Backstage Pass: 5 things you never wanted to know about strippers.

1) What do strippers do when they have their periods?

I so innocently asked myself on my very first night of work. Well it turns out, they go deep sea fishing, and by that I mean, like the good little troopers that strippers tend to be, they cut the strings from their tampons, shove them well past where the light can reach, and then in a few hours, they hunt - pushing, pulling and pinching to find the dry wads of fucking cotton hiding in their coochie.


2) The pole spins.

Yup, it does. I'm sorry to disappoint you if you were imagining those 120 mph twirls coming solely Sapphire's gyrating hips, but it's probably actually that the pole spins. I add this as an important warning to any of the young and boob-bearing who might be considering a career climbing the pole, because god help you if you strut down the stage and expect something steady to anchor the momentum of your first spin. Unknowing girls have ended up on the ground.

3) That girl on all fours, bouncing and shaking it for Daddy, is probably farting.

Strippers are humans too, and far be it for them to walk around all night feeling bloated. So if she's out of ear/nose shot, and she's on all fours, or she's bent over real far by the pole, odds are good she's doing a little more than letting it all hang out. But never fear, for all the perfume, beer and smoke in the room, you'll probably never notice.

4) You just bought me a $7 shot of Juicy-Juice.

Believe it or not, some of us don't drink (let alone have life dominating addictions), but it's bad for business to say "no" to a shot girl who's actually managed to convince a customer to buy you all a round. It also doesn't make you any friends in serving or management, and you really, really want friends there. Some of the more clever shot girls I have known have kept a row of juice "shots" in their trays that contain not even a drop of alcohol, for dancers like myself, who don't drink (or who don't drink on the job), so we can still help them make some money and avoid breaking that special bond we have with our customers over a social awkwardity (it's a word now, bitches). Bless their lying little hearts.

5) Beware the fumes.

Thank you very much, society at large, for helping so many women to be incredibly self conscious of the way their cha-chas smell. Strippers are not exempt from this. Up in the dressing room, girls are constantly baby-wiping (which, to be fair, is also to whisk away any stage debris), body spraying, perfuming, and even occasionally blow drying* their little ladies in order to be sure that when your lean your leering face in to the stage to get a good look, the only thing you smell is Morning Dew, or Rosebushes, or a Tropical Citrus Sunset, motherfucker.


*Yes. I once (more than once actually) came up to the dressing room to see another dancer standing, one leg hoisted up on the makeup table, with an actual blow drier, the kind meant for your hair, aimed directly at her cho-cha. She said she had to dry it out because for some unknown reason she kept getting wet while she was onstage. Here's hoping she was holding the "cool" button.

The means to:

Stripping was, primarily, the means to an end, and now that that end has been achieved, it is time for the end to the means.

Meaning? We did it! Boyfriend had surgery over the summer, and the accomplishment of that has brought an end to my career on the pole. However, that does not mean an end to this blog. In fact, I see it much more like the beginning. In order to actually pull our little project off, I had to work a LOT, which didn't leave a ton of time for blogging. Now that I'm done though, I'm eager to get the ups and downs of the whole ordeal in print, before they escape into the suppressed part of my memory. :P


I was walking down the street the other day when one of my songs came on my iPod. One of those songs I really enjoyed dancing to. It felt... strange. Part of me was horrified, but part of me was rocking out to it, even envisioning myself twirling and bouncing around on the stage, maybe even missing my work - and if not missing it, definitely reminiscing to some of my better nights. I concluded that certain songs will probably always have that effect on me, and even though I smiled at that thought, that was also when I realized just how addictive my job was. I'm lucky that it's a job with an expiration date attached (although I've definitely met women who don't seem to agree on that point).

The attention. The adrenaline. The rush of the risk, the sweat, and of course, the money.

It's like being famous, being a stripper. You walk around and turn heads. Everyone wants to talk to you, wants a piece of you, wants your attention and showers you with theirs. The performing, the money, all of it. And fame... well, we've all seen how hard it is to let it go. I feel qualified to go platinum. Like all the rappers these days seem to be bitching/bragging about - the pressure and the rush and the attention. I get it.

Does this mean I should get a record deal now? 

Be well, stay tuned.

no sex in the champagne room

To sort of ride the wave of my last post, let me let you in to another conversation I had recently. I was giving a lap dance to a guy who had been practically drooling over me at the stage - he had come over and interrupted while I was dancing for a woman and brought me over to his buddies who were having a stag party and tipped really well to keep me there. He asked if I did private dances, and was waiting for me by the steps to the stage when I got down from my set. So, as I'm giving this guy a lap dance, we have this conversation:

Guy: (as I'm dancing) Ugggh, this is hot.
Me: I'm glad you're enjoying yourself.
Guy: Do you do private dances?
Me: You mean champagne rooms? Yes. (I tell him the rates)
Guy: So, what happens in the champagne room?
Me: Mm, well, I'm going to be honest with you and tell you right up front, I don't have sex in the champagne room, I don't give head, I'm not letting you take your dick out. I don't want to set you up to be disappointed.
Guy: So don't set me up to be disappointed. (He offers me a price...) and let me take it all out.
Me: (trying to brush it off by being playful) No! Honey, you know I can't do that...
Guy: Come on, I've been a good customer. I hooked you up with a good group of guys, I tipped well...
Me: And I appreciate that, but I told you, I'm a good girl, I don't do that in the champagne room.
Guy: Come on, I give you (amount) you let me take it all out.
Me: You know I can't do that.
Guy: Sure you can.
Me: Honey, I told you. I'm a good girl. I don't do that. Please don't get me in trouble.

This goes on and on. After he finally gets the message that I'm not going to fuck him in the champagne room he starts asking me which girls will, and insists that I must know - and he only believes that I don't know when I explain that I'm new.

So, today I want to talk about the three phases I go through to get guys to back off of the pressure for sex. Sometimes, it makes me sad that I need this system, but the reality is, all the money is in champagne rooms, and there is a lot of fighting off advances in that venue. It goes like this:

1) I'm honest and I'm a "good girl" - I don't have sex in the champagne room - I mean, look at me! I wear a school girl skirt, I'm petite, I look young as hell - you can't ask me to do something like that! This is the, I'm too sweet and innocent for something naughty like that approach.

When that doesn't work, on to...

2) I'm new at this club, and I'm sweet - please don't get me in trouble with management. There are cameras in the champagne room (true) so we couldn't get away with it (false) - please don't get me fired! This is the, I totally would if I could, but I just can't - don't be offended it's not that I don't want you, approach.

Then, if that doesn't work, finally...

3) I said no. I'm not going to do it. You can stop pressuring me, or this session is over. This is the "bitch" approach - babe in control. I said no, if you don't let up, I'm walking away and taking the money you paid with me.

my lips like sugar?

So, I want to just lay some things out on the table right away.

The club that I work at is not a safe space. It is not a queer space and it is not a feminist space. So, I'm not going to talk about it as if it is. I apologize in advance if this information offends you, but I didn't create the reality. It existed well before me. I'm simply going to tell you what it's like.

There are a few things that seem to me to be inextricable from the strip club scene. Some of these include: bruises, the smells of cigaretts and red bull, UV lights, and Sweetie. Despite all the damage to my hair and skin by the first four, if I could be done with just one of these things it would be Sweetie.

I think the thing that annoys me the most about being called "sweetie" again and again is that it's so empty, so entirely fake. Every time I hear it, I have to wonder, "why are you calling me that?" - we're total strangers, these people don't know me. I could be a total bitch, but they would still call me Sweetie. It has become apparent that there's an attitude that comes with Sweetie, and it's that attitude that really pushed me past annoyed into insulted, because Sweetie is the manifestation of a bundle of concepts working together in perfect misogyny. Those would be the ideas that:

1) Because I'm "on display" and available, I'm as good as owned by everyone who comes in to the club, and they have every right to patronize me, pat me, smack me, evaluate me, judge me, advise me, and then condescend to call me Sweetie - BEFORE they've paid me!

and

2) I need to be told what I should do, "talked down to". I must be a bad girl, and I need some guidance, and also probably a good slap on the ass.

Exhibit A is how frequently people are absolutely astounded when I tell them I want to go to law school. Apparently, because I'm a stripper, I'm supposed to be stupid and lack ambition. (Interestingly enough as a side note, it's about 50/50 - whether people are more turned on or turned off by my interest in having a brain.)

Gentlemen, it's not cute. Unless you're buying some time, you don't get to treat me like something that's yours. My mere presence in the club does not entitle you to whatever kind of good time you're trying to have with me. This is a business. There's negotiating involved. Asking. Paying. Boundaries. It's not a free show, and even if I winked at you from the stage, I'm not suddenly your girlfriend and don't have ground to stand on trying to prevent me from leaving your bubble.

The other thing I can't stand about the bittersweet, back-handed pet name is the frequency with which it accompanies advise. At least once per shift, someone will decide that they're going to save me. Let me give you an example of an exchange I had with a guy who was sitting at the stage.

Corey: Hi, how are you?
Guy: I'm good, how are you?
Corey: I'm great.
Guy: What's your name sweetie?
Corey: Corey.
Guy: Corey, you're beautiful. (Guy gets too close and tries to touch, so I move out of his reach)
Corey: Aw, thank you.
Guy: So what are you doing here?
Corey: I'm in school.
Guy: Nah. Corey you're too pretty to work here. You should do better than this. You don't want to get mixed up in this scene.
Corey: It's just a temporary thing.
Guy: Sure. That's what they all say.
Corey: Listen, honey, I've got my shit together. Don't worry.
Guy: Mhm. God, you're hot.

It sounds impossibly and unbearably cliche, but I suppose it's cliche because it happens all the damn time. Mind you, this guy, while he was telling me how I should rise above, he barely even tried to look at my face. He put dollars on the stage between my legs and he had no problem expressing his enjoyment. So, I've got to wonder,

Why is it okay, and not a sign of a ruined life, for a man to come in to the club as a customer, but not for a woman to be in the club dancing? What is so different about us that you, oh dear Customer, can be in a strip club and still have your shit together but I can't? If strip clubs really are such an inherently evil place where you ruin your life, then why the hell did you come in? If they really are such an evil place, and you chose to come here, why on earth would I take your advice? Why would I listen to you?

This shameless hypocrisy kills me.

Sadly, I'm confident that even if I stopped dressing like a schoolgirl, customers would never stop trying to teach me a lesson.

let me entertain you.

I am standing in the bathroom, wearing nothing but a strapless bra, leaning over the sink shaving my face. I am trying desperately to remember what my sideburns looked like in the days before they grew down to my neck. Entirely unsure, I hack away at them with the razor until they look plausibly "feminine". 

Welcome to my life right now. You might consider it to be at a little bit of a crossroads, but let me just map it out for you. I'm Corey. A pretty regular, wholesome, nerdy dude by day, stripper by night. A lady stripper. Let me explain.

I'm a trans man. Born female, but living my adult life as the dude person I've always felt like. My body hasn't been surgically altered, but I've been on testosterone for almost a year now. Oddly enough, I pass pretty well as many things, including a boy and a girl. The effects of testosterone seem drastic to me, but to someone with no "before picture" to compare me to, my current self is not beyond the scope of mainstream lady imagery. It's a pretty interesting space to live in - one so fluid and flexible. Also an odd combination of validating and horrifying. But more on that later.

At this point, you might be thinking, "why the hell would you try to dress up like a girl and strip if you went to all the trouble to transition and you want to live as a dude?" and if you are thinking that, congratulations for having an excellently logical if not tiringly heteronormative brain. There are actually a few reasons - and you can decide if they're good ones or not - why I would go to all the trouble to undo and cover up the manliness I worked so hard for. In no particular order, they are:

• to fuck the gender binary
  
• for the love of high heels
• for great cardio
• to pay for my boyfriend's top surgery

Okay, maybe I did save the big one for last. My (fabulous) boyfriend is also trans, and he has also not had top surgery. This is a pretty big deal for him. Something you would call a need. Those of you who've been in the market for this procedure know that despite being very necessary for many people, it's not terribly accessible. You can't just walk into any hospital and expect to find a surgeon who a) knows that people even have this done and b) would be willing to work with you. There are a handful of surgeons around the country that are popular amongst folks seeking chest reconstruction, the man of the hour seeming to be Dr. Charles Garramone in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Anyway, there are a few different ways this procedure can be done, which (in correlation to the size of your pre-op chest) can influence the price. Overwhelmingly, for the most part, insurance does not cover this procedure because it is considered cosmetic. I won't rant about that today. All of this is mostly to say that top surgery is expensive as hell, and most people have to dig up the money for themselves. 


Some folks use their students loans. Some folks take out personal loans or medical loans. Some folks are trust fund babies (fuckers). 


Well, neither of us are trust fund babies, and neither of us are looking to take on an extra 6-8 grand in debt right now. So we're trying something a little less usual. 


I'm going to strip for the money. By July.


So welcome to our little adventure. Two trans men in love, doing whatever works to derive what we need from a framework that is sort of set up to screw us. I say, rather than be oppressed by the gender binary, transphobia in the medical industry, and the ridiculous cost of airfare, why not turn that shit on its head and work it? 

To sum it up, I go to the club and dance, and these guys think they're paying me to take my top off, but actually, they're paying me to take his top off. Would they approve of that if they knew? Well, do I approve of the way they objectify my body and call me "sweetie" as if they knew me? 

I think it's fair.  

Wish us luck, it's going to be a rhythmic ride.