Tagged: emotional labour

Chapkis, quoted in Johnson, “Stripper Bashing”


Chapkis, 79-80, quoted on 161 of flesh for fantasy


stripping killed my work ethic: xohate

Stripping Killed My Work Ethic

So here’s the thing.  I joke about my lack of a worth ethic all the time, because it’s true, my work ethic died out around march when I started wanting to rip my own throat out from sheer misery for real.  But the “easy money” I make stripping had absolutely nothing to do with the death of my work ethic, largely because

it’s not easy money.

It can be a LOT of money, in a short amount of time—and it can also be nothing.  There have been more nights than I care to share with you where I left with under 30$.  For five hours work.  That’s minimum wage after the taxes got taken out.

I don’t really understand posts like this because they gloss over what the job really is: You’re emotionally managing drunk men who think that self control is boring, in your underwear, in a bar, while the bar management and staff bleed you dry because the whole point of owning a strip club is to use the dancers to pad paying employees a living wage and to use their naked bodies to sell alcohol.  That’s it!  That’s the point!  That’s a post for a different day but believe me when I tell you it’s not easy money.  The onlyreason to do it is how much money it usually is.  And the hours, the hours are great  (except for when I had 8am russian, that was awful).

And fuck the editor/whoever came up with that clickbait of a title because her actual point, that she did what everyone encourages us strippers to do and got a degree and realized that the world doesn’t value her education or professional experience, she’ll still make better money naked—that’s glossed over and almost obscured, in the few comments I did read no one had acknowledged that.  And when you’ve gone into debt for a degree the lure of a job that can get you back out of debt is pretty strong: here I am, after all. I’ve paid back 3k on my loans and they aren’t even due yet.

and this:

We had a bartender on the bus with us, and she looked to be my age or a little younger.  As I sat there during the long drive, I was thinking to myself about how lucky she was — she was probably going to bring home at least $250 in tips!  I figured with roughly 50 people on the bus, if everyone contributed $5 for her being there, she was making a killing.

As a stripper she should just know better.  This is just rude.  If everyone in the bar gave me ONE dollar per song I’m on stage for every song, I would make 60-200 a set, five times a night.  I wouldn’t even need to hustle lap dances.  It would RULE!  Do you know how many people actually tip the naked girl on stage a set?  like 1-5. 10 on a weekend night if you’re lucky.  Even people actually at the stage don’t tip.  The odds of everyone on her stupid trip tipping even a couple of dollars are just ridiculously low.

I’ve written about it before and I’ll never get tired of writing about it but the ways that emotional labour is undervalued, and the ways that emotional labour is of necessity made invisible

(bc if you allowed the effort that goes into nannying, waitressing, caregiving, stripping, and escorting to show people wouldn’t pay as much, everyone wants their service with a smile, to feel like they are special to their server, and to feel like there’s an emotional connection, from the escort’s client to the mom who wants to feel like her nanny cares about her kid)

are all tied together and backed up by the fact that emotional labour/the service industry is not seen as the province of “skilled” workers (white men, and then white women) and then seen as not “real” work involving “real” effort or skill so it doesn’t need to be quantified and rewarded with like respect and its corollary, money.

Two conversations pt 1

I didn’t want to go on the floor bc I could hear a lot of screaming and everyone who’d been on the floor already had returned grumpy: there was a bachelorette (jsyk women are absolutely as horrible and badly behaved in the club as men, remember the girl who unexpectedly crab-walk-humped me until I fell over) in the house with a big group and she was shrieking and some girls were licking her nipples and no one wanted to deal.

by the time I got out there tho, determined to avoid the bachelorette and her party, there were a lot more women so I sat with a friendly looking guy: part hustle, part perch til I scoped out the club.

A girl at the rack started screaming and I sighed.  ”That must be the bachelorette.”

“The bachelorette?”

“Yeah, it was the talk of the dressing room.  Some bride-to-be is in here with a bunch of guys, screaming her head off.”

“I know nothing of a bachelorette.”

“That’s ok, Jon Snow.  I wanted to figure out who she was so I could avoid her, I think mission accomplished.”

He gave a startled laugh.  ”Where are you from?”

“Boston, but I’ve been here a while. Sometimes I think about moving back to the east coast and then I remember how expensive food is out there and it’s not even good!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!  Like iceberg lettuce is practically all they have and it’s expensive and what even is the point of iceberg lettuce?” I’m serious here.  I don’t get it.  I caused a giant schism on fb between iceberg lettuce lovers and the rest of us normal people. “If you want a crunch just eat cabbage!  plus it’s better for you.”

Another shocked laugh and said, “You’re funny!”

“Yeah I’ve been told that.  Actually a bachelor I gave a dance to the other day asked me if I enjoy making conversation in the time to kill before the dance song starts and I was like absolutely not but I had to perfect my patter so no one suspects how much work this all is. It’s like a muscle, you know, you have to flex it.”

Sat with him for long enough, I had a feel for the room and was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get a dance, too awkward, like a fish out of water.  But you never know.

“You ready for a dance, sugar pie?”

“No, but,” he fumbled out his wallet.  “Thank you for sitting with me and making me laugh.” Before my lip could curl (bc most guys who courtesy tip throw down a dollar and like just don’t, that’s more insulting than nothing) he pulled out a twenty.  “It was very nice to talk to you, thank you!”

next up feminist men