Quote of the Day: Panther in Pumps

"I can't write about how I feel, so I write around it, only how I feel grows larger and larger, so I write around, wider and wider, until one day I realize, I'm not writing about me at all: I'm writing about blow up dolls being strangled." -- "Writing Circles" by Panther in Pumps

Ceci N'Est Pas L'Écriture Féminine

Charles McGrath hangs around with Andre Dubus III (House of Sand and Fog) who hangs around at some strip clubs in Florida to write some novel that reads like thong-heavy pulp.

"Eventually Mr. Dubus decided that he needed to visit clubs in Florida. He thought it would be helpful to see the Florida light, to feel what Florida was like. So he bought some plane tickets, rented a convertible and enlisted his brother and best friend from high school — because they are big guys whom nobody messes with. To finance the expedition he raided some money that he had set aside from a Guggenheim grant he won in 2001. 'At first I thought, I have a Guggenheim for just this kind of thing — research,' he said. 'And then I thought, "This can’t possibly be appropriate."' But he went anyway, after what he recalls as a somewhat awkward conversation with his wife. 'Honey, I need to go to Florida and I need to see some strip clubs.'"

(Image via Autumn.)

Quote of the Day: Catskills

"...I like using and abusing these men. This club was created for guys who want their cock toyed with. They forget their cock is also their brain and if I can toy with your cock, I can toy with your brain in such a way that your wallet falls open and cums all over me..." -- Catskills (via The Panther in Pumps)

Black Male Strippers in Baltimore Fight for Their Right to Wear a Thong

Reverse Cowgirl reader Brian sent a link to "Men at Work," the story of a group of black male strippers in Baltimore who are fighting for their right to run around in thongs and get paid by the ladies for it. If you want to see what guys with stage names like the Sexecutioner do for a living, there's a documentary about the dancers' right to strip, "Don't Hate: Strippers Fight the Government," which is being threatened by a local ordinance that seeks to stop the male dancer/female audience humping.

Stripper Nation: Second Edition

Yesterday, I blogged about these stripper shoes with slots in them where customers can put their tips, and everybody and their mother picked it up. Go figure. For those of you who just can't get enough of wacky stripper shoes, try these liquid-infused with rubber duckies platforms on for size. Also? Liquid-infused with hearts. And also? Liquid-infused with glitter. May the wonders of stripper shoes never end.

Stripper Nation

The other day, Dacia had a post on Naked City featuring Vegas themed stripper shoes with a stack of dice for a heel and a bunch of poker chips rattling around in the hollowed out Lucite platform underneath the toes. That sent me wandering around Funky Pair, your one stop shopping spot for stripper shoes. There, I found a series of seven-inchers that transfixed me. These ones have a slot in the hollowed out part under the toes. For men. To put their tips in. I find this fascinating and genius. The ones pictured here spell it out for you. There's others with a mouth for a tip slot, a money slot if you're really thick skulled, a butterfly slot for the romantic. I love the thought of the women walking around on money. Of course, if that's not your style, there's always the mudflap girl who lights up or disco balls. I'm sure there's a coin slot joke to be made here, but I can't think of it.

Dixie Evans Revisited

I came across this video of burlesque legend Dixie Evans on Otomano, and it reminded me of the time I drove out to Exotic World, where Dixie lived on the edge of the Mojave Desert, to interview her. When I turned down the dirt driveway, there was a turtle standing in the road. The sides were lined with what appeared to be tin foil covered stars decorated with the names of other burlesque legends. I believe Evans, who made her mark as the Marilyn Monroe of Burlesque, was already in her eighties by that point and running a small museum there stocked with the feathered fans and sparkling dresses of yesteryear strippers.

At some point, Evans played the video you see here for me, I believe the TV was up on some sort of stage, and then she stood near me but in front of me a bit with her back to me, watching herself on the screen in black and white while she danced along to the image in real time. It was sweet.

These days, the Miss Exotic World Pageant is held in Vegas. This year, the Miss Exotic World weekend runs from June 5 to 8 and features a breast cancer fundraiser and a special performance by the UK's Immodesty Blaize, who's a whole lot of hot.

(See also: "Immodesty Blaize on Her 6 Foot Telephone!")

Blogs You Should Be Reading: The Panther in Pumps

If you read this blog via RSS, you miss things. Recently, I've been selecting a Reverse Cowgirl Site of the Week.

This week's entrant is The Panther in Pumps, and the blog's subtitle says it all: "Once I was creeping into your hotels and houses for the titty-peek private shows, now it's the twenty dollar per song hustle. Welcome to the club scene."

These days, when sex worker blogs are spreading like herpes at an orgy, the best ones stand out above the rest. In special cases, real working girls tell the complicated truths about their hardcore lives.

Blogging under the name Fifty-One-Fifty, a term you may be familiar with if you spend too much time following the life of Britney Spears (like, um, I do), one woman in heels draws her readers into a world where That Metal Chick steals the show, Slick Trouble keeps his eyes on the girls, and a strip club becomes a slaughterhouse.

She writes: "A club is a slaughterhouse. A house with no floor, no bottom, only a ceiling. There are no windows. Survival depends on knowing the rules, knowing the game, but regardless, I still expect to find a loose intestine on the lounge. A stray heart on the bar. Someone's guts strung all over tipping rail."

Here's what I wrote in my review: "It's the kind of stripper blog you don't take home to mother. This blogger is one straight-shooter, a writer who dances, doesn't blink or flinch, and exposes the true stories of life on the other side of the tipping rail. 'I'm trying to find some secret, some hidden clue to either my success or demise as a sex worker, as a human being...'"

Somebody get her a book deal.

Fast & Dirty: Interview: The Stripper Hates You

The Stripper Hates You is a stripper blog like no other. This time, this working girl speaks the harsh truths. At 24, this Detroit dancer kicked off her blog with a post that read, in part: "After three years of stripping I decided it's time for me to catalogue every dumbass, numbskull, pee-brain, Napolean, dumbfuck patron of the strip club I encounter." And, she does. When she's not hanging from a pole, she's studying journalism at Wayne State University, and she answered these interview questions from her laptop at the club where she works to pay her tuition. In this latest installment of my Fast & Dirty interview series, I peeked behind the curtain and into the mind of a "Detroit-native pole-spinner" who goes by Josephine Hutchins.

Reverse Cowgirl: Why The Stripper Hates You?

Josephine Hutchins: I started my blog to exact revenge on the douchebags who regularly tried to humiliate and exploit me. There's an unspoken rule that johns and sex workers are supposed to follow: "You don't tell on me, I don't tell on you." As far as I'm concerned, the minute a john decides to push my boundaries or rip me off, all rules are null and void.

My original plan was to post the full name and a description of any jerk that pissed me off too much. Did he try to steal my clothes? Try to get a discount? Try to touch me without my consent? I would document it all on the web for the whole world to see. Perhaps the wife of John X. Doe from Hazel Park, Michigan, is wondering where all her husband's spare cash is going. Oh, look! There's a whole page on the internet about him, a whole page describing what an abusive asshole he is. Busted!

For the past couple years I've been regularly meeting guys at work who think they are the god of all things sexy. But they're not. Most of them are beer-bellied old men who are deeply deluded. My goal was to clear up any misconceptions they had about themselves.

Customers ask me the stupidest questions. Do I get turned out when I dance for them? Do I think they're hot? Do I want them to take care of me? Do I think older men are attractive, because, you know, all women think older men are attractive? I just want to scream at them: NO NO NO! I don't like you! In fact, I hate you! The stripper hates you.

Anyway, after a quick talk with my attorney, we decided that maybe it wasn't the best idea to out the jerks I meet in the club. Go figure.

The blog has since evolved into a place for me to vent my anger. My anger at customers and at the industry in general. I can't really call up my best friend or mom and have a bitch-fest. So, the blog exists. I'm surprised people have responded so positively to it.

RC: Is being a stripper in Detroit different from being a stripper elsewhere?

JH: I haven't worked in other cities, so it's hard for me to say. Most of the clubs--and there's over 50 of them--are located on the gritty outskirts of downtown. The vast majority of them can be found on a stretch of the notorious 8 Mile Road. Most of them are shot-and-a-beer type places with cheesy names and cheesy decor and cheesy managers.

It's hard to work here, I can say that. Almost full-contact grind dances are the norm. They cost $20 a song. They've cost $20 since the 80s, by the way. The price of gas, the price of groceries have gone up since the 80s. Hell, the Feds even raised the interests rates. But has a lapdance kept up with inflation? Noooo. The expected contact sure has increased.

I work in a club, one of the only two clubs downtown, that is located central to GM's world headquarters, Compuware's world headquarters, three casinos, a football field, a baseball field, and a hockey arena. My club is owned by an immigrant with a really inspirational story. A dishwasher to millionaire type story. He's one of the city's most scrupulous real estate investors. He'd purchase old warehouses from the city, barely rehab them, and rent them as lofts. He owns a couple bars, too. I suspect his titty-bar is just a big playground for him. I rarely say this about club owners and managers, but I do have a great deal of respect for him.

Detroit's been good to me so far. I've worked through a Superbowl, a World Series, a baseball All-Star game, several international auto shows, and several Stanley Cup playoffs. I've danced for an owner of a baseball team, several CEOs, an important politician, and some professional athletes. Oh, and I met Patrick Swayze in a hidden bar downtown.

Detroit definitely makes for an interesting setting. It's a man's city, that's for sure. Detroit makes people feel and act tough. You get instant street cred if you're from Detroit. One of the de facto slogans is "Welcome to Detroit, hope you survive." The city can be violent and scary. Some people even allege the mayor hired someone to kill a stripper. I think suburban men think their penises get bigger when they cross over into the city proper. It makes for a unique regional mood.

The whole metro-Detroit region is socially backwards. Divided. There's the Jewish suburbs, the Chaldean suburbs, the black city, the white suburbs, the rich suburbs, the poor suburbs, the suburbs for managers and engineers, the suburb for union members. But everyone--and my club is literally the only place I've seen this happen--intersects at the strip club. For a brief second, everyone is united in their love of naked women.

RC: You've written: "I love stripping. I hate working as a stripper." And you've written that your idea of a perfect strip club would be one with no customers. Can you explain?

JH: I do like stripping. The lifestyle fits my personality perfectly--I maintain some pretty radical politics, I live in a barely functioning city, I might as well have a non-traditional job. And it is empowering. Using something as basic as sex appeal to manipulate people is empowering. Oh, and raw cash is pretty empowering too. Knowing that I could leave work tomorrow with a big, fat wad of cash is pretty damn empowering. Once in a while there'll be a moment at work when I swear the planets align or something. The moments when I'm just on top of my game: when the customers laugh at my jokes, pay me for my time, shower me with singles on stage. I can't describe it--it's a Shakespearean tragedy without the tragic ending. Curtain opens, Josephine kills Duncan, Josephine kills Banquo, Josephine makes BANK. Curtain closes.

But the best part of my job, the absolute best part, is being surrounded by so many hilarious women. When I worked in an office, if too many independent-minded women made friends, we were called "clique-y" or "catty" or "acting like high schoolers." But my fellow strippers and I, we have inside jokes. We know everything about each other. We have so much solidarity--it's absolutely inspiring. There's such a cool range of personalities--over 100 of us--and we all get along and help each other out. As much as I resent stripping, knowing that I get to hang out with tons of cool women keeps me coming back.

Yeah, the dancing part is fun. The music part is fun. The smoking and drinking part is fun. Having over 100 beautiful, witty, and diverse women as best friends is really fun!

But the customers, they just ruin it for me.

I'll be dancing on stage, just kicking ass, and the guys are just staring at me, mouth-breathing, drooling, and, FUCK, I have go talk to those guys? It's so hard to act interested in them. They're boring. No personalities. They voted for Bush and they like golf and Led Zeppelin is their favorite band. They're totally interchangeable. Once you've met one titty bar customer, you've pretty much all of them. Very little variation between them.

And they always disappoint me. Is it so much to expect that people treat me like a human?

Yesterday, I approached a gentleman who looked promising. Nope! Before I had a chance to introduce myself, he smacked me on the bum and asked me if I'd like--and this is a real quote--"to get away from these creeps and let me eat your pussy." I was astounded. This man implied in one sentence that everyone else was a creep but that kind of comment wasn't creepy at all, that I would actually find him attractive, and that my time at work was worth less than my time with him.

Would he say that to a woman in the office, I wonder?

I guess I'd like my job more if the customers had any idea how to hold a conversation. I suppose that's why they go to strip clubs, though, because they don't know how to talk to women. My problem is that I feel like... no, I know... I'm better than the customers. It's pretty pathetic when you have to pay for the attention of the opposite sex.

If I had my way, work would involve lots of dancing and hanging out with my coworkers. The customers would only be permitted to smile pleasantly and hand me money. They'd be fined heavily for speaking their inner-dialogue. Huge fines for tongue waggling!

RC: In one post, you say stripping makes you go a little crazy.

JH: That's a really good question. It's like a chicken versus egg scenario. Was I crazy first? Or did the strip club make me crazy?

After only a year of stripping, I became really suspect of men. No patience for cheesy pickup lines in bars. Oh, and I really can't stand old guys. They're just gross. Beer bellies? Gross! Bald heads? Even grosser! After four years, my preference in guys really changed. I like 'em young now: 18, 19, 20, 21 max. Too young to have been corrupted by the sex industry at least.

I've developed some intense personal space issues. I don't like to be touched AT ALL without my consent. I don't like to be stared at. I don't wear revealing clothing. I don't like to be the center of attention at all. I rarely talk at gatherings. I'm very quiet and reclusive. I just want to be left alone. I hate to admit this, but sometimes I have anxiety attacks. I had one in class last week. I had one on stage two weeks ago. All these guys staring at me. Why weren't they tipping? Was something wrong with me? And my hands went numb, and I could barely breathe, and it was so hard to finish that set. It was terrifying.

And sex. I can pretty much rule that out. I feel like most guys aren't attractive enough for me. And if they are? They better be damn good in bed or sex with them will be just like giving a private dance. And women? Well, most of them aren't gay. Needless to say, my interest in sex has pretty much flatlined, and I've pretty much ruled out most of population as worthy enough to sleep with me.

It's really difficult to articulate, but I feel like my personal worth is literally tied to a monetary value. I work out every day. I weigh 110 pounds. I have a 34C chest. My sex appeal is what makes me money. If I don't stay as sexy as possible, I won't survive. And I'm really starting to resent it. I don't like working out and watching what I eat. There's too much pressure.

RC: On your blog, you wrote about what a semi-indie stripper peels to. What are the best and worst stripper songs in the strip club?

JH: If I had my way, strippers in Detroit would never dance to anything by Kid Rock. Kid Rock makes old guys feel young and hip. It's absolutely hilarious to watch how excited the guys get when a stripper dances to a Kid Rock song. Kid Rock's "Cowboy" is an anthem for the midlife crisis set, I swear. Buckcherry's "I Love the Cocaine" must be destroyed. I know you like to think we do, but most of us don't do coke, guys! Sorry to disappoint! T-Pain's "I'm N Luv (Wit a Stripper)" should die a slow, painful death.

My favorite songs to dance to regularly change. A few I'll never get sick of are: "Add It Up" by the Violent Femmes (it makes me a surprising amount of money), "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others" (so appropriate for the finicky customer) by the Smiths, "Dirty Little Mind" (when I'm feeling corny) by Jackyl, Rage Against the Machine's "Sleep Now in the Fire" (when I'm feeling political), and "I Just Threw out the Love of My Dreams" by Weezer/The Rentals (for my moog-y moments).

Single

I took this photo on Hollywood Boulevard. It was just one of those serendipitous things. There I was, there she was, I stuck my hand through the grate, and there we were. Last year, a big chick lit literary agent at a big literary agency emailed me, asking me if she could buy a print of it so she could hang it on her wall. I emailed her the biggest JPG I had of it, told her to have it, no charge. Since I don't have any training in photography, don't really know what I'm doing, kind of wing it, I sometimes have a hard time seeing the value of it. Years ago, I went out with a performance artist who got all hot under the collar when people took photographs of his work. He thought he owned the thing he had made in the moment. I never got that. Like Nachtwey has proclaimed, "I have been a witness, and these pictures are my testimony." So, I testify. Today, The Stripper Hates You is my new favorite blog. Want to know what a semi-indie stripper peels to? The girl's got a hole in her thong, trying to keep all you boys satisfied...

In Da Strip Club

Fluffy Lychees points to the "Naked" issue of 125 Magazine. I love this series of strip club interiors by Christopher Sturman. The most beautiful strip club I ever went to was the Crazy Horse in Paris. I sat by myself at a red lacquered table and had a lemon drop martini. Fittingly, Sturman's photos are beautiful and lonely. Elsewhere, the New York Times declares stripper-turned-screenwriter Diablo Cody a potential Oscar contender. If you're in the mood to ponder the relationship between men and strip clubs, check out Katherine Frank's "'Just Trying to Relax': Masculinity, Masculinizing Practices, and Strip Club Regulars" for an academic undercover dancer's view.

My primary argument is that the customers' understandings of their visits to strip clubs are deeply intertwined with cultural discourses about masculinity, sexuality, leisure, and consumption, and that these visits become meaningful in relation to their everyday lives and relationships and their own personal and emotional experiences of gender and sexuality. Rather than fulfilling a universal masculine need for domination or a biological male need for sexual release, strip clubs provide a kind of intermediate space (not work and not home, although related to both) in which men can experience their bodies and identities in particular pleasurable ways. Although customers' motivations are indeed related to existing power structures and inequalities, their visits are not necessarily experienced as exercises in acquiring or wielding power. Understanding the customers' subjective interpretations of these practices can inform us more generally about the links among sexuality, gender, and the marketplace.

I'll Have the New York Stripper, Please

This week, New York Times food critic Frank Bruni reviewed the Penthouse Executive Club, a New York strip club that also serves steak. Apparently, Bruni was exquisitely embarrassed by being in a strip club. Aquiver, he finds himself in a "pleasure palace...peddling...seductive flesh." Indeed, this is "pulchritudinous territory," one in which the excessive use of polysyllabic words, and being accompanied by three friends, are deployed in hopes of keeping any potential reportorial boners at bay. Heaven forbid! Lord knows how an erection would interfere with a food critic's ability to judge the tastiness of a T-bone that comes with a side order of onion rings. Shockingly, Bruni discovers that when you go to a strip club, the strippers actually approach you. When one girl descends upon the table and asks, "Is there anyone I can get naked for?" Bruni confesses: "On this visit...and on subsequent ones, I was derelict in my duty, failing to sample much of what the restaurant had to offer." Frank, couldn't you have saved an inch of precious Times print space with "I didn't get a lapdance"? (And what if he had? The idea of Bruni grappling with getting a true sense of the porterhouse flavor while a peachy-smelling dancer was grinding away atop his groin the entire time would have been a far more appropriate gonzo-journo approach to the subject at hand.) In the end, Bruni, it seems, surrenders himself to having a stripper administer a buttery nipple shot. Still, there's something perplexing about a man who shoos away strippers--and then ends the night with a mouth full of Reddi-wip.

World Famous Climax Drive-Thru Strip Club

This is the World Famous Climax Drive-Thru. It is a strip club. And it is a drive-thru. I learned about it through Buffoonery, who found it here. "In Alexandria, Pennsylvania, Climax 'gentlemen's club' claimed to be the first, and apparently the only, drive-through strip club in the world. Patrons pulled up next to a tiny window so the drivers could watch through it at $5 per minute." In reality, the place is a piece of shit, a dump of a divebar, a shell of a shithole strip club. But then, at night there is the man in the dark, driving up, handing over his $5, and peering through the diamond window to see what's inside. The man sits in the car looking through the window into this club where a real live nude girl dances on the stage. What does he see? He is dreaming.