Dry January pt. 2

I want to say that *Not All People In Colorado Are Racist*, but a group of White people in camo jackets from Colorado miiiiiiiight just be racist. I gauge whether or not White customers are racist based on whether or not they tip Black dancers less than White dancers performing equally complex routines. The Colorado group did not pass the vibe check. They definitely were stingy with the Black strippers. If I’d been doing worse that night, I might have made the mistake of taking their bigoted choices personally, but I was doing well. I’d made my quota and then some, and I still had Juan coming in to round out my night.

Since reluctantly joining in with the rest of the California strip clubs in half-assed compliance with AB5, the bill that officially turned strippers into employees (we have technically been misclassified across the country as independent contractors, and I believe similar AB5 equivalents will pop up in many more states), my club has enforced a new dance quota policy. Strippers have to sell either three single-song dances or one VIP set per night to get paid their hourly wage. We have to sell between $153-$210 in dances to be in the clear. Technically management said we only have to sell $75 in dances, but they only count our cut of the dances, not the full price of the dances. We only receive half of the money made from each dance, so we were already getting a piss poor deal. They added salt to the wound, making us pay our own wage and our wage taxes from the dances we sell. It’s totally illegal, and dancers are getting screwed more than ever before.

I popped into the dressing room and bumped into Kira, one of my friends. She works nearly every night. Kira is young, about twenty-years-old. She got into dancing to escape a roommate who was pressuring her to engage in a sexual relationship she didn’t want. She’s one of the new Black dancers who was surprisingly hired by my most racist manager (I wouldn’t be surprised if my club was fighting a Title VII case, since they recently brought on a number of Black dancers).

“You just get here?” I asked.

“Yeah,” She nodded.

“How was it last night?”

“Slow,” she sighed, “I barely made the quota, but they didn’t pay me because they said I still owed money from the night before.”

“Damn.”

In spite of who I am outside of the club, in the club I’m very quiet. I don’t talk about my politics. I’m not mounting a union campaign on the low. I go to work, make small talk with my coworkers to stay in everyone’s good graces, and leave when I hit the five-hour mark. But sometimes it’s hard not to say something, especially with the new girls.

“Do you do well here?” I asked Kira.

“Yeah, I do.”

“That’s good. I’m glad. It can be hard. Had you danced before working here?”

“No, but I’ve tried a few other places since starting here. I did Crazy Girls and Sam’s. It’s just really loud at those places.”

“It’s a different environment for sure.”

Kira slumped in her chair, waiting for the hot iron to heat up. I didn’t want to assume anything about her experience. Sometimes stripping is great for Black dancers, myself case-in-point, but I know generally it’s harder for us than for our White counterparts. However, the quota was hurting everyone in a fucked up semi-egalitarian fashion. The only ones who were doing well consistently were the veteran dancers, because veterans hold onto their regulars. The baby strippers were just finding their footing, but the quota kept knocking them down.

“You know this stuff is illegal,” I said quietly, afraid of being overheard.

“I know,” Kira said.

At that moment, another dancer named Georgia came in. Georgia is a young veteran. She comes in early and leaves late. She’s Filipina, so we end up playing to similar demographics. Mostly White men looking for flavor. She’s tried to poach my regulars on nights when I’m away, but whenever I’m around, it’s no competition. Georgia and I both meet our quotas without exception. We’re hardened hustlers, equipped with a willingness to give handjobs in the back.

“What are you guys talking about?” Georgia asked.

“Just the quota. I didn’t make mine, so I haven’t gotten paid yet.” Kira replied.

“Oh. Well, you just gotta make the quota next time!” Georgia replied chipperly as she walked back out.

Noted. Georgia was a scab. If anything went down, it was clear Georgia couldn’t be counted on for worker solidarity.

Kira wasn’t the only one facing issues. Evan came in while I was hustling another customer and ended up in a conversation with Cassandra, another one of my stripper friends. Cassandra is a bit like a baby elephant: adorable, a little bit clumsy, forgets to point her toes when she pole dances. She came over to sit with Evan after he tipped her on stage. I watched them while I nudged the man I was sitting with to buy the goddamn dance and stop fucking around. He purchased a meager three-set while Evan bought a fifteen minute room with Cassandra, then returned sheepishly. I sat on his lap, wrestling with an unexpected pang of jealousy.

“I didn’t even get a fifteen minute,” I pouted.

“Aw, I didn’t know how long you would be gone,” he leaned in, rubbing my hand, “Nothing happened, I didn’t even get hard.”

“It’s okay if you did,” I said, even though I was a little relieved.

“She told me she was worried she wouldn’t make her quota tonight, that she’s been having trouble, and if she just sold one Skybox she wouldn’t have to worry.”

I was still jealous, but a bit less so. The irony wasn’t lost on me, as a poly sex worker and someone who genuinely loves Cassandra, but feelings don’t obey the laws of logic, and I felt the animalistic urge to piss on my territory. Evan was mine, and if he had enough to spend $210 on Cassandra, he could spend double on me.

Admittedly, this is a toxic trait, but sometimes yo soy toxica.

Circling back to Juan, I figured he would be my last dance of the evening. I’d forgotten how tiring working past midnight could be. I was rapidly losing steam. Some people are night owls who thrive on late night escapades. They love clubbing until sunrise, seeing where the party takes them. I, on the other hand, am only occupationally social, and even then, I’m fighting my internal clock.

I was grateful Juan would round out my night. While there was a period earlier in our relationship when sexual touch was more on the table, at this point he comes to me for emotional comfort and intellectual inspiration.

When he arrived, he took one look at me and asked, “Let’s go straight back?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I just have to pick up my last client after this,” he said apologetically.

“It’s actually perfect.”

We took our usual booth and I sat in his lap, wrapping him in a hug. I kneaded his neck and shoulders. He was tight, but not as tight as he’d been when he first came by the club.

“I’ve been doing the TMJ exercises every day, and the ones for my shoulders. They’ve been helping.”

I’d recommended stress release exercises when I first noticed his jaw tension. Juan is a sponge, he listens and absorbs all of my suggestions. It surprised me at first. He works twelve-hour days and six-day work weeks most of the time, yet somehow he’s managed to squeeze in a regular fitness routine; tear through more than five books on sex work; fit in a massage once every few weeks; and make time for his other hobbies like cooking and sewing. I wish my other customers were as proactive as Juan in doing better for themselves. I’ve gone back and forth too many times with stubborn men who know their habits are slowly killing them, but who refuse to make any changes. It was nice to actually see someone listen and do better.

I laid my head on Juan’s chest, indulging my own fatigue for a moment.

Sex work isn’t easy. It wears you down, sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once. Men ask me what it’s like to have so many people want me–what it’s like to be desirable. What it’s like to be hot. It’s a complicated question. It can give me certain powers, but simultaneously it’s a very passive state of being. I am seen, observed, wanted, touched. I hear everyone’s opinions on my body and what they imagine my life to be like. They make predictions, map out my options, tell me what I should be doing if I was smart. And I receive all of this, sometimes unable to sort out where I am in all of these conceptions. What do I want? What is my experience in my own body? What does desirability mean when it feels like nothing more than something ephemeral that amounts to only a little for only a little bit of time?

All night I’d been poked and prodded, negotiated with for the most intimate services. I was grateful not to have to bargain with Juan or reiterate my boundaries only to have them broken. I trusted him to just hold me.

“I’m sorry, I’m just tired,” I said.

“It’s fine. You can rest on me.”

It’s hard to wrestle with my clients’ generosity sometimes. I want to feel like I deserve it, like I’ve earned all of the money I’ve made through hard work. When my clients want me to rest or simply focus on my own enjoyment and they pay me to do it, I have to fight the feeling that I’m doing something wrong accepting it. I know how hard Juan works to make the money he hands me. I feel a particular responsibility to give him as much of my care and attention as possible when he pays for our sessions. But I know that he just wants me to do what I want him to do: to take care of myself and listen to my body.

I shut my eyes and allowed myself to rest.