In the space of a few days, singer Dua Lipa was criticised for throwing money at twerking strippers, while JLo and Shakira’s pole dancing performance during the Super Bowl half-time show was chided for showcasing the exploitation of women.
Both reactions reflect the longstanding belief that strip clubs are a site of gender imbalance; seedy places where men pay for women’s consent.
I don’t agree.
As a stripper myself, I view strip clubs as places where femininity is valued, not depreciated, and as workplaces that provide poor, disabled, and women of colour a way to survive, transcend class and live independently.
When I started stripping four years ago in New York City, it was initially to pay off debt and work fewer hours. My attention disorder and autistic traits made 40 hour work weeks impossible to maintain.
Walking into my audition, I remember feeling nervous but excited at the prospect of having a job that allowed me to take time off and pick my own schedule.
I was also surprised, when I started working, at how much joy I felt in getting compensated for dancing in a way I’d previously ‘given away’ for free.
Despite the hyper-sexualized image of strip clubs, most of my job involved talking to men about their insecurities – their fear of failure, their inability to show weakness, always having to be calm and in control.
It was exhausting but at the same time rewarding to finally get paid for the emotional labour women are expected to undertake naturally. A 2019 Harvard study showed that women offered more emotional support to their partners – even when they’d had a taxing day at work, they were still responsible to care and nurture their families.
When I wasn’t talking, I was dancing, grinding, and letting customers touch me.
Misogyny teaches us that this type of work is worthless and doesn’t contribute any value to society. But strip clubs and other forms of sex work, like cam chat rooms and brothels, are spaces that acknowledge the value of femininity by encouraging customers to pay workers for their charms, conversation skills and sexual energy.
Part of what makes people uncomfortable about sex work is the assumption that customers purchase consent or the ability to use sex workers for their own nefarious ends.
When Dua Lipa posted a picture of herself at the club with a stack of ones and a caption that read ‘support your local girl gang’, the chain of responses included ‘women are not objects of entertainment’ and ‘money can’t buy consent’ – criticisms that reveal more about the commentator’s ideas about women than the reality of strip club transactions.
This stereotypical depiction of the voiceless sex worker is based on the belief that sexualised women can’t say no, and that promiscuous women are dumb or deserving of aggression and abuse.
In fact, consent is an integral part of my job. Customers constantly ask me, do you do extras? Can I touch your boobs? What goes on in the private room? If customers bought my consent, they wouldn’t ask these questions.
I set my own parameters for every dance. There have been times when my boundaries have been violated but assault doesn’t define my transactions. I have the ability to say no.
That’s not to say there isn’t a darker, more dangerous side to sex work, when women are trafficked and forced to work against their will. But I don’t believe it’s realistic to say that by supporting sex workers, you’re supporting sex trafficking.
Trafficking – the possession of people by force, threat or deception to exploit them through the illegal movement of a person into a country – is a global concern.
It happens in many industries where migrants and people in poverty work, like domestic, agricultural and factory work – not just sex work. These industries don’t create trafficking, but strict borders and immigration policies, neglectful foster and care systems and abusive relationships shape the conditions that lead to it.
Still, there is the idea that by decreasing the demand for sex work, human trafficking will go away. The Nordic Model of sex work, which criminalises clients, is built upon this, yet Amnesty International reported that it hasn’t been effective because it doesn’t address the reason most people sell sex: to survive in an unequal world.
This is not to say I have always been happy doing what I do. Stripping is ripe with labour violations. Calloused managers, high house fees (the fees strippers pay the club to work) and poor security are all factors that, after four years in the industry, have made me want to quit.
But when I look at other jobs, I see worker abuse in industries everywhere, from entertainment to service to healthcare. For millions of people across the globe, work is defined by exploitation.
The sex industry doesn’t exist outside capitalism but it is a safety net for many because there is a low bar of entry and high earning potential. As a disabled woman, it’s the most viable option for me at this time in my life – a fact that makes people very uncomfortable.
Yes, it’s true that stripping is a last resort for some. But it’s absurd and cruel to use this as a reason why people should not pay sex workers – if it truly is the last resort, they may not survive without the earnings from the club.
The delusion that workers will magically ‘make it’ through other means illuminates a glaring ignorance of poverty and disability. Instead, by supporting the sex industry, you’re strengthening the safety net.
When customers are happy to spend, appreciate how hard I work, and respect my boundaries, they’re allowing me to the opportunity to thrive. And while they may not realise it, they’re uplifting a female-heavy workforce, advocating for feminism in their own small way.
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source https://metro.co.uk/2020/02/11/paying-stripper-isnt-buying-consent-feminist-act-12201734/
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