Five writers, one strip club. What does it mean to watch women take off their clothes for money?
Th'Katch Show Club, the West Knox strip club that perches like a neon candy shop off of the Lovell Road exit of I-40, should have been a den of iniquity. A house of ill-repute. A cauldron of moral decay. The perfect place to send a squad of keenly observant writers, who could then make sense of strippers and stripping with wit and aplomb.
Strip clubs have always been a personal fascination. They don't seem to fit into the allegedly God-fearing fabric of our culture. Not only that, but commerce has gotten intricately wrapped into these displays of sexuality, adding yet another layer of complication to an already puzzling phenomenon.
Sure, straight men do like to look at naked women—but why do they feel compelled to pay to see them when they know they won't also get to touch them? And how do you get past the damning of nudity and sex that our culture tends to jam down everyone's throat (after all, it is more acceptable to show someone being murdered than a naked breast) or does this add a verboten thrill? For every question there are six more, rendering the whole issue into a knot that simply gets tighter the more you try to untangle it. By the time you quit in frustration, all you are left with are perceptions, not answers.
With this in mind, I gathered up a mixed-gender posse of writers—some straight as they come, some quite the opposite, and some right down the middle—found a guide of somewhat dubious morals and sent them West in search of a place full of naked women and voyeuristic men. Write about it, I ordered, and explain the experience, your personal responses, and the anthropological effects in 500 words or fewer.
Of course, I went with this stripper-squad, in order to throw my own pithy observations into the mix—and was left both under- and overwhelmed. I expected this club (and many others like it) to be more raunchy, more concerned with the primal aspect of existence. Instead, stripping is more like a postcard about sex than a letter, a glossy picture with a short, vibrant sentiment rather than a dirty dissertation full of complete images and descriptions. It was like reading a story without transitions or interior dialogue, just a snippet of short scenes that never connect.
Perhaps I'm just too concerned with faces, which is why I couldn't get all of the pieces to fit. The girls' expressions were mockeries of sex, most so overblown that you'd have to be blind to not read them. And the second they walked off the runway, the mask would briefly fall. Those were the moments that were actually, if not erotic, interesting. The watching men never closed the gap either. They would stand by the side of the stage, limp bills in hand, eyes completely blank no matter what these women pushed in their faces. One guy who looked like a truck salesman actually yawned during a lap dance. Perhaps these men were afraid of giving too much away. Perhaps the expression of pleasure has been drilled out of the American male.
Regardless, the whole experience was oddly empowering—a frightening thought for a feminist. There is so much more to the relationships between men and women, more than we will probably ever be able to understand. But it is oddly and (I'm ashamed to admit) excitingly enticing to realize that you can actually tip the scales with the simplest act—by having the balls to bare your breasts.
—Adrienne Martini
Five hundred words on strippers. It sounds easy, right? What could be better material, more full of human drama and pathos and color and, yeah, sex?
Hmmph. Here's what I remember. There were lights, like you expect there to be, little flashing white ones and big pulsing red and blue ones. The music was better than it should have been, Prince and Black Crowes and Arabic techno, actually sexy, seductive music. And there were all these women, an inexhaustible supply, almost overwhelming, like the sorcerer's apprentice except with perfectly rounded soft-but-firm female bodies instead of broomsticks.
They just kept coming out, one after another after another. They all had fake names, you could tell, Chantal and Eve and Drew and so forth. One who called herself Casey had the name "Amber" tattooed on her butt. Eventually they started to repeat, but by then it had all become a blur anyway, a long procession of breasts and buttocks and spidery thigh gyrations.
We all had our favorites, I guess. But you wouldn't have known mine—I didn't tip. I felt bad about it. They were working hard, certainly as hard as the waitress I gave $2 to at lunch. But to approach the stage, dollar in hand, with the attention of both the dancer and the audience focused on me, would have shattered my protective anonymity. I didn't want to be part of the show. These are the things you learn about yourself.
You can deconstruct it all day, stripping. It's money and power and desire and frustration. You can take what you want from it and leave the rest. That's your prerogative when you pay the $10 cover. You can see it as a reduction of male-female relations to a sort of primal exchange (as one friend mused not too delicately, "Men are money, women are pussy.") But you can also read the deceptive complexities that accompany that equation, the way we veil ourselves even in our most intimate moments. The women are naked, but they're still hidden.
When the strippers come off stage, sit down next to you, and force you to see them as more than abstract expressions, the theoretical constructs get really shaky. The one dancing to the Arabic music really is Arabic, a college student who transferred here from Boston University. The fake exoticism of the West Knoxville truck-stop titty bar is suddenly real exoticism. And she can make $700 a night in the ones and fives and tens that the guys who don't mind the spotlight slip under her garter for a half-minute of her attention.
In the end, as another friend put it, "It is what it is." And it's damn hard to say much about it in 500 words.
—Jesse Fox Mayshark
A chronicle of my first time:
Chuckle at parking lot come-on: "OUR GIRLS ARE TOPLESS, NOT TOOTHLESS!" Hoo doggies.
Scan—clean place, neon "art," black lights, Frederick's of Hollywood skirts, green-glowing teeth (we all look quite monstrous).
Acquire beer, toot sweet.
Begin inventory of male eyes—shy, leaky, unblinking, mousy, grateful, menacing, proprietary, polite.
Drink.
Study the Protocol—Fold dollar bill lengthwise. Soften it with sweaty palm so it droops slightly over the edge of fingers. Stroll to the edge of the stage and loiter provocatively until you achieve eye contact. Lick lips. Nod appreciatively as she undulates her hips just for you and brushes your cheek with over-scented hair. Slip money under expectant elastic while exchanging polite pleasantries and flirtatious smiles. Allow finger to linger on silky thigh ever so slightly. Keep coming back for more.
Become increasingly aware of conflicted feminism coupled with juvenile fascination.
Resist digression to inner child, barely restraining slobbery giggles, pointing, and yelling, "Look everybody! Boooobies!"
Over a lap dance, chat with a girl with 2 percent body fat, casually discussing her two kids, grooming, family, upcoming breast procedures, and degree-in-progress as she jiggles her ass cheeks for me. Hide.
Cross fingers and pray for the lord to turn me into a truck driver for just one hour. I'm doing it all wrong.
Wonder aloud, to no one who's listening, how many more beers would it take to destroy all inhibitions and take clothes off for strange men.
(Internal Freudian segue: Uh-oh. Am I here because I was never breast-fed?)
Excuse self to find the ladies' room, indulging in a private strip for the mirror, just to see if I am sexy at all. I am not.
Why so tense? Titillation? Frustration at not being able to touch? Sexual competition? Puritanical discomfort? The fact that I'm trying desperately to not notice my boyfriend across the room get his ear nibbled by a gorgeous blonde?! Who knows. Who cares.
Finally slip a one under the garter of a particularly perky blonde following her energetic dance chock full o' cheerleader athleticism. Give a playful shimmy when she wiggles my T-shirted breasts with her high heels. Sis boom bah. I like her. She is my new best friend.
Become perplexed at the extent to which men enjoy this bizarre ritual. Are they so used to being endlessly stimulated by the world as well as their own abundant imaginations that this tease is fun, normal even?
Drink more.
Come to the conclusion: it's obvious, wiggly, delusional. Like eating baby food, it leaves a twinge on the tongue but not much else. No chewing required, easy to digest, very sweet and simple, but, all in all, not very nutritious for adults.
Regroup for Round Two.
Wait for anticipated pings of arousal. When they come, analyze it to a pulp and wallow in confusion over whether they are the result of guilt, just so much skin, or the mere spectacle of it all—the knowledge that I am deep behind enemy lines, invading a male sanctuary.
Leave early, with no revelations other than that I am, most decidedly, not a man.
Sustain but one burning question: What space-age shaving products do those girls use and where can I get me some?
—Joey Cody
The last time I was this close to a pair of bared breasts was probably 1992.
Not that breasts aren't lovely things. They're quite possibly the best pillow ever created, combining comforting maternal memories with the indescribable softness and texture of human skin. But sexually appealing? No.
That's right. I was the experiment of the evening, the gay male deposited into that ultimate den of male heterosexuality—the strip club. And if you're expecting a typically pithy take on it all, skip to the next writer.
At first, questions floated into my mind.
Who ever decided that precipitous platforms and heels were sexy? And, most importantly, why in the hell did I choose a seat right by the stage?
So I quickly retreated to a back row seat and took in the entirety of the spectacle.
Some of the dancers were haughty; others were clumsy and listless. Still others were hideously grizzled. Only two seemed genuinely effervescent, maintaining the illusion that they were actually enjoying themselves. But none of these women were rendered helpless under the "male gaze." Pussy power reigned obviously supreme.
If there were any victims here, they seemed to be the men. Whether staring with eerie stoniness, bashful awkwardness, or unabashed lust, these guys were hopelessly under the spell of something they would probably be doing without.
And I felt a strange kinship with them. Truly, I've never felt more alien or alone. Maybe that's why my natural instincts to seize on the kitsch of it all or advocate completely open sexuality in all spheres failed me.
To me, "erotic" is the combination of conscious and subconscious mental impulses that lead to "sexual," which is the point where bodily fluids begin to secrete.
Sexuality must have an infinite array of expressions—and who am I to judge any of them? But ultimately, this particular one seemed beyond sad. It was sadistic, really. Devoid of any significant emotional component, the desired object gyrated just out of reach. Even though it is technically an interaction between two people, the man reaching out with a dollar bill and the woman holding her garter belt open might as well be in two different dimensions—and the action is a pretty poor metaphor for sliding something else in. The illusion of sex wasn't even tenuous. It was nonexistent.
I left thinking that the naked human body, whether male or female, looks its absolute best in bed, still tangled up in sheets. Maybe a curve of thigh is exposed, perhaps an arm. Of course, what makes that both erotic and sexual is that it is something seen only from the vantage point of intimacy—that is a body that can be touched. Sex becomes not an empty promise; pleasure can be achieved and gratification gotten.
So, you're thinking, "Shut up already and go back to the gay bar." Having experienced a male strip club mere months ago, I can only say the same thing—adding that acrobatics and a limp penis are a laughable mix. Gay or straight, there is nothing remotely erotic, sensual, sexy, or sexual about a strip club.
—Phillip Rhodes
Let's be honest. The critical thing to remember about strip clubs are tits.
This is why there are no strip clubs in France, or sub-Saharan Africa. This is because in those places women show their tits any time it's warm enough. Needless to say, this has made it quite difficult for French business people to convince Frenchmen to pay money to women for doing something that virtually every Frenchwoman is willing to do for free. Luckily, we live in America.
Every age and culture has its defining erogenous body part. In Muslim countries where purdah is observed, the eyes, the hands, and the feet are the erotic icons. Over the century our erogenous strike zone has been steadily shrinking. In Gilded Age America, it was the neck. In the Jazz Age, the knee was the object of our obsession. In post-war America it was the thigh and then the upper thigh. An area that once extended from the ankles to the chin has, over the years, been reduced to the distance from the labia to the nipple. This is what remains of the naughty bits—and to see within that fabled region you have to pay. Preferably in small, unmarked bills. Which is where strip clubs come in.
Strip clubs aren't about sex, though. At least, not exactly. Strip clubs are to sex as church is to God. Church doesn't look like God, or feel like God, but it puts your mind on the subject. The awe that radiates from the faces of the men gazing at the orbiting tits and undulating thighs of the strippers isn't a secular, or sexual, awe.
There are no wolf whistles or clamorous cheers in a strip club. The men sit quietly at shadowy tables around the edges of the club while mostly naked girls surge against them. They don't bellow or yip. And they don't touch the girls, either. This is partly because if they did an enormous bouncer would come and break their hands, but it is also because it would also break the spell.
A man, a man who loves strippers, sitting in his stool at the edge of the stage, or, better yet, getting a lap dance in a dark corner of the club, is not a man in sexual ecstasy. His face isn't contorted in the uncontrolled pleasure of an orgasm. In a strip club the look of the patrons is slack, vacant, and fixed on a vastness beyond the shimmering stage lights. It is the intense, distant, eyes-widened look of man in the throes of a vision. For an instant, the man sliding dollar bills against the firm thigh of a stripper gains a feeling about himself, and his power in the world, that resembles who he really is even less than the ad he ran in last week's personals. Strip clubs allow ordinary American men to live like Roman Emperors, at least until they run out of dollar bills.
—Zak Weisfeld
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