Tag Archives: strip clubs
By Michelle Lhooq
It’s nearly midnight on a Friday in Times Square, New York, and I’m huddled outside one of the city’s most infamous gentlemen’s clubs.
My friend Iris Greene is a dancer there, and since the club tends to stop single girls from barging in on their own (they’re wary of prostitutes poaching their clientele), she’s preemptively told the bouncers that I’m applying for a job. After I introduce myself, the two burly men, who look like they’ve stalked straight off a Boogie Nights set, 70s moustaches and all, radio the manager to come pick me up for my “audition.” I have no idea how I’m getting out of this one.
As it usually does around this time of night, the mood in Times Square has started to shift from early evening exuberance to something more seedy, if not downright sinister. The theater types exiting their Broadway shows have long cleared the streets, the jet-lagged tourists have stumbled back to their hotels, and the crowds thronging outside the club seem looser, baudier and definitely drunker.
“I would take your coat off if I were you. You’ll never get a job here with so many clothes on,” one of the bouncers tells me, his eyes greedily unpeeling the layers of fabric sheathing my skin. My pulse quickens. In the awkwardness of the moment, I become keenly aware of how greatly clothing — or the lack thereof — defines the power dynamics of a strip club.
Simply put, those in control have the great privilege of keeping their clothes on. The clothed then exchange that other symbol of power, money, to exert their will — and what they want, desperately, fleetingly, is for the beautiful creatures around them to take their clothes off. To relinquish my coat then would also mean losing some of my agency; I pull it closer around me.
After a few minutes, one of the bouncers finally escorts me to the bar, where I’m told to wait for the manager. “I hope you have experience,” he mutters, casting another disdainful look at my incontrovertibly unsexy clothes cocoon. I’m surrounded by girls wearing far, far less.
All strip clubs have some kind of dress code. Most of the clubs in New York, especially in Times Square, are upscale establishments that require their girls to wear “gowns” — a euphemism for skin-tight tube dresses that wrap around their bodies and end slightly below their buttcheeks.
Seedier joints are called “bikini” clubs, which means exactly what you’d think: girls are only required to wear patches of cloth just around their naughty bits. What those patches of cloth look like — the color, the pattern, the cut, its aesthetic appeal — is rarely considered to be of much importance. After all, the thinking goes, she’s just going to be peel it all off anyway.
More than a fashion statement or an avenue for self-expression, stripper wear is fundamentally utilitarian. As my friend Iris puts it, “When the goal is to make as much money as possible, you need to appeal to the lowest common denominator. I wish I could give men more credit for having more interesting fantasies, but they really don’t seem to. The blonder, more tanned, toned and droney you look, the more money you’ll make.”
When it comes to general standards enforced by the club’s management, the rules are pretty simple: “Whatever it is you have on, it better look slutty, sparkly and easy to take off.” Thus, the vast majority of gowns have straps that tie around the neck — easily unraveled with a simple tug, allowing the stripper’s breasts to spill out effortlessly. Form follows function.
Back at the bar, the manager storms out of a back room, visibly coked out. Before I even have a chance to stutter my half-baked excuses as to why I’m not, in fact, ready to take my clothes off, he makes a neck-cutting motion with his fingers. “I’m not taking any more auditions tonight,” he barks, coke flecks flying from his flared nostrils. He swivels back to his den. Thoroughly relieved by this deux ex machina, I slide off my barstool and head to the pulsing main room where the topless girls are dancing.
Taking a seat between two French tourists, I gaze up at the shimmying bodies from my seat in the area right by the stage — the delicately-named Pervert’s Row.
Patrons at strip clubs are nothing if not fidgety, attention-deficient gazers; each girl gets just 15 minutes on the pole before a fresh body is trotted out. Therefore, every part of the routine is primed to maximize the profits reaped from her short performance. That, after all, is exactly what stripping is at its essence: a deliberate, choreographed act. Too much is at stake to leave up to chance — or creative expression.
Later in the night, Iris slips out of a $2000-a-night private room, looking resplendent with her blonde curls, red lips, and plunging white dress. “I’m so sorry I can’t hang out with you, I’m with an amazingly generous client who just wants to massage my toes!” she cooes. Her resemblance to Marilyn Monroe is hardly accidental.
“I once bought this stunning white dress that all of my colleagues loved, but it didn’t show enough boob. I had to shelve it,” Iris later tells me. “Now I make sure whatever I wear shows lots of boob and lots of leg, [and] I opt for a cleaner look. I try to keep it as simple as possible. That way I can mold my personality into whatever kind of fun a client is looking for. Versatility is key.”
Iris’ stripper costume is not an expression of her individuality, but a business plan calculated to maximize profits. And even though Iris and her coworkers flaunt different dresses, thongs, and sky-high stilettos in dozens of cuts and colors, their outfits are all merely different iterations on a shared them — all exaggerated expressions of traditional feminine sexuality.
For even though strippers are constantly transgressing social norms of sexuality and moral behavior in their line of work, their attire seldom challenges the boundaries of gender and the so-called “feminine ideal.” Ultimately, this adherence to classic modes of female sex appeal is central to their performative role within the walls of the strip club — a space that, as the Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin put it, can be described as “carnivalesque.”
Strippers and porn stars, says Marcel Danesi, a professor of semiotics at the University of Toronto, are examples of “modern-day carnival mockers who take it upon themselves to deride, confuse, and parody authority figures and sacred symbols, bringing everything down to an earthy, crude level of theatrical performance.”
By pitting the sacred (say, the sanctity of human body) against the profane (the bald-faced lasciviousness of a strip club), Danesi argues that the “carnival” form aims to “critique traditional mores and idealized social rituals, bringing out the raw, unmediated links between domains of behavior that are normally kept very separate.”
Thus, by satirizing sex, gender and sexuality, strippers — in their hyperfeminine costumes highlighting boobs and bum — may act as court jester: revealing and challenging these entrenched norms from behind a mask.
“Through costumes and masks, these transgressive individuals take on a new identity, and, as a consequence, renew themselves spiritually in the process,” Danesi says.
This transformation, however, is only temporary. When the carnival is over, the catharsis is complete — and sexual norms (and bras, jeans and sweaters) quickly snap back into place.
MICHELLE LHOOQ is a writer and stripper shoe-enthusiast living in New York City.
Originally posted on: http://shop.sweetlyinked.com/blogs/kiitc/10716001-the-semiology-of-stripper-style#
a) Wearing heels while doing squats and hip undulations (these two moves are the basic steps when performing a lap dance) has turned my sad white girl booty into a slightly less-sad white girl booty. I’m about six light-years away from a shelf, but that’s a hell of a lot closer than I was before I first showed a stranger my yoni and demanded 50 bucks in return. And I feel like that is progress.
b) Contrary to every Cosmo sex-tips column you’ve ever read, stripping teaches you that Jiggle = Good! If you are in doubt, please refer to #9.
2. Men who ignore me when I’m walking down the street. (Or at least the ones who make no mention of the fact that I am a person they would like to fuck.)
3. Informal Education.
I used to be Joey fucking Potter. I loved school and thought the only way to measure one’s worth was by getting a full scholarship to Harvard.
4. My low-numbers bank account.
Cash is King, and that shit is in my mattress.* Having met every depressed and coke-addled Wall Street guy in Lower Manhattan, I know never to trust those bastards with any sort of investment. But don’t worry, I’m not one of those assholes who collects the dole while making a mint under the table.
5. When people think I am a heathen or bad person or best of all – a SLUT.
6. Cotton briefs.
7. My scent.
That’s right – I love the smell of my pussy, and you should love yours too. It’s been identified by keen sniffers as ‘salmon,’ ‘puppy’s breath’ and ‘hot musk’ and it’s the fucking best. I used to think if my cunt smelled like ANYTHING and someone were to *GASP* smell or taste her, I would certainly die a thousand deaths unless I lathered her in Dove or better yet – just left the whole fucking bar of soap wedged up in there for the entire session of hanky-pank. Thank god those days are over. Come at my laundry hamper, panty-snatchers!
Gossip used to make me really nervous:
Now I just fucking feed off it like a leech on a boner. I hang out in the dressing room just to touch base with who’s pregnant and who got busted for dealing coke to customers and subsequently getting in a cat-fight with the Queenpin.
It’s not that I’ve become a keen porn collector, but I can appreciate it now. Before I started stripping, I thought porn was gross and silly. A huge part of me still believes most porn to be hilariously gross; if I ever watch it I am laughing for at least 75% of the program. But being in the sexy business has inspired me to have this reverent sense of gratitude for it. Like, ‘Hey, look at how crazy awesome our fantastical imaginations are! Isn’t it nice to have some talented and generous actors to act it out for our viewing pleasure?’
10. Body Hair (and by body hair I mean my bush)
11. Hot Pink
SOMEONE GET ME THIS PUSSY DRESS:
12. A day without alcohol.
Don’t get me wrong – I fucking love alcohol. It’s fun and silly and slutty and Shoshana is my new favourite character on Girls after last Sunday’s Mean-Drunk-Girl episode.
But a day without booze is so fucking rare when your job is to be perpetually drunk, and when your non-stripper friends think you’re ‘so fun’ because you’re essentially a professional fun-haver. And they never see you having fun because that would be AWKWARD. So, when they do get to hang out with you, it’s like NO YOU ARE NO WAY ORDERING THAT SHIRLEY FUCKING TEMPLE. WAITER SHE WILL HAVE A LEMON DROP SHOT AND A TECATE.
It’s quite possible that every woman hates the idea of strippers until she either meets one, or becomes one. I thought they were drugged up attention whores with daddy issues. Now that I’ve seen the light, I know that we TOTALLY ARE attention whores with daddy issues (and of course there are drugs, but drugs are everywhere so let’s retire this strippers-are-the-only-addicts hypothesis once and for all). And we are taking these needs, wants and Freudian complexes and spinning them into GOLD. We are modern-day Rapunzel-stiltskins with expensive hair extensions.
Nickelback makes men want to spend money. So now, whenever I hear one of their tracks (I couldn’t tell you which one; they all sound the fucking same) I am fondly reminded of having money thrown at me, and this makes me happy.
It’s busy season. Strippers everywhere are either drunk, hungover, or both – but let me tell you we are money-minded and if you’re friends with us but have some semblance of a regular job, you won’t be seeing any of us until February.
It’s November. I’ve got six weeks to make enough to last me through my tropical repose that should extend through January. It’s crunch time.
Lonely men are looking to cosy up in my divine presence… and I will be there to listen to their woes, giggle while holding a straw close to my lips, and tell them how powerful, funny and handsome they are.
November is also the month I vowed to steer clear of alcohol. Because why not. Because alcohol is bad for you but really because I’m vain and want to look good for a good while without needing a liver transplant.
Is it weird that I masturbate to my own self-awareness?
There are always loopholes in the sexy dancer business when we’re talking about the consumption of alcohol. Like, you have NO IDEA how many bottles of Dom Perignon I have dumped behind couches, chairs, onto the 80′s carpeted floor or back into the ice bucket. It’s wasteful and fucked up and tragic but it’s what we do. Because we want him to buy another bottle. Because he will. Because in the eyes of Mr. Money Bags, the drunker we get (or appear to get), the more our strict moral code unravels.
Because this is true, but it’s also total bullshit.
When I get wasted I get pretty loose-lipped and entertaining. Just like you, I’m a really fun drunk girl. But I’m a business woman first, stripper second, and drunk girl third. So no matter how slutty I seem, I am not going to get herpes from you. But you can keep spending in hopes that I will!
So the trick is to act drunk.
But sometimes the waitress forgets that you ordered the mocktail, and you can’t really, truly not drink an entire bottle of champagne that some dude bought for you, because he doesn’t like champagne but wants to make you happy.
Basically I’m drunk all the time, sometimes for real and sometimes merely acting like I’m about to fall over and need to grip the soft biceps of yet another finance guy for stability. Yet somehow in the deep recesses of my psyche I know that I’m not an alcoholic, because I’ve dated a few of those and they always piss the bed. I haven’t pissed the bed in at least ten years. (high five, me!)
So I’m in some sort of twilight zone where I’m perpetually drunk, yet I can’t tell if it’s sincere inebriation or an act. Where does my stripper self end and my real girl self begin? Is this an existential crisis and am I supposed to care when really I’m getting lady boners every time someone slips me a crisp new Benjamin?
Let me raise my glass to all my fellow strippers out there who are hustling hard, and I’ll see all you bitches in Tulum in a month or so.
An old man walks into a strip club.
A hot blonde in lycra slinks in beside him. She sits with him for a while, drinking, giggling, and asking him all sorts of questions about his fascinating life. (The old man is in finance. He likes to run in Central Park. He drinks a gin and tonic. He relates to Bill Murray’s character in Lost In Translation, although he has never had the pleasure of meeting Scarlett Johansson in a hotel bar).
The hot blonde gets a few dances out of him, and they order some sushi. She gets up, excusing herself to “use the ladies room.”
The old man reaches into his wallet and hands her a crisp fifty dollar bill. Off she goes to smear on some more lipstick and check her phone.
The hot blonde is used to accepting tips. She is a stripper after all. She’s paid for every stick of butter, Metrocard and disposable razor with tips for over three years! But now she is Holly GofuckingLightly, the real deal call girl she always thought herself to be.
It’s a good day to be a stripper when it’s just like the movies and the scene repeats itself a few times over the course of the evening.
Five fifty-dollar powder room breaks later, the hot blonde fancies a croissant and a Givenchy gown. But she still fucking hates cats.
It’s the bottom of the night. I have no idea what this means in terms of baseball, but when you’re a stripper it means that you’ve only got twenty minutes to make the rent that you’ve struggled to hustle all night. Alas, it’s summer for strippers; our annual recession.
My manager stands behind a guy who just arrived. He rubs his fingers together, signalling that this newcomer has a lot of money to spend. I nod, and approach a red-headed rich kid who stands no more than five feet, two inches off the ground.
I go to shake Little Red’s hand only to notice that he would need to use both of his incredibly micro-sized mits to hold a baseball. I was a bit shocked, so I did a double take, as only does when you notice something unusual. When your job is to make someone feel special, you are only supposed to do a double-take when you’re noticing something a man would want you to notice, like his big hands or thick head of curly locks… not anything that registers as HOLY SHIT THESE ARE SO CUTE AND TINY!
Little Red blinks his translucent eyelashes at me, slightly embarrassed, and does his best to recover by flexing his pecks. “I surf a lot,” he tells me. It shows. His freckled skin is surprisingly taught over a network of heavily exercised and creatined muscles.
“So do you surf at the Rockaways?” I ask. It’s the only local surf spot I know of.
“No, I hate black people.” he replies.
I reel, but do my best to keep my composure. I’ve barely covered my house fees tonight so I progress to the part where I extract money from this bigot.
“Do you want a lap dance?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says.
As I dance for him. he chats with his friends and looks every which way that is not in my general direction. Small man complex identifier #45: Act like you don’t give a fuck.
The song ends, so I ask if he’d like another, to which he replies, ‘Sure.’
Little Red inquires about a private room, asking ‘what he gets,’ if he spends the thousand bucks for the full hour.
This guy is a totally rude, racist fucktard but I there is no way in hell I am taking the train home at this time of night so I grin and bear it a little while longer.
Little Red asks his buddy, “Hey, man, is she worth it?”
Buddy looks at me up and down. I try to smile, realizing that I am too sober to be appraised like a fucking prize pig.
Buddy is no more than twenty years old. He and I both have matching, massively fake diamond studs ornamenting our ear lobes.
“Yeah, totally, man. Go for it.”
Little Red pulls out his phone, explaining that he has to check his bank account to make sure he can transfer the appropriate amount from his trust fund. I sit with my hand on his thigh. Never break contact with your prey until you close the deal.
This seems to take a long while. Offensive remarks are made about other dancers and patrons as Little Red’s translucent mug gleams blue from his citibank tinkerings.
Buddy takes a moment away from the nearly comatose happenings of the club, and looks to me. Loudly and emphatically, Buddy exclaims “He only wants a dance from you because you look just like his sister.”
Little Red blinks. He blinks again.
This shit disturber just totally fucked my sale and humiliated his friend. I don’t have the energy to YES-AND it, as a professional improv actress would. Shocked and incredulous, I tell him “You owe me a thousand bucks, you idiot.”
Little Red puts his phone in his pocket.
“Hey man I gotta go to the ATM, will you come with me?”
“Sure, I’ll go with you.”
Buddy and Little Red up and leave. Little Red halfheartedly assures me he’ll be back in a minute.
I’m told a fight breaks out in front of the club.
I go home with just enough to cover cab fare and tomorrow’s lunch.
Welcome to a new series of brilliance, Stuff Strippers Like. I really loved Stuff White People Like and Stuff Lesbians Like and I feel like more people need to know what us Strippers like, love and adore because then maybe people will stop pissing us off and start buying us better presents.
What is it about this city that has strippers taking off for an ‘industry weekend’ (read: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and maybe Wednesday… we tend to have long weekends) all the goddamn time. You have no idea how many bitches I hear talking about MIAMI in the dressing room like it’s, well… MIAMI.
It’s hot, you get to look like a stripper all day and all night and yet you’re on vacation. Slutty pool wear is totally acceptable– nay ENCOURAGED by day, and when the girls go out at night, ass cheeks hanging out of the bottom of your dress is just as normal as yawning while listening to the woes of some meagerly-tipping client. Basically, you can look like a Bratz doll any day of the week and the conversation doesn’t have to end with PAY ME MOTHERFUCKER.
Every Missouri-born-and-bred douchebag immediately achieves mega-baller status because he’s only there for the weekend and they ain’t never seen such disproportionately epic titties before:
… and nobody likes to disappoint a girl with an expensive boob job.
I know at least three strippers who are, as I type in this severely air-conditioned cafe, in Miami.
In spite of this, I have never actually been to Miami. As a very insecure pre-teen I would make like a Snow Bird and frequent Fort Lauderdale and Sarasota. Ma and Pa probably sat around the breakfast nook late one night before choosing where to spend their air miles:
Pa: “Well the cheapest looks here to be Fort Lauderdale… and that’s only an hour from Mi-”
Ma: “RICHARD You know I hate Disney World but that does NOT mean that we are going to take our children to where all the prostitutes even out their tan lines.”*
I mean, after Clive Owen, Will Smith is the hottest married man out there, and when he puts it like this…
Every time I come to town, they be spotting me
In the drop Bentley, ain’t no stopping me
So, cash in your dough
And flow to this fashion show
Pound for pound anywhere you go
Yo ain’t no city in the world like this
An if you ask how I know I gots to plead the fifth
So now I feel like I really need to go here, for market research or a new g-string or something. For years I’ve been searching for the confidence to wear hot pink, and I think Miami just might have the answer.
*I’m old enough to have gone to Florida before spray tanning was a thing.
I don’t know HOW it happened, but a Chinese client was bold enough to take me into the Jungle Room last night.
By and large, Asian customers are very bashful when it comes to being alone in a room with a naked babe. Old, fat and rich white American ones are the boldest when it comes to getting bouncy in a private room, in addition to coughing up generous tips.
My client, hailing from Shanghai, has lived in Chicago for twenty years. His name is Jack, and after one vodka soda and some chit chat about my Canadianness, he invited me to the Jungle Room.
I didn’t even have to lay out a fancy sales pitch!
We decide to spend an hour together before he has to go back to his hotel for a conference call with his associates back in China. We get cosy, pop a bottle of champagne that neither of us have any interest in drinking, and I sit on his lap, fiddling with his lapels for the better half of 45 minutes. I dance a little, turning around and bending over to squeeze in a yawn.
“Can I see?” asks Jack, gesturing to my box.
“Sure,” I offer, “But no touching!”
He nods in agreement and I take a seat opposite him. I unwedge my g-string from my ass crack (YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO MAKE THIS LOOK GRACEFUL AND SEXY), and slip it to the side to offer up a front row seat to my haphazardly shaven cooch.
“Woooooaaaaaaaahhhhh,” says Jack, fixated on that which is *technically* forbidden in the state of New York when sipping booze in the company of strippers.
“Can I smell?” he asks.
Men ask to sniff my panties all the time. I mean, I get it, as hot girl cunt smells pretty fucking great most of the time. But before I became super empowered and dykey, I thought a woman’s scent was terrifying. Had I had the courage to buy a douche at the age of fifteen, I probably would have. But those days are long gone and now I’m selling panty sniffs like hot cakes.
Jack leans in a little closer, inhaling deeply.
He looks up to me, with a surprised look on his face like he found a Tiffany’s ring in a box of Cracker Jacks:
“Your pussy smell like salmon!”
“SALMON?” I repeat, hoping I misunderstood the statement.
“Salmon!” says Jack, nodding with unprecedented enthusiasm. “Is good smell!”
I love salmon, I really do. And I love my cunt, I really really do. But there are a lot of things in life that I love, like MDMA and family barbecues, and I love them separately because in life you really can’t have everything snazzy all at once; you’d have a brain aneurism, or maybe offend someone you care about.
But Jack loves salmon and pussy on the same plate, and you know what? I’m cool with that.
The hour ended, I slipped my kit back on, accepted a meager tip and went back to work.
To my own surprise, I DID NOT run to the bathroom to baby wipe every feminine fold, followed by several spritzes of deodorant and perfume. I just shook me head incredulously, saying to myself, “salmon.”
Every day we learn something new.
This morning, I learned that, for a staggeringly high price, you can buy fantasy portraits of menopausal celebrities.
Yesterday, however, I learned something even RADDER:
It’s a new secret that I am just itching to share with strippers everywhere:
PRICKLY LEGS ARE A GODSEND.
When you’re sitting with a client, giggling, smiling, and smoothing out his lapels, trying to get him to invest in some quality time in the Jungle Room, your john will probably be reaching to your knees and thighs, because that’s what hungry men do. And, if your legs are freshly shorn and Nivea-commercial baby soft, then his hands are likely to keep wandering up, up, up to your honey pot. Then you have to tell him, with angelic flirtation, ‘no baby, not yet,’ when really you want to swat him away like a deer fly. Amiright?
Last night I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to raze away all my lovely angel hairs. I had a nice stubble that was on par with the handsome mug of Clive Owen.
Needless to say, I feared it would affect my income.
I sat down with some nice old fart at the bar. He bought me a drink, reached for my knee and upon contact with my sandpaper gams, politely retreated his pervy paws. By the time I was sucking on the ice of my $20 “vodka” soda, he asked if I would join him in the Jungle Room.
He got wasted, we had a merry old time and he only occasionally pet my calves in a downward motion, never once reaching for the no-go zone.
Another *brilliant* repellent for mommy-issued titty-lickers was imparted to me by this total babe of a stripper who was spritzing Chanel Noir everywhere one night, and, because it wasn’t from Bath and Body Works’ Cotton Candy line for baby prostitutes, I decided not to throw a fit about my delicate respiratory system and asked her why she was spraying such a concentrated amount on her areolae.
“So when they go to lick you it tastes like shit,” she says with a devious megawatt grin.
The lesson, Cunts:
If a man’s going to spend money, ain’t no thorns protecting your divine rose bush gonna stop him.
So save your razors, strut those sandpaper thighs and get back to me on this.