I’m more than happy to enable you

I’m in the thick of my journey toward becoming a psychotherapist, reading nonstop about the many different theoretical frameworks I could choose to operate from as part of my future practice. Hater that I am, I was immediately put off by the behavioral/cognitive therapeutic techniques due to their insistence upon “empirically validated” approaches. I do not trust the system. I do not trust scientific analysis of such a deeply human and subjective construct. There have been plenty of investigations into the so-called objectivity of psychiatric science, and time and time again, investigators find bias galore. From blatantly racist creations of things like drapetomania which made slaves fleeing captivity a diagnosable disorder, to the blatantly sexist treatments for hysteria, which often involved institutionalized sexual assault as a form of “treatment”. Contemporary meta-analyses of the studies that framed our contemporary ideas of the efficacy of certain techniques and frameworks have revealed that test subjects have historically been white, male and middle to upper class. The theorists crafting the various concepts of the mind have been overwhelmingly white men, although this is changing. We can’t divorce the current field from its history of inventing mental illnesses to control and institutionalize certain people.

That said, I’ve found myself wearing my psychotherapist cap outside of school hours. I remember when I first disclosed to my regulars what I was studying, and many of them would let out a little knowing groan and say the same thing:

“You’re gonna start psychoanalyzing me, aren’t you.”

For the most part, I haven’t–at least in the way of looking to diagnose mental illness. But I have begun looking at people with an eye for problem solving. Worse still, I’ve honed in on cognitive and behavioral problem solving. Do I like the idea that a black and white approach to therapy might actually be effective? No. My brain wants everything to be nuanced shades gray, but because I love challenging myself. I decided to try cognitive experiments on myself and customers. It sounds more dastardly than it is–an unlicensed student performing mind tricks, but the reality is something like this:

I strode over to an awkward, stringbean of a man sitting at the bar, wearing a polished yet understated pair of dark jeans and a nondescript black t-shirt. He looked like a Silicon Valley tech nerd, or someone adjacent, and I do well with nerds.

“Hi!” I beamed warmly at him.

“Hi, oh sorry,” he said, standing, “You want a chair, right?”

“Oh nah, I’m okay.”

“Oh,” he began sitting down, then looked back up at me and stood again, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine standing! What’s your name?”

“Jamie. And yours?”

“Selena. Nice to meet you, Jamie.”

Jamie tittered, not quite sure of what to say. He looked away from me, and noticed the man occupying the stool behind us was gathering his things to leave. He popped up and grabbed the vacated stool. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if he was grabbing it so that I could sit and leave him alone, or if he wanted to talk to me. Then he pushed the stools closer together. I couldn’t quite read him. He was looking in every direction except for mine, and seemed very distracted. Our conversation mirrored the staccato, off-kilter energy between us.

“You from around here?” I asked.

“No, I’m from Florida. You live here?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Of course you live here, what kind of a question is that?” he murmured to himself.

I pressed on a smile, hoping to smooth the tension, “Do you live there now?”

“Yeah.”

“You here for business or fun?”

“I’m visiting friends.”

He didn’t elaborate. I kept hoping he would latch onto any of my banal opening questions, but no dice.

“Oh, that’s nice. You like it here?”

“Yeah, I like it.”

Not everyone is good at small talk. I wouldn’t consider myself particularly adept at it. Most of the time, customers have no trouble talking about themselves given a gentle nudge, but it was evident this man was not as eager to divulge.

“So, what do you do?” I asked.

“Actually, I’m kinda retired, weirdly enough.”

“Wow, that’s fantastic! Congrats.”

“Thanks, it is good.” He looked down, his face suddenly dreary and ashen, “But sometimes it’s not. Like right now. Sometimes it’s not a good thing to be able to do whatever I want.”

I felt the ominousness behind his words.

“Aw, well I hope tonight will be fun for you!”

As a stripper, it is not my job to ask too many deep questions. It is not my job to investigate foreboding statements made by clients unless I feel that my safety is in question.

“So uh, do you party?”

“I don’t, but I’m more than happy to enable you.”

Jamie snorted, “Funny way of putting that. Anyway, you wanna go up to the box up there with me and I can party?”

“To Heaven? I’d love that.”

“Sure, whatever the hour is called. Also, you know where I can buy some?”

“I uhhh,” I scanned the room, looking for the guy who supplies for the club, “Yeah, I think I know a guy who has some.”

It is somewhat my job to enable people. I encourage them to spend more when they hesitate. I cheer them on when they want to drink. I suggest they make the most of being in our special little house of deviance–they might as well, they’re already there. Did I feel guilt participating in what I sensed was a sordid ritual for this man? Not really. I considered it, but I’m a firm believer in people’s right to ruin their own lives without interference.

Jamie gathered the party gear and purchased a room with me. We took the Heaven box suite in the corner with the full view of the club. After Axel brought us shots and bottled water, I closed the curtains around us.

Apparently, after my last shift, regulators came by my club and performed a safety check. I wasn’t informed of which agency, just that whoever had checked issued a large fine due to the closed-door and curtained lap dance areas. To pay off the fine, my club added a special little privacy bribe price: if customers wanted a fully private dance, they would have to pay up. The bribes ranged from an extra fifty dollars to an extra $200 for the hour booths. It seemed exorbitant, especially considering the already high cost of things due to inflation, but Jamie paid the extra without a single gripe, and tipped Axel for… being Axel? The whole situation was infuriating. Dance prices had gone up significantly, which meant dancers would have to hustle harder to sell them without receiving any increase in their cut of the dance. It was more bullshit upon an increasingly expansive pile of recently enstated bullshit.

Jamie didn’t bat an eye. He took a seat in the corner of the couch at an angle that proved to be almost completely inaccessible. It was the place a customer sits when they’re a little afraid of their stripper. I sensed that Jamie needed to ease into an intimate interaction. He fished his keychain out of his pocket and inhaled a few generous bumps, then slid the little baggie between the couch cushions. For a moment, I thought that it was an accident, but it became evident that it was a purposeful maneuver.

“It’s crazy here,” he said, leaning his head to get a full view of the club. His eyes shot up to the camera above us, “I bet they’re broadcasting us right now.”