Burn out or time to change strategies?

I just passed my fifth anniversary in the sex industry last October, and I have been wondering how I want to continue. As I've gotten older and more jaded, talking with customers in a strip club environment has gotten increasingly tiresome. Of course I want to shepherd them to the VIP as quickly as possible because I want their money, but mostly it's because I'd much rather be grinding on their lap than engaging in the same rehearsed drivel over and over again. My hustle has never been that great, but when I was 20, 10 pounds lighter, and significantly less tattooed it just didn't seem as important.

I love stripping, and I'm pretty good at at pole tricks and floor work. I love being naked and having people watch me and reward me financially. I even like rubbing someone off with my ass in a dance, it may be a hang over from my pro switch days but it makes me feel in control (which I like). However, the prospect of talking idly with customers has taken on such an anxiety inducing quality to it that is seriously effecting my ability to make money. Despite the near constant bugging/encouraging from my managers I refuse to speak to customers until I dance a set for them, and even then I'd much rather smoke cigarettes in the dressing room until my next set.

I think I may need to prioritize making money in the industry ahead of having a weekly night out dancing where I'll be lucky if I bring home $200. So, I think I have a few options:

1) Try Webcamming or Phone Sex Again
I really REALLY hated webcamming, it's the only sex work I've done that consistently makes me feel like trash. I used to sit in my ramshackle studio in my garage for 4-7 hour shifts and never make over $100. All the while subjecting myself to what I found to be intolerable verbal abuse from customers. I don't think this is the fault of webcam itself, I think I just honestly hate making sexy small talk.

I kind of enjoyed phone sex, and I got some of my favorite weird work stories out of it. I could sit at my desk doing other work and wait until someone called and was immediately being paid for my time. That being said, I work a full time 9-5 at an office so I don't have a ton of time to sit at home waiting patiently for someone to call. I don't think I'd really being making more money per week than what I do dancing one night a week.

2) Move on to Escorting
I've never done escorting in the strictest sense. I used to work for an agency that sent us out for special events and private shows. The special events ranged from topless waitressing to multi-girl sex shows. Private shows were typically one or two girls and we'd jerk off while they jerked off and squeezed/licked our breasts. I did have one show where I fucked someone's wife while her husband watched, but that was the only proper sex I've ever engaged with a client. I don't have any moral or emotional hangups about it, but it's not a game I'm in and I'm worried about trying to set myself up as an occasional escort when my time is at an incredible premium. I'm also ridiculously scared of getting arrested, possibly unreasonably so. I know lots of escorts who seem to have their screening down to a science and while they always worry, it doesn't impede them from doing their work. I just can't even imagine being able to get over this fear enough actually meet with a client. Before the demise of the "adult" section of craigslist, I actually set up a few dates, but would sit in my car outside their houses and be unable to go inside for fear of them being a cop.

3) Try a Sugar Daddy Site
I've signed up for a few of these, and just generally lurk. I've exchanged pictures with a few potentials, and sent e-mails back and forth but haven't gone on a "date" yet. There's one who seems like they might actually be great, late 60s, we like similar wine and books, but when he asked if we could meet I closed the browser tab and haven't logged back in since. I want some plausible deniability that my internet is out, or I was out of town, or something. I'm worried that entering into an arrangement like this is just going to replicate my problems with stripping: having to talk to people I'm completely disinterested in.

Okay, maybe I have one emotional hangup...My at home sex life is not exactly that active, and I worry about having sex regularly with someone other than my established romantic partners will be confusing.

I'm also worried about client resentment when I can't be there emotionally or physically in a timely fashion. I'm super busy, and I probably won't have time to be texting a trick back when I'm traveling for work or hanging out with my family.

4) Suck it Up
Keep doing what I'm doing and try to reinvigorate my hustle at the club.

Call for Papers - Undressed and Ungovernable

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CALL FOR PAPERS – UNDRESSED AND UNGOVERNABLE

Sex workers throughout the world experience a unique form of stigmatization based on their labor. Sex workers are socially admonished for their occupations, while simultaneously excluded from feminist and worker-organization discourses due to the social perception that theirs is not a valid form of labor, or even somehow a more degrading form of labor that is inherently harmful to society as a whole. This stigma silences sex workers, particularly those whose analyses of their positioning within capitalism run counter to mainstream conceptions of sex work. Predictably, these analyses and experiences become co-opted and redefined by others, often to the detriment of the workers themselves.

This collection aims to bring together sex worker voices to analyze, examine, and narrate a radical interpretation of the sex industry. We do welcome personal stories, but are particularly looking for pieces that combine both narrative and systematic analysis.

What do we mean by radical? Current or former sex workers are encouraged to submit their anti-authoritarian, anti-capitalist, and anti-state writings on the sex industry; those of an anarchist, socialist, or communist bent are especially encouraged. We welcome perspectives that reject the casting of sex workers as perpetual victims with no agency by some feminist movements and mainstream society, social conservatives' demonization of sex workers, and liberal industry-apologists who refuse to turn a critical eye towards the social and labor conditions of sex workers (and capitalism as a whole).

We hope to mix narrative and analysis to provide a readable and accessible collection suitable for those both new to radicalism and sex worker perspectives.

We welcome all submissions from radical current or former sex workers, but here are a few topics we are particularly looking to cover:

-What is distinctive about the way in which sex workers experience labor alienation?

-How do sex workers experience identity through their labor?

-How does “owning” your means of production affect your status within capitalism?

-What are the best avenues for increasing safety, security, and satisfaction within the sex industry in capitalism? What possibilities and limitations do unions or cooperatives offer?

-Why is sex work so often considered the “worst” form of alienated labor?

-How does the state benefit from the continued social and legal marginalization of sex workers?

-Is sexuality special? Is the commodification of sex actually different than the commodification of other forms of labor?

-Does sex work uphold rape culture? How or how does it not?

-Being a sex worker and its effect on gender identity and/or sexual orientation.

Final contributions should be between 2,000 and 4,000 words. Please submit a 150-250 word abstract by April 5^th, 2013 along with a short bio to: undressedandungovernable  ((at)) gmail ((dot)) come

Favorite songs I danced to this weekend

I work at two distinctly different clubs, one that prides itself at being "alternative" and the other I not so lovingly refer to as the Walmart of strip clubs. Of course in strip clubs there's not a huge difference between the two, it does allow me slightly more wiggle room in my song selection.

Friday night ("Alternative" Club):
I love MIA's new song "Bad Girls", but I really agree with the analysis presented on Hyphen. But if I decided to not dance to music I found problematic...well I probably wouldn't have anything to dance to.

I will always dance to peaches! But "Mommy Complex" has to be my favorite at the moment. I've been working night shift and most of my clients have been younger than me so I think it's a fun.

I tend to shy away from slow songs (I'm a chronic fast dancer), but I love watching people get all hot and heavy for "Maps" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I almost always sell a few dances after a stage set to it.

Saturday Night (Walmart of Strip Clubs):
Frankly, the DJ here will only play dubstep for me so I mostly don't know who or what I'm dancing to.

The one I can identify and one of my favorites is the dubstep remix of "Raindrops" by Basement Jaxx.

A previously unposted short story...

I wrote this short story back in 2008 but never posted it to my blog. I definitely don't like it as much as I did when I first wrote it, but hey, that's part of writing.

"Consent Runs at 100Mph"

I was leaving work after a closing shift, walking down the fairly deserted street in downtown Seattle. It was a Sunday night and we had closed at a comparatively early 1am, no, I don’t work at a bar, I dance at a strip club. Before you jump to conclusions, let me explain that it isn’t what most people imagine when they think of a strip club. I work at a peepshow, an archaic design, with naked girls dancing behind glass while (mostly) men peep through shatterproof windows.

Most every storefront was dark and quiet, except for the dingy convenience store my car was parked in front of. Walking, I reflected briefly on my uneventful shift. It was uneventful in a very relative sense, I recently had to be reminded how strange it is that I get paid to watch strangers jack off all day. Pleasantly tired from my strenuous work out, I approached my car when I heard someone yell, “Hey! Are you familiar with this area?” I turned to face a car full of adolescent men, parked just a few yards in front of my car. Before I could even form a sentence their car erupted with taunts of “Hey hot stuff!” and threats of “Looking for a ride?” and “Come over here!” My blood immediately began to boil, and turned quickly and stormed towards my car, their voices chasing after me. They sped off, but stopped at the next light less than a block away. I jumped into my car and slammed the door behind me gritting my teeth and lighting another cigarette. For a brief moment, I considered following them, tailing them until I could threaten them with one of the numerous knives I store in my car. Numerous images of them pulling me out of my car and curb stomping me gave me ease for hesitation. My exhaustion kicked in, my adrenaline eased, and began the hour drive home.  

Why did I get so upset about this when so much of my day is consumed by the vulgar attention of men? As I drove, it came quite simply to me. Consent. When I’m at work we have entered into a mutual agreement about the context of our relationship. At work if a customer treats me disrespectfully, hell, if they just annoy me, I ask them to leave. This is a privilege fairly unique to strip clubs, there is very little incentive to hustle customers at the peep show. The stereotypical image of cat-fighting women in 7” heels grappling over a twenty dollar bill remains mostly a mystery to me.

As I drove the guilt of my inaction became overwhelming, I had shot a furtive “fuck you!” over my shoulder, but I’m sure they heard my voice shake. Whenever I’m catcalled on the street or violated in some other way by men, I can’t stop myself from entering into vivid fantasies about how I could have defended myself. Driving down I-5 that night I imagined a painful fate for my assaulters…

The boys are yelling at me and I slowly and calmly approach the car. As if it’s an old habit I say “Okay boys, everyone out, let’s see those hands nice and clear.” The boys pause, they’re slowly processing the dangerous situation they’ve just created. I clear my voice for dramatic effect “I said get out of the motherfucking car and let me see your fucking hands!” The four boys scurry out, their hands fumbling over themselves and each other. I recognize this behavior, the self-pat down, the ‘did I forget to take the _____ illegal thing of out my pocket?’ Their sudden uncertainty makes me smile coldly on the outside and pulse hot and wet on the inside. “Officer, I’m very sorry my friends yelled at you, they’re just very excited to be in the city and we’re really lost,” says the driver. ‘Good’ I think to myself, ‘they assume I’m a cop they’re too scared stupid to ask to see a badge’. Smirking I say, “You’re just sorry you got caught. I sure hope you boys didn’t have any plans this decade. Assault on an officer, that’s ten years, easy…” They’re looking like I poured a bucket of cold water over them, shaking and breathing heavily. “Please, sir…officer! They didn’t know! I’ll do anything!” I’m thrilled that only one of them, the driver, even has the courage to speak. “Well…” I say stepping closer to him so that I can see the sweat on his brow…

My gaslight comes on, the rest of the fantasy trails away, with one final image of me standing on a cheap motel chair whipping the boys with a cat of nine tails. I pull off the highway in Tacoma, my halfway home mark to fill up. The pump doesn’t accept my card. It’s cold. I’m exceedingly annoyed, but at least I’m distracted from the fantasy about those boys. I turn on one of my favorite bands, Daft Punk and get back on the highway. Music blasting and a cigarette smoke filled car on a cold night, these are a few of my favorite things. It’s almost two am and the highway is mostly deserted, unpleasantly damp and chilly.

Casually observing the other cars, I suddenly jolt and my stomach falls on the floor mat. There’s their car! The same color. The same license plate. It only takes me a moment to weigh the morality of my options. I accelerate and switch lanes, following half a car length behind them and one lane to the left. Breathing slowly I estimate how long it will take them to realize they’re being followed. Ten minutes? Fifteen? It ends up being closer to five, expedited by me aggressively boxing them in between two tractor-trailers.

My Ipod has switched seamlessly to the next album, an industrial remix of the aforementioned favorite band. I roll my windows all the way down, whipping freezing air throughout the inside of my car, I finally let them in front of me. As they speed ahead I switch lanes again and light another cigarette. From my new vantage point I can see all the passengers in that car turning around quickly trying to see into my car, but I’m safely just out of view, I don’t want them to see that it’s me yet. This whole experience tastes too good, feels so cinematic that my timing has to be just right. Suddenly their car accelerates…they’re a 1/8^th of a mile…1/2 a mile ahead. I’m hesitating because it’s only eight miles to my exit home, maybe they’ve had enough. My privilege of a fast transmission takes over my remaining willpower and I’m cruising at 120mph. It feels like being spanked during sex, hot, exciting and with a warning label that reads ‘You Could Lose Control at any Moment’. My foot stays pressed hard against the floor.

I’ve caught up to them. Never passing or completely matching their pace, I let them set the speed and take the risk of getting a ticket. They level off at 100mph. Five miles to my exit. Everyone in their car appears frantic, and I start laughing. Three miles to my exit. They switch lanes, so do I, staying close. One mile to my exit. I turn up the music as high as my stereo will allow and accelerate, effortlessly drifting into their view. I take an unrealistically long drag of my cigarette and stare them all in the eyes as I pass them. I can see their unbelieving stares of recognition, shock and awe. It’s a lot like the look I imagined in my fantasy, cold water, shaking and heaving breaths. It’s a more terrified version of the look I had gotten earlier that day when a customer realized he served me my latte that morning. Sighing, I take my exit and set my sights on home.

Still smiling I enter my house, some of my housemates are still awake, sipping beers in the kitchen. I put the kettle on to make a cup of chamomile tea. My lover asks “Hey Honey, how was your day?” I fall into an armchair and laugh deeply.

I was presented with a very rare opportunity that night, to disempower those who had disempowered me. That’s another difference between work and the real world I’m the king of the castle at work, on the street I’m seen as some sort of helpless sex-bot. Did those boys learn a lesson about institutionalized sexism that night? Probably not. Will they think twice about yelling at some women on the street again? I’m quite certain they will. Sex work for me is a constant struggle between boundaries, some seemingly arbitrary others strongly rooted in the avoidance of trauma. Whatever those boundaries are, I will do whatever I have to do to maintain and protect them. Thanks boys, I had almost forgotten how much power I actually had"

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Reflecting on this piece three years later a few things come to mind immediately.

• I find it specifically problematic that I felt the need or desire to embody a violent tool of the state (police) to validate empowerment. The police are not a libratory (or even protective force), yet they hold disproportionate relative power.
• I don't actually think that in order to be empowered it may be necessary to disempower others. In the same way that there is no scarcity of oppression there isn't a scarcity of empowerment. Of course healing trauma can look like a lot of things, but it still is self-generated rather than directly traded.
• I wish I had written more car chase narrative, maybe I'll go back and add some more.

The boss is not your friend

I've been exclusively doing strip club work over the past few months. I miss doing parties and shows, but since I've moved I haven't really felt comfortable enough to branch out. When I did parties and private shows the longest I had to be charming was 3 hours, but it usually clocked in around an hour. Working at clubs means spending hours (between 5 and 12) in a state of outward hyper sexuality and sweetness. I'm not a particularly friendly person, and needing to act like it for that long is certainly challenging. Let me clarify, it's not so much unfriendliness as a suspicion of insincerity.

As I've relied on my club work more steadily I've become ingrained in the environment, developing relationships with the other dancers, customers and inevitably the management. It was important for me to learn early on to be an unrepentant kiss ass 90% of the time to make up for the other 10% of flying off the handle, and sewing seeds of discontent. My current club harbors some serious pretensions about being dancer friendly, which in some ways only furthers to silence our collective concerns.

The U.S. strip club model is very deliberately hard to organize in. Most people assume that I'm an independent contractor, however I certainly have never met a dancer who received a 1099. Every club that I have worked at requires the dancers to pay out a house fee at the end of the night, it's typically relative to the hours worked, lap dances sold and any fines you may have accrued during your shift. There is a growing movement of dancers fighting for their stolen money but this can open you up to the risk of being blacklisted from that club, franchise, or any other club that finds out.

I was chatting with another dancer about our manager with who we both have a decent relationship. I've actually known him since elementary school, which complicates our relationship further. Dandelion and I were discussing his often erratic behavior and I reminded her,
"The boss is never your friend, the ability to hire and fire sets up apart."
He's not a bad guy, and I'm rather fond of him but I'll never trust a manger.
About 30 minutes later we both got a text message from him telling us he'd been fired and thanking us for all our work. Dandelion asked if I was still going to work on Friday night, and I answered in the affirmative. It begs some questions about solidarity between dancers and their immediate management. I'm fairly certain I make more money than him, which actually gives me more security at the club, they're less likely to fire me (who makes them lots of money) than the manager who doesn't. Ultimately if I stay at the club is dependent on how the new manager changes the vibe, I've worked at this club less for the earning potential than the environment. I get along with everyone, they don't ask me to do anything I'm uncomfortable with and they strictly enforce no turning tricks on club property.

When I first started dancing I had plans to start a bachelor party and private show worker collective. Maybe it's that I can't see myself doing this in another five years, but I don't have the passion for it. Last Saturday all the girls in the dressing room seemed to be looking to me for some leadership or direction, but I might not have the capacity for it. Or maybe I do, maybe this is an important step for me and the medium in which sex work manifests. We'll see.

New Year, New Blog

It's been over three years since I last updated my previous blog. I have decided to resume blogging on anarchism and sex work in 2012. In recent months I have reentered the arena of arguing with leftists around sex work and I identified a significant lack of sex worker narrative that addresses an anti-capitalist, anti-racist and libratory lens. However, I would like to pay thanks to those sex workers out there that have tirelessly been providing their stories and analysis.
There are things I find unique about sex work, but ultimately I believe we deserve to be treated as any other member of the working class. My intention is to humanize my own experiences while using them to explore the intersections between sex, race, class and gender. There will also be funny stories about things people say to me at work, and trust me, people tell me some weird shit.

Love & Solidarity,
Chrysanthemum 

Friday, July 25, 2008

I'm bad at vacations...

Just as burn out was beginning to set in I got on a plane and flew far far away from my home and back to my biological family. This is the first time I've seen any of them since the whole "coming out" issue, things certainly could have been worse, but they certainly could have been better. I experienced the quieting of the room as I entered, and meaningful stares between aunts and uncles. All in all though they were very tolerant even if not accepting.
On my return I discovered that a lot of folks I used to be close to have started a nude cleaning service. So far their business is pretty slow, but I gave them a few suggestions and I really hope them the best.
One of them expressed interest in dancing/entertaining at bachelor parties, and I've been scraping around craigslist trying to find us something while I'm here, but to not avail. If nothing else it gives me hope that when I eventually move back here there are some awesome Anarchist ladies that might be interested in starting a radical stripper workers collective. Woohoo!

Simply by coincidence I arrived in town to discover that there was going to be an Erotic Arts Festival! I saw some of my friends do a performance focusing on BDSM, trauma and sexual healing, I was quite impressed. The Festival had set up an impromptu peep show booth, and of course I couldn't resist trying my hand at it. I was expecting it would be very different from work, but the reactions were almost entirely the same. The only major difference was that when I exited the stage I was back in a communal space. Oh, and that the floor was made of Astroturf, so my knees were bleeding.

I've finally gotten the chance to read Naked on the Internet by Audacia Ray and I'm finding it really informative on a lot of tech-based issues I was previously unaware of. Ironically I was moonlighting this week, and I went to some guys house and watched him jack off. He claimed that he books girls for Playboy Webcamming, at first I was pretty skeptical of him but he started speaking industry language. Before reading Ms. Ray's book I hadn't seriously considered webcamming as something either profitable or really feasible. He offered me a position and I said I'd consider it and get back to him. We'll see...

In Love & Struggle