A Love For Men

It’s the holiday season and while I am anti-Thanksgiving, I am pro having national days off because working is a scam. I took as much time as I could away from the work I do; partially because of the holiday, partially because my period was ravaging my body and I’m beholden to it for now. There may come a time when I’m ready to consider *endometrial ablation, but for now, the question of whether or not my uterus has a use is TBD.

***minor detour***

You might be wondering, what is endometrial ablation?

Endometrial ablation is a procedure that surgically destroys (ablates) the lining of your uterus (endometrium). The goal of endometrial ablation is to reduce menstrual flow. In some people, menstrual flow may stop completely.

Does having an endometrial ablation affect hormones?

No, endometrial ablation affects only the endometrial lining preventing it from bleeding. Your ovaries continue to function normally so your hormonal status does not change and you won't go into menopause early.

It’s a safe and minimally invasive procedure that more people with periods should know about, especially if being a biological parent isn’t something you want.

***end detour***

There’s usually no good reason to work a shift at the club during Thanksgiving (National Day Of Mourning) week. Business slows to a trickle; customers cling to their wallets; people get nostalgic and talk too long. You meet a lot of lonely men looking to run away with you, already on their way to the airport for a flight to Costa Rica because it’s their first holiday since the divorce and they don’t have anywhere else to be, since the kids are with their mom. I didn’t have the patience to entertain lonely men because my breasts were so swollen they’d nearly doubled in size and my nipples refused to do anything but stand painfully at attention; my stomach was distended and bloated; and insomnia was eating away at any tendrils of energy PMDD hadn’t already stolen from me. There’s no way to convey this sort of information to new customers to convince them to handle me gently. Periods and menstrual cycles are an integral part of the strip club experience, and yet the customers remain blissfully unaware that half of us are bleeding at any given time.

Periods have changed for me through the years. When I was younger, my cycles were heavy, but not particularly painful and I didn’t have to deal with the shit I have to deal with now like crawling skin and my body temperature fluctuating wildly at night. Apparently PMS/periods intensify at around 30-years-old for people who haven't given birth, and thanks to my lovely IUD, I have managed not to give birth for this long. It’s all part of this ongoing change I’ve felt creeping up on me as I transition from young adulthood to just being grown.

I look different. I’ve always looked young for my age, so I don’t have trouble physically blending in with the baby strippers, but now I see the world differently. I’m less naive than I was, and in retrospect, I can see how brash and naive I was when I first got into sex work. The naivete was the fun of it. Now that I’m savvy, I don’t find myself discovering the world anymore. I’m there, and deeply integrated into it. I know every nook and cranny and I’m my own fixture in the building--one of those dim chandeliers in a VIP booth, watching some stripper give a hand job below me.

There’s nothing wrong with experience or seniority as a stripper, but I will say that I feel the weight of stigma more than I did when I was just beginning. It’s not just a post-college stint, it’s a sizable chunk of my young life, and as much as I swore up and down it wouldn’t change me, it has changed me. On a physical level, the stress dancing has put on my joints cannot be understated. I snap, crackle and pop like a box of Rice Krispies. I may be able to throw myself into a variety of splits and even do them on the pole, but at this point, I don’t just bust out the tricks because I’m feeling myself. I have to take it easy on my body or else I’ll end up like my mom with a pinched disk that can only be remedied with spinal surgery. I watch the young dancers now, feeling like a retired racehorse about to be sold off to the glue factory. They plop onto their bare knees in clear plastic heels with zero ankle support, without a care in the world. Meanwhile, I have compression socks on at all times and still have to take breaks to massage what might be arthritis. It doesn’t matter what kind of dance you do, your body wears down over time with use. And I’ve used my body to do more than the average person. Strippers joke about aging in dog years, and the jokes slap because they’re kinda true. I know too many dancers in their twenties with chronic pain, including myself. So I watch the youngins now, and remember what it was like when I began and how much fun I had not knowing what I do now, not feeling the way I do now in my body.

It was a glorious time. Not knowing what good money was. Whatever I made on any given night was more than I might have made working an entire week at my previous jobs. Not thinking about shoes with ankle support, I was just happy I could afford any pair of dance shoes. Not owning a single set of lingerie, let alone multiple sets that run several hundred dollars. Not having quality makeup or human hair extensions. Not knowing how to bargain. Not knowing how to ask for tips. Not even really knowing how to dance on stage. But I was so happy just to be there, in this magical world I’d only imagined.

On the flip, I’ve managed to attain so many sex work goals, the most recent of which was getting diamonds for my birthday. It wasn’t the most ostentatious piece of jewelry, and I know that most diamonds are not ethically sourced, but finally getting something with lasting value scratched the itch I’ve had to find a daddy who will cover me in gold and buy me expensive things. I’m not a conspicuous consumption kind of fae, but I do like the romance of the image. It’s one of those goals that White sex workers reach faster, because they’re valued differently. White people are expected to demand everything and to need to be placated. Black sex workers get there too, but often the journey is circumspect and we’re forced to settle for less, even from the customers who swear they love us to the moon and back.

I know that through the years my perspective has become more jaded toward customers. When I first began writing, I was intrigued by everyone, and I wanted to hear their stories. I couldn’t read a room the way I can now. It was sensory overload trying to process the revolving door of people who filled the club every night. In some ways it still is, but instead of offering strangers every bit of me, I’ve taken to rationing out how much I’m willing to give. I don’t talk to customers like I used to, divulging my hopes and aspirations, and I don’t ply them with questions that go too deep. Part of getting better at my jobs meant being more efficient in how I use my time, and that can mean keeping things superficial. Oversharing may have led to some great stories through the years, but oftentimes they came at a cost. I lost dances or lingered long enough to be belittled for my career choices. There are good men, but there are also a lot of rotten men who spoil things for the good ones. I’ve hardened because of the bad men. It isn’t what I’d hoped for, or the view I went into the industry with, but it is the reality. Now I get comments from men who feel hurt because I sometimes say callous, misandrist things. I want to care about men’s feelings because I know that essentializing rhetoric hurts everyone stuck inside this toxic paradigm, and yet I don’t care that much. Most men aren’t bending over backward to consider the complexity of the position femmes are put into, spending our lives accepting a constant level of fear and violence at the hands of masc perpetrators. The idea that men are trash didn’t come from nowhere. It came from lived experience shared by women and femmes across the world. It came from the exhaustion we feel knowing we can’t go out alone at night. It came from knowing most of our rape cases will never receive justice. It comes from being doubted and undermined, assumed to be anything but the expert regardless of education or direct experience. It comes from having politicized bodies that are not permitted to exist freely, that are demonized, that are the source of constant commentary. It comes from incessant, entitled demands from men for our attention, empathy, and access to our minds and bodies while they fail to consider the demands we already bear. No, I don’t hate all men, but loving men is not easy, and working in a profession where the job is to perform a love for men--a love for those who perpetuate violence--takes its toll.

I know this entry has been existential and meandering, but zaddy needed a mental break for the holiday y’all. I’ll be posting a proper story later this week. Thank you so much for subscribing and supporting me through the slow season. Your help makes all the difference.

XO