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.