Why do you strip?
I have asked that question, and I have been asked that question.
For me, it started as a very safe class where I could learn to be more expressive, and help my person and my dance. Indeed, it was all of that. My teacher and classmates challenged me to take part in the recital at Devil’s Point. I did extremely well. Ditto the second recital. Ditto the third one, at Sassy’s. On to auditions… I was hooked. But that only tells how I got into it, not why.
That is hard to describe. I have had friends offer all kinds of pop psychology reasons. Ditto on why I did Mary Kay for a while. The fact is I did Mary Kay (and still do, at cost only) for one very solid reason: I LOVE their products. They have the best cleansers and makeup. But I digress….
Pop psychology aside, I started asking dancers when I worked at the now defunct Club 92, since purchased by the City to be razed to make way for MAX parkers. The answers surprised me, because they struck such a chord in me. I asked one dancer who used to be the muscle-girl of her cell-block. She answered exactly like I do: “I dunno. It’s just kinda addicting. The music, the dancing, being in shape, being the center of attention. Drinking.” Well, ok. I don’t like drinking much, and I rarely do. And no drugs. They are just way too disruptive.
I asked another, from Sassy’s. She replied, “I dunno. It’s kind of addicting. You are the center of attention, you get to drink lots, do lots of drugs, go home with your pick of the guys at the end of your shift.” Hmm… ok… not ALL of their reasons strike a chord.
And yet another from my current club: “I dunno. It’s kinda addicting. You get to drink, maybe do some drugs, be the center of attention, get a great workout and get paid for it.” Ok… NOW we are talking. Work out and get paid.
Personally, I like to dance. DANCE turns me into another being. My cares drop away, my sadness disappears, and I am in love again. With anyone and everyone and everything. I love to push my dance abilities. Practice moving the bottom half slow and the top half fast. See how far I can drive a guy into a frenzy with my teasing. Pushing myself to new limits on the pole and on the rack. Dancing in new ways to old songs. Playing new music and figuring out how to dance to it and make it interesting. (Think Stonewall Jackson or Porter Wagoner here.) Working hard… dancing solo shifts for 6 or 7 or 8 hours non-stop, with only rare breaks and feeling completely thrashed at the end of it, muscles shaking, legs too weak to push up off the floor. Tremendous workouts and being able to eat anything and sleep well and be really toned and get paid to do it all. Wow! What’s not to like?
Do you remember an interview I did with a dancer from Union Jack’s way back when? It was Portrait of a Stripper – Muse (http://www.salsaportland.com/blog/meryl/comments.php?y=07&m=02&entry=entry070211-191227). She talked about (among other things) making contact, and watching for that shift in the customer’s eyes. I would phrase it more as “making a connection.” It is the essence of all dance, in my mind. I learned that early on in Salsa and EC Swing. And Tango. The CONNECTION is what dance is all about. It only happens once in a while. It might happen once in a night of social dancing. But in stripping, it happens a lot more. Not every song, not even every set. But it happens multiple times every shift. And it is invigorating, stimulating, exciting, and energizing. It inspires me to gain more control over my body parts, because the connection always happens on a physical level, whether it is social dance or strip dance. (It IS dance, after all.) And sometimes I get someone’s attention first for how I move some part of me. From there I can start to drill down and find what captures him and holds him. The more I have to offer in terms of how I can manipulate body parts in unique ways and combinations, the easier and more rewarding it is to make and hold that connection. And that is when it all starts to come together and make dance what is always is for me: my life, my love, my sex, my everything. I don’t need a therapist, or a lover, or a close friend, or a mother or father, a brother or sister. It is just dance and me and the music. And when I am naked, I have nothing to hide sloppy technique behind. The first time I danced completely naked made me realize that even just a thong gave SOME protection, but when you are naked, you have nothing to hide bad dance moves behind.
A customer said the other day, “That music you are dancing to makes me want to FIGHT!” (I think it was Primus, or maybe Rod Zombie.) He elaborated. It makes him so full of adrenalin that if he had to go fight, that would be what he would want to listen to. (Sounds like a Scot and his bagpipes!) Well, for me it makes me want to get on stage and crawl all up and down the pole and dance upside down, and hang backwards off the rack and spin and turn across the floor and get bottoms up and naked and scratch my skin in long red gouges with my long fake nails and pull my hair until it hurts and push my body to its very limits. It is almost Pavlovian for me. I hear it and I start to tremble.
So why do I dance? I dunno. It’s kind of addicting, though. I love the music, being the center of attention, entertaining people, performing, making a connection, pushing my body, teasing guys half crazy, being naked, dancing, doing pole-work that scares people (and me), pushing my limits, getting to work out like crazy and get paid for it.
Why do YOU dance (Salsa, Swing, Tango, whatever is your choice)? Share with the rest of us… add a comment!
July 31, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Ya gotta be tough
Ya Gotta Be Tough
It was another slow Sunday-morning opening shift. The three dancers on shift were all sitting on the edge of the stage, on the rack, chatting among themselves. The bartender had a single customer, who sat with his butt to the stage. (It’s odd, but after more than a year in the business, it has become “butt” rather than “back.”) The jukebox was still playing; there has to be a song on at all times in case someone pokes their head in the door. But it was turned down, so the dancers didn’t have to shout.
Two of the dancers were talking about a dancer who wasn’t on yet, while the third one spaced in and out of the conversation. Suddenly, the third dancer started paying attention. “What did you say about her? What happened to her?” she asked the others.
“Oh… she got beat up really bad. Someone hit her with a cue ball.”
“Oh shit! Why?”
“She tried to break up a fight and some chick turned around and nailed her with it. That’s why you haven’t seen her in a while. She’s totally black and blue. It broke her eye socket.”
They exhausted that episode, and moved on to one closer to home. Several years ago, one of the dancers in this club was beaten up. She was walking along the bar, where a couple sat talking animatedly. She was saying something to another dancer over her shoulder, not paying attention to the couple at the bar. The woman at the bar overheard her, and in her alcohol-altered state, she thought she was being dissed. She yelled something at the dancer. The dancer turned to her to ask her what she was saying. She saw the woman reach back to the bar, like she was going to pick something up for her. She did….
The woman picked up her pint beer class and round-housed the dancer in the face with it. The glass broke, and blood spurted from the dancer’s face. Amazingly, she stood… long shocked moments while the entire bar stopped and stared in disbelief. She swayed and stared at the woman, blood flowing from her face, then tried to light into her. But by then the bouncer was there, other dancers were there, several customers were there, and the woman went down in a heap on the floor before the dancer could get to her.
Eventually the cops were called, an ambulance was called, and everyone got sorted. Alas for the dancer, she had broken bones in her face in addition to a 2-inch gash. She didn’t dance again for over a year, while everything healed and the scar faded. It was a sobering lesson on the volatility of life in an alcohol-fueled environment.
July 22, 2008
It was another slow Sunday-morning opening shift. The three dancers on shift were all sitting on the edge of the stage, on the rack, chatting among themselves. The bartender had a single customer, who sat with his butt to the stage. (It’s odd, but after more than a year in the business, it has become “butt” rather than “back.”) The jukebox was still playing; there has to be a song on at all times in case someone pokes their head in the door. But it was turned down, so the dancers didn’t have to shout.
Two of the dancers were talking about a dancer who wasn’t on yet, while the third one spaced in and out of the conversation. Suddenly, the third dancer started paying attention. “What did you say about her? What happened to her?” she asked the others.
“Oh… she got beat up really bad. Someone hit her with a cue ball.”
“Oh shit! Why?”
“She tried to break up a fight and some chick turned around and nailed her with it. That’s why you haven’t seen her in a while. She’s totally black and blue. It broke her eye socket.”
They exhausted that episode, and moved on to one closer to home. Several years ago, one of the dancers in this club was beaten up. She was walking along the bar, where a couple sat talking animatedly. She was saying something to another dancer over her shoulder, not paying attention to the couple at the bar. The woman at the bar overheard her, and in her alcohol-altered state, she thought she was being dissed. She yelled something at the dancer. The dancer turned to her to ask her what she was saying. She saw the woman reach back to the bar, like she was going to pick something up for her. She did….
The woman picked up her pint beer class and round-housed the dancer in the face with it. The glass broke, and blood spurted from the dancer’s face. Amazingly, she stood… long shocked moments while the entire bar stopped and stared in disbelief. She swayed and stared at the woman, blood flowing from her face, then tried to light into her. But by then the bouncer was there, other dancers were there, several customers were there, and the woman went down in a heap on the floor before the dancer could get to her.
Eventually the cops were called, an ambulance was called, and everyone got sorted. Alas for the dancer, she had broken bones in her face in addition to a 2-inch gash. She didn’t dance again for over a year, while everything healed and the scar faded. It was a sobering lesson on the volatility of life in an alcohol-fueled environment.
July 22, 2008
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