. It was one "vodka" tonic after another, so I got to fake a guilty tipsiness - "I better stop drinking, I think I've had too much!" and increasing sloppiness as the drinks went on.

Suddenly, he turned to me: "Do you like Shakira?" He gave me a $50 bill, told me to give it to the DJ to play a Shakira song and put me on stage to dance to it. I went up on stage and got showered by $200 in singles - which was quite the production, but very hard to gracefully squat down and scoop up, and even harder not to slip upon while I was dancing on stage. About an hour later, I got called up for my next stage set and while I was up there, another customer asked me if I'd have a drink with him after my set - I obliged, got a small tip from him, and then returned to Mr. Hips Don't Lie. He told me he was disappointed in me, he couldn't believe I talked to another guy, and asked me to get lost. I did, but laughed all the way to the bank as I walked away.

I'm not quite sure why, but the DJ has been playing these weird censored versions of songs at the club. For instance, he'd play a version of Kanye's Runaway that says "I sent this girl a picture of my . I don't know what it is with females, but I'm not too good at that shit." So, apparently, "shit" is okay, but "dick" needs bleeping out? Also, the censored Runaway version goes "Let's have a toast for the douchebags. Let's have a toast for the ." So, no assholes? Aren't we in a strip club here? I'm practically EXPOSING my asshole to all the douchebags when I bend over to gather my freshly showered bills, anyway...

Regardless, to a 2011 filled with good tips, no raids, and awesome new customers for all!

Slush Funds

On Monday, I took a look outside at the inches - nay, feet - of snow that were piling up and glanced sadly at my heels. I was on the schedule for work, but I wasn't sure if the club would be open or not. Also, with the entire tri-state area crippled by the snowfall, I wasn't sure if a day at work would even be worth my while. The blizzard just had to come between Christmas and New Years, the most lucrative few days each year, didn't it?

I decided to brave the storm, heading out into crazy winds and thigh-deep snow drifts. Each step I took, I glanced back at my building and wondered if I should turn back. But the fact that I'd already trekked across the street seemed like a big enough feat, so I proceeded to endure the craziest commute ever - including having to hold on to a deli door so wind didn't blow me away, switching three trains before I found one that was actually going to my club, and getting to about five feet from the club entrance and seeing snow drifts so high that it seemed impossible to cross those five feet and enter the club. I managed, though (crawling, holding onto the tops of cars as my foot sunk into ice - at one point, I swear, I got an icicle enema...) and got inside the club. I'd given up on making any money that day, but just looking forward to the warmth and refuge of the club.

There were only three girls there! I wasn't sure if there were going to be lots of customers, but whoever did come in would have the simple choice of curvacious Latina, bookish South Asian, and large-breasted blonde. Yes, the three of us had free reign over every customer that entered the club!

I guess having a snow day - office closings and transportation problems - made it easier for certain customers to show up. While it was generally a slow day, the people that did make it into the club were there to stay (there was no leaving! the wind was ridiculous!), which was good news for us. Surprisingly, I had a pretty good day! My regular Tibetan customer came in, raped my face (tried to lick my mouth during lapdances!!!) and I slapped him, but he bought a few dances anyway. Then there was this UN guy, who found himself without a return flight to Africa, who totally was able to cum during a minimal-contact lapdance (and tipped nicely as a thank-you).

And, finally, the highlight of my day: a DEAD FUCKING RINGER for Liam Neeson was sitting at the bar, nursing a vodka tonic. This guy was gorgeous, and when I went to get my stage tip from him, I said: "Oh my GOD, it's Leslie Nielson!" He gave me a playful injured look, and I realized my mistake, and we had a good laugh about it. This Hungarian hottie was totally funny, and charming - not to mention drop dead gorgeous. He was the spitting - fuck it, the SWALLOWING - image of Neeson, which made fantasizing about my celebrity encounter that much easier as we enjoyed some flirtatious banter and lapdances in an otherwise empty club.

All in all, I'd highly recommend working during blizzards. Chances are there will be no girls there (in fact, management was trying to get me to stay for a double shift because none of the late girls showed up, and they were probably going to have to close), customers will be likely to stay put once they get inside the club, and the empty/warm/intimate feeling inside is likely to spark some generosity.

I had reservations, but I came anyway.

There's this new regular at work. He shows up early, starts drinking, and by around 7 p.m. he's totally hammered and asleep at the bar! Anyway, we had a brief encounter about halfway to his 7 p.m. demise, and he told me that he'd never been intimate with an Indian woman before. "You're so exotic," he told me. Because he seemed somewhat intelligent, I asked him what he meant, and that exotic was a fancy way of saying "not quite normal-looking" - but he got a little defensive and asked me if I couldn't just take it as a compliment. I could, sure, but show me the money! As a newbie to the strip club scene, he was nervous about getting any lapdances from me because he "had danced with that other girl earlier and I don't want her feeling bad." After a couple hours and several Jack and Cokes, those reservations disappeared and he waved me over for a lapdance. He was out of cash, and wanted to use the ATM in the club, but was too drunk to coordinate. What did he do? Told me his ATM pin # and asked me to withdraw $200! Thank his lucky stars that I'm not a thief, and curse me and my law-abiding ways (takes a long toke, continues typing). He was so far-gone, I totally could have taken cash out of his account and pocketed it, or better yet pocketed his card!

During a moment of respite in the dressing room (the club's heat was funky and it was FREEZING on the floor), we started sharing "crazy customer" stories. I told them about Sissy James, and this dancer Champagne responded with the story of a customer she used to freelance with outside the club. He would watch gay porn while she fucked him in the ass with a strap-on, and all the while be telling her "I'm not a fag, you know?" I had a similar champagne room experience once in Manhattan, minus the fucking. This ABCD took me back for an hour and, rather than lapdances, he wanted dirty talk - most of it revolving around all the things I'd do up his asshole, and how I'd share him with another man. After the hour was up and he was spent, he told me, "This is just dirty talk, you know? I'm not gay or anything." By far the best tale came from Alina, who told us about a guy who took her into the champagne room, got a bunch of clean lapdances, and then asked her to move out of the way. He unzipped, leaned back, put his legs up in the air, and ejaculated - into his own mouth - then smiled at her, saying "I like to recycle."

Cultural Capital

There are a few things I *never* want to happen to me at work, even though they seem sort of inevitable.
- Getting my period on a guy's lap: I'm hopelessly out of tune with my cycle and hence don't know when to expect it, and totally worried I'll be on some married guy's white linen lap or something when Flo arrives)
- Falling on stage (or off stage, for that matter): I've never become fully comfortable with these heels, and the floor is uneven and sometimes quite slick. The physical pain of falling would be way outdone by the embarrassment of it!
- Having any sort of run-in with the cops!

I was on my way to work, running a couple minutes late, when the subway turnstile rejected me. Insufficient fare! I ran and quickly purchased a new Metrocard. There were two cops standing around the machine and, as always, I felt a sense of discomfort and annoyance as I quickly fumbled with my debit card and backpack zipper. As I ran down to catch the E train, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around, face to face with one of the pigs. Gulp. What? Could he tell I'd eaten the best magic brownie of my life the previous day? I took my earbud out and smiled at him.

"You dropped your phone, maam, and we were calling at you but you didn't hear us. What are you listening to, anyway?"
"Breeders."

He hands me my phone after delicately inserting the battery that had fallen out.

Whew! Well, I got to work on time in spite of it all, and quickly put on my new ChristmAss outfit: this clingy red and silver gown with little rhinestone accents, fire engine red lipstick, and green and gold glitter for the eyelids. I was expecting a couple good customers and sipping a cup of coffee when the housemom comes up to me in a panic.

"I need your help. You're not only the MOST intelligent girl here, you're also the only intelligent one, and the cops are on their way. I need you to talk to them when they get here and tell them there's no prostitution or drug dealing going on."

I'm stunned. The cops are on their way? Is this cuz I dropped my phone?! And, why am I supposed to be the go-between for the club?

So apparently what happened is that someone called the cops and said there's drug dealing and prostitution happening at the club (generally not at all true, though I'm sure there's been a handjob or dime bag exchanged on the rare occasion) and the cops called to announce they were on their way.

First things first, all the girls starting talking about their relatives who were cops. One girl's father is a vice cop, and she was worried he'd be one of the raiding officers. Another girl has a detective uncle. Literally each of these women is closely related to someone who'd be there shortly to arrest their ass!

Next, the club said we weren't allowed to give lapdances for the day. So, let me get this straight, I'm supposed to sit down and wait to be interrogated by the 5-0 AND not have any money to show for it? Not at all a risk I'm willing to take. Plus, I'd already been shown some mercy by cops earlier in the day; what are the odds of having such good luck twice in a row? I wasn't interested in finding out.

Suddenly the girls were all summoned to the dressing room, where a bunch of freshly printed legal forms were there for us to sign. From what I could tell, they were statements that absolved the club of any responsibility for actions of the girls, and we were all supposed to put older dates on them so it looked like we'd signed them earlier. Sketch!

So I told the housemom I wanted to go home. She said I was being paranoid, and just to relax. "It's not an immigration raid, I promise you," were her exact words. What? I'm a U.S. citizen! I told her I was worried about the possibility of arrest, and didn't want to jeopardize my other job. She didn't want to hear it.

I spoke to our (sweet, kind-hearted) manager, who told me I should go home. He told me that he was charging all the other girls a $40 fine if they left, but I had a legitimate reason (i.e. "a university job" - I suppose the other girls who were saying "I have 2 kids at home" or "I don't want to pay the sitter if I'm not going to make any money here" don't have legit reasons?) and I should just go home.

As I was getting dressed, the other girls started asking me why I wanted to leave. They all started talking about their previous raids, arrests, and run-ins with the law. I explained that I hadn't had any such experiences, and wasn't looking to start today. "Oh, no wonder, girl! I always thought you seemed like a doctor or lawyer or something, and I was always asking people what a girl like you was doing here!" And all of a sudden all these girls (many of whom I've never spoken to) took this sort of protective stance, telling me to go home, dodge the cops, etc. It was a very strange show of solidarity, even as it seemed totally strange to me to be cast into this elite/protected category.

I left before the cops got there, but realized as I saw my reflection in a deli window en route to the train that I looked more like a prostitute out on the street in my full stripper make-up in broad daylight than anything in the club. (I also quickly emailed all my customers from my phone, telling them I wasn't there today. Customers first!)

Ugh! A few options:
1) Go back to my Manhattan club, which is full of bullshit, fines, fees, and being pimped out in the champagne room
2) Get a 'straight' job for a while to keep the income a-flowing
3) See what happens at this club in a few days and possibly go back

Regardless, fuck.

Cunning Linguistics

Ah, holiday season at the club. It's always a jolly time, and the months of December and January always seem particularly lucrative! Last year, my Manhattan club had us dress "festive" (I had a long strapless sequined red clingy gown that worked well, and a short white and silver dress that did the trick too). This year, though, my new club wants us to dress in either green or red with white (faux, I'm hoping) fur trim, basically looking like Mrs. Claus back in the day. They want us to be ho, ho, ho's! Of course, they are selling outfits that fit convention for like $90 each at the club, which is a total rip-off, so now I have to spend time this weekend trying to find cheap alternatives in the real world.

In other news, yesterday a customer, clearly aroused by my gentle ear-whispering at the bar, expressed his interest in a lapdance. I told him to follow me to the lapdance area, but he seemed hesitant. "Do you think I should go the bathroom first and jerk off so that I don't cum during the lapdance?" he asked earnestly? (Of course, I was right to be skeptical of his desire to buy a lapdance immediately after getting himself off...)

Another customer, who is always at the club and a very generous tipper on stage, finally waved me over to sit with him. I introduced myself and we started chatting, and I asked him what his holiday plans were. "I'm going to be with the kids." "Oh, that's nice! How many kids do you have?" "I have 57." (quizzical look from me) "I am not their father, but I built them a halfway home. They are orphans or abandoned. I was just trying to do my part." "I see. So are you on the board of this organization?" "I am the only sponsor, I'm a philanthropist." "I got it. So what do you do for a living otherwise?" "Oh, it'd probably all go over your head. But let's just say I have several businesses and properties everywhere, and at this point they're all making me so much money that I don't have anything to do." (he pulls out a bundle of $100 bills and puts them on the bar in front of him) The conversation continued, with him bragging about all the countries he has beach homes in, assuming I was geographically/historically completely challenged, and then him bringing up Slumdog Millionaire and how much he loved it. I was so irritated with him at this point that I said, "yeah, if you love poverty porn" which sparked a conversation about how this film would never have been successful if it actually brought up issues of neoliberalism, postcoloniality, and a general contextual discussion of why India has such concentrated wealth and extreme poverty. At this point, he decided I was "smart" and asked me if I got bored having uninteresting and unintelligent conversations with people in the strip club. I always loathe such questions that pit me against my colleagues and customers, especially when they come from arrogant douchebags, but that pile of $100s was reflected in my dollar-sign shaped eyes so I endured. Anyway, basically the conversation turned into how, at this point in his life, the only thing that excites him is getting in bed (or a shower, pool, limo) with three girls at a time. Then he told me which of the girls in the club were lesbians, which would fuck me good with a strap-on, which were boring to him since they weren't into girls. I told him I was totally into girls, but he dubbed me a "cherry" - someone inexperienced in the world of threesomes and foursomes. He said he wanted to get me in on some of his world travels with his posse of lesbos (I guess I'd be the "cherry" on top!) The best was that he had me pick a girl to get lapdances from, and he gave each of us a handful of cash to retreat to the lapdance area for a bit. (We just sat back there and chatted and laughed, cuz he wasn't even interested in looking.) Then I came back, told him that this girl had gotten my pussy real wet and even gone down on me for a while, and thanked him for the good times.

Speaking of lesbians, I got into a conversation with another dancer about cunnilingus, and she told me how much she hated it. "God gave men a dick so they could fuck!" she told me excitedly. "If I wanted someone to lick my pussy I'd just be a lesbian. You have a dick, man, now use it!"

One of my favorite old customers resurfaced (the one whose whole family is on Lexapro) and we had a blast together. He's really nice, and (back to the topic of erections at the strip club) he popped a boner for the first time ever in our year and a half of friendship! He said he hasn't gotten a non-Viagra induced erection in several years and was very pleased with himself for getting some all-natural wood.

The Daily Grind

My last shift was spectacular! It was exactly my kinda day, because I didn't have to hustle anyone new. It was one loyal regular customer after another until my shift was over. Hot!

First was Alan. Alan has been my customer for a little over a year, and he's one of the most interesting people I know. He's half white American, half Puerto Rican, and (like lots of biracial folks) has developed some really radical race politics and I find him apologizing for his white half a lot. He went to Yale for college, then went off to fight the Gulf War before coming back to the U.S. and making it HUGE in the hedge fund world. Apparently, he's the big cheese. Ordinarily, I'd think that's no good, but there's something about Alan that's really fucking awesome. We have this hilarious pun-peppered banter that genuinely cracks me up. Also, he has random pockets of knowledge about things (i.e. he's read up a whole lot on Zora Neale Hurston) and is totally non-pretentious about talking about stuff he knows. Since I switched to this new club, I haven't seen him - but he finally made his way over and we had a blast! A bunch of lapdances, a couple "drinks," and a lot of laughing were the perfect way to start my day! Halfway through Alan's visit, I noticed Irish Gold was there. I wanted to kick it with Alan longer; he'd made the special trip just for me, plus he's got LOTS of money. It's rare that I feel bad for rich guys from the investment world, but I do remember several times at my Manhattan club that Alan's generosity and wealth made his strip club visits miserable. Like, usually he'd take me to the champagne room for like 2-3 hours straight, but one day he just wanted to sit, have a few dances and drinks with me, and that was totally fine with me! But the other girls at the club and the champagne hostess were going insane trying to figure out why he wasn't spending so much money, and eventually their gentle coaxing turned into not-so-gentle cursing as he politely declined all offers to visit the champagne room! He was getting sort of pissed, remarking on how you'd think spending tens of thousands of dollars (true: this guy must have spent at least 12 grand in my presence alone at my last club) would earn him stress-free visits, but no such luck...

I excused myself to say hello to Irish Gold, and right off the bat he was pissing me off. I think I've jinxed him with too much praise, but the truth is: Irish Gold is the perfect customer when times are slow at the club. He's reliable, generous, and a sure thing. But when the scene is busy, he fucking sucks! He tries to hijack all my time! When I went over to talk to him, he wanted me to "finish up" with Alan before I gave him any time. (Knowing Alan, he could spend a full day at the club, hopping in a car service to Southern Jersey well after my shift ends...and spending good money all the while!) I told him my customer wasn't likely to leave any time soon. So then he starts on this long rant about how seeing me with this other guy reminded him that I have "smart, educated" customers who can make me laugh, and he's just a guy from humble beginnings and he got all insecure on me. The good thing was, he ended up spending a bit more money than he usually does (if I "had to give a dance" to the other guy, he'd be like: let me just take you instead!). But still, most of the day was conversation not about our usual subjects (settlement freezes in Palestine or the strategic use of the word "terror" in the US media or animal testing in the cosmetic industry), but about how much he hated sharing me with these other guys, and did I see him as "just" a customer?

Also, Academic Asshole is now my customer! You may remember him from here. If you do, you read my blog way too closely :) Anyway, Academic Asshole never wanted any dances from me, but always wanted to sit and chat about Said, Cesaire, Malcolm, and others and why he felt compelled to only consider "black women as potential wives". While I do enough of this in my other grad student existence (and don't get paid for it), I slowly started ignoring him because I never made a penny off of him and I don't need to waste time at work chatting about antiracism with someone who'd have Fanon turning in his grave. So a couple weeks ago, during a lull (Academic Asshole was the only one there), I was in the corner reading (incidentally, it was Freire I was reading!) and Asshole fetishist guy came over, interrupted, and sat down to chat. I guess he hadn't picked up on my strictly-business approach...After a brief chat about qualifying exams, health benefits for adjuncts, and why we both find Gilroy boring as hell, the conversation turned to stripping. I inevitably turned it on, telling him that I get really aroused giving lapdances, and that his assumption that I was just doing this to put myself through grad school was all wrong. Before long, he asked for a dance, and ended up spending a whole chunk of time with me in the lapdance area! Well, he came back the other day, and again, our banter followed the academic-sexual trajectory, with lucrative results for me!

Next was a guy I call Ketchup Popsicle. I'd met him randomly several months ago and we hit it off. He's a salesman, as he told me, and I told him that he was so smooth he could sell a ketchup popsicle to a lady in white gloves. (Name that movie reference!) Anyway, he gets a bunch of dances and does the unbuttoning his shirt through them. On the one hand, I really like when the guy sits down for his dance and opens his shirt: it probably means he wants you to scratch and stroke his chest (and not suck his dick!), which is good news for me. But on the other hand, I feel like the visual image of a bare chested guy getting a lapdance screams "brothel" and would not look favorable in a raid or on a surveillance camera. Regardless, he's got these interesting red freckles on his chest, which make me think maybe he WAS eating an actual Ketchup Popsicle earlier in the day, and thus, my nickname comes full circle.

I ended my day with my favorite new customer. He's this half-Bengali, half-Italian (yes, crazy mixture!) 24 year old kid, who's so cute I'd adopt him if there weren't some background check procedure that prevented strippers from legally adopting their strip club patrons. He's been coming in for me for about a month or so, and he's so drama-free and adorable that it drives me nuts. I took off a shift last week, and he actually "spent the money he would have spent that day" before and after my day off to make up for lost time! (And in this case, time IS money!) How cute is that? Hernik's his name, and sometimes I feel he's too innocent for his own good. Like, one time he said "I'm so glad we're both single." And I was like, what do you mean? And he said "Well, if we weren't, neither of us would be here!" Cute!

And that was my day! I saw another customer of mine lurking, but I actually bypassed him because my good regulars were there, and I LOVE when I can afford to be picky. I avoided that gross guy because he only gets 2 lapdances from me and spends both of them convincing me to meet him outside. Check out what he said to me last time! He was like, "We don't have to meet for sex. Just for blow job and breast massage." Ew, I think I just lost my Thanksgiving appetite. I told him that's not something I'm into. But THEN (get this!) after the lapdances, he asked me if I had ever had sex, and I told him that the last person I'd had sex with was my ex-boyfriend. He gave me this long speech about how I shouldn't sleep with my boyfriends, because otherwise none of them will marry me and it will take the allure out of marriage for the guy if he's already slept with me. Yes, this was right after he propositioned me for hotel room fellatio, which, apparently, screams marriage material.

Thanksgiving thankfulness for all the wonderful customers who pay my bills, make me laugh, or remind me that strip club patrons aren't all douchebags!

Heart On

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!

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.