Hostile Work Environment Tings

While I’m not old in general, and I’m not super old on the spectrum of people stripping, and customers continue picking up what I’m putting down, I still have this nagging fear that I’m aging out. Of course, there are numerous jobs one can work within the sex profession that pay well and assure longevity, but in the back of my head, there is a shameful little whisper telling me that I’m getting old. That shameful little voice is ageism and internalized whorephobia, and he is a real piece of shit, but unfortunately, there are people more than willing to verbalize that nonsense and there are few of us headstrong enough to tune it out. Tuesday, I did my best to quell my toxic friend, and as part of it, I decided to go out of my way to talk to other dancers.

I’m not the most social stripper. I wish I was, but I’m shy and lately I’ve been particularly anxious at work. My club is full of lovely strippers. I’ve been incredibly lucky to dance with a diverse group of people who are incredibly kind and supportive of one another. There are rarely fights at my club. More often than not, I see dancers encouraging one another, sharing resources, giving each other tips to overcome nervousness and insecurities, and being adorably affectionate. I noticed Darla, one of my friends who typically works weekends, was in. She’s one of those ideal dancers who started stripping to pay for grad school.

“Darla! How’s it going?”

“It’s been okay, pretty steady.”

“Did you just get here?”

“I got here around 3. I’ve been working twelve-hour shifts, trying to work as much as possible.”

“Damn, that’s a lot.”

“It is, but it’s okay. I need the money,” she leaned in, “They demoted me so now I can only work mid-shifts and day shifts, but it’s okay, I guess.”

“What?”

Since my club finally became AB5 compliant, what was once a very lenient environment has become increasingly tense. I don’t know if I’ve been exempt because I voluntarily work the less desirable shifts, or because I make the club money, but for whatever reason, I haven’t been subjected to any of the more punitive measures.

“Yeah. They’ve been demoting girls who ‘aren’t performing as well’. It’s some bullshit.”

“That’s ridiculous. It hasn’t even been busy lately.”

“I know. It’s fucked up. I should at least be able to choose when I come in.” Darla lowered her voice, “Mike was so pissed off during the Super Bowl. There were like sixty girls and less than half of them were making money, but it’s not our fault. It wasn’t even that busy that night. That’s when they started firing girls. I’m just glad I still have my job.”

“Wow, I must have just missed that.”

“You’re lucky you did.”

Darla went back out to the floor to continue working the sparse room. I coaxed myself out of the dressing room, following her lead. It was dead. There was a couple sitting together eyeing the stage; a small birthday party reaching its conclusions; and a tiny old man who I’d danced with a few times through the years, eating a plate of teriyaki stir fry. I wrote about him years ago. He comes to the club looking to play out a fantasy of teaching a lingerie-clad stripper how to box. Twice he’s taught me how to throw a punch and twice he’s had me punch him in his jaw with as much force as I could muster. Of course, for liability reasons, I refrained from truly knocking him sideways, but I gave him a few punches hard enough to hear his teeth click with the impact.

I could tell he didn’t recognize me. He knew me as Selena 3.0 with my straight clip-in ponytails, whereas I am now Selena 4.0, au naturel with a cascade of curly hair. I had little interest in talking to anyone, let alone this little Jeff Sessions, elf of an elderly White man, but I didn’t want to waste my time being antisocial. I attempted to sit beside him and he stopped me.

“Still eating,” he said, curtly.

“Gotcha.”

I took a seat at the next table over and waited until he finished. I could tell things were different. My racist spidey senses were tingling. Was he treating me different because I was Blackity Black now instead of ethnically ambiguous? It left a sour taste in my mouth. Why are racists so racist? I was essentially the same since he last saw me, and yet this minor change was enough for him to shoo me away. I didn’t want it to ruin my night, but I was upset. I decided I would remind him, whether or not he recognized me.

“You’re back,” he remarked with slight irritation, as if I was a fly buzzing in his ear.

“Well, you’ve danced with me a few times, so I figured I might as well try you.”

“You must be thinking of another person.”

“No. I know who you are.”

I made a fist and gently tapped it against his chin. His eyes lit up with surprise.

“Wow, it must have been years ago. I can’t believe you remember me.”

“Well, it’s not often someone asks me to punch them in the face during a dance.”

“Not the face, the jaw. Doesn’t leave as many marks or bruises if you punch the jaw.”

He squinted at me, clearly drawing a blank, but he reached down and began stroking my knee. He was interested in spite of being blindsided.

“I guess you never took me up on my offer,” he said.

He wasn’t the most generous man. At the time of his offer, I was particularly over extended. I had more clients than I had time for, paying me more money than I knew what to do with. He had offered me a measly $500 to come by his hotel for a sexy boxing lesson. He promised he had no interest in touching me sexually or in pleasuring himself. He just wanted to teach me how to box while I wore lingerie. At the time I’d considered it, but it felt like too little money for the commute and amount of exposure I’d face going up to the hotel room of a very elderly man. There was no way I could pass as anything but a whore. He also gave off cheap energy, like the grandpa who gives you $5 and tells you to buy yourself some lunch. Ah yes, that $5 LA lunch. I will help myself to a very fancy bacon wrapped street stand hotdog. I hate dealing with cheap clients.

“I did not.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t know you well enough. I’d only met you twice.”

“What about now?”

I considered it. There are fat years and there are lean years, and the past year has very much been a lean year. While the rich are doing well, those of us in the middle have not done so well. Many of my clients haven’t returned to the club. I know a number of them relocated to so-called Zoom Towns: smaller cities that grew as people left expensive major cities and switched to remote work over the course of the pandemic. While I’ve been lucky enough to maintain loyal clients who’ve supported me through this period, I’ve also lost the majority of my regulars and my bottomline has not recovered. An additional $500 on top of whatever I might make during my shift would make a significant difference.

“I’m open to it,” I sighed.

“What time do you get off?” he asked.

“Midnight or one, depending. Are you leaving tomorrow?”

“I am. You could come after your shift, but I’ll be asleep. You can wake me up. Just call the hotel and ask for my name.”

“Okay,” I hesitated.

He softened, “Let’s play it by ear. If you’re tired, we can get together next time I’m in town, earlier in the day.”

“Perfect.”

He stood, I sensed he was excited. I hoped he would still buy a dance with me since he’d stopped in, but instead he reached into his wallet and handed me $20.

“Glad you came up to me. Can’t wait to see you again, beautiful.”

He smiled and walked out. There wasn’t anything I could do other than accept that he was a lost cause. At a time in my career, I had enough of a sense of adventure in me that I would have finished my shift and made a beeline over to the outcall, but I’m not the spritely hoe I once was. I’d meet him next time at a reasonable hour.

I made a lap around the club, shaking off the disappointment and found Cassandra sitting on the bar beside the DJ booth.

“Cassie!”

We embraced.

“How’ve you been?” I asked.

“Okay,” she half sung with a downward lilt, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, you come up a lot on my discover page. I’ve been reading your posts, and I’ve been trying to apply some of your tips for new dancers because I’ve been having trouble lately. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that your tips are really helpful, and your posts are always very well written and thoughtful.”

I felt like a little clam. I wanted to shut myself away and hide. I’m the worst at taking compliments, especially the very sweet and heartfelt ones. I was grateful the red light overhead camouflaged the blush I felt prickling my ears.

“That’s so sweet of you. I’m glad they’ve been helpful.”

“I also read your post about transitioning. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I talked to Dino about it and he said, ‘Well, you are getting older. The new girls are 18, 19 and you’re 26.’ I mean, I know I’m not old, but I’m old for here.”

“You’re not old, I’m old,” I scoffed, “And that’s ridiculous. You don’t look old! You have such a baby face.”

“I know! But they make me feel old. And Jorge has been saying super rude stuff to me.”

“Like what?”

Cassandra checked to see that we were out of earshot, “He’s been saying stuff like, I need to lose weight, that my stomach is too fat.”

“You’re not fat! And even if you were, guys like thick girls.”

“He was like, ‘you think you’re cute, but nobody wants to dance with you.’ I got so upset, I couldn’t finish my shift. I sent Dino a message about what Jorge said, and he called me. It was so awkward. He was like, ‘You aren’t the first girl who’s said this. I’m going to have to have a talk with him.’ Which only made it worse, because now Jorge hates me.”

“That’s so fucked up.”

“And like, no shade, but Jorge is— you know! He’s big. Like, worry about yourself.”

“Yo! No shame, but I don’t get how he’s judging you. He’s fat, and ugly. It sounds like he’s taking out his insecurities on y’all. I’m sorry. That’s so rude.”

All managers have their favorites. They also all seem to have a hit list of dancers they dream of firing. Jorge started off as a bouncer, but over the course of the pandemic got promoted to manager. He was the one who hired me back. He’s partial to Latina, Spanish speaking dancers. My Spanish is provisional, but I get a pass. Jorge has seemed particularly burned out lately. I remember one evening I brought a customer up to purchase a dance. Jorge was manning the register.

“You’re a lucky man, getting to be around so many sexy girls,” the man had remarked.

Jorge yawned, “Yeah.”

The man looked at me, licking his lips, then returned his gaze to Jorge, “You don’t look excited.”

“You’re here long enough, it gets boring.”

“I don’t think I could ever get bored,” the man grinned lasciviously.

Jorge wistfully smiled and handed the man his receipt, “Enjoy.”

Jorge is fat. Fat is not bad, it’s just what it is. He is also ugly. I know it’s taboo to say this stuff, but we all know that some people are ugly. It doesn’t speak to their character, how cool they are, or the quality of their lives, it’s just an aesthetic observation. It’s not something I would usually point out, because it’s rude, but Jorge was picking on my friends and I couldn’t believe he felt like he had the high ground to be making judgments on their appearances.

“Thanks, girl. I appreciate it,” Cassandra sniffled.

Cassandra’s experience was just the tip of the iceberg. Over the next few hours, other dancers told me about dark skin Black strippers being prevented from working because “there were too many Black girls” already working that shift; I heard from more dancers forced into day and mid shift after gaining pandemic weight; and perhaps the worst and weirdest one:

“Ronny tried to get me to shower with him.”

“What?” I asked, aghast.

“There’s a shower upstairs in the office,” Liberty explained.

“What??”

I couldn’t believe it. I had no idea there was a shower up there.

“Yeah,” Lexus chimed in, “There’s a shower in the back.”

“I told Ronny I was sweaty after I got off stage, and he was like, ‘You should take a shower, I’ll help you,’ like a creep,” Liberty pretended to vomit.

“That’s so gross. What the hell?”

I couldn’t believe it, and yet, of course I could. Veteran strippers always advise the babies never to go to the manager’s office alone. I’ve heard it a million times, from club to club, a warning I’ve even given to the baby strippers. I picked my club with the naive hope that maybe I’d found a club that was better than the others, but the reality is that they’re all the same. They’re all ruled by weak men who prey upon our insecurities and job precarity, who abuse us with little to no recourse.

It was disheartening to hear so many testimonies in one night about how hostile the work environment has become. My friends were suffering. Many had made peace with being treated poorly, which was almost worse. I didn’t want them to resign themselves to such a fucked up situation, but I also knew that I’d resigned myself to the same shitty situation. Even with all of my knowledge of labor rights and the various agencies we could petition for oversight, I’ve still been very hesitant to take action. Like everyone else, I’m afraid of losing my job or being forced to only work undesirable shifts. I’m afraid of being bullied by management or blackmailed because I engage in some prostitution. It is very hard to be fully free and empowered when the system has been built to disempower you. But it feels like now more than ever, we have to do something.