A stripper is a pet for life, not just for Christmas

I’ve never really had what you’d call a monogamous relationship- mostly I’d pick up girls in bars or at parties, girls I knew through friends or in the general scene about town. There were a few abortive attempts at girlfriend-type arrangements, but I never had the impetus to knuckle down and really try to make it work. Mostly, I’d tend to see them on and off for a while before either I drifted away or they got frustrated and bailed. It wasn’t until last year that I actually managed to maintain a relationship with some semblance of normalcy, and that ended when she went overseas. So with her away for anything from a year to forever, I’d pretty much resigned myself to casual flings. Then a whole bunch of stuff happened and the next thing I know I have a, well…fella.

Not so strange, really (unless you’re me)- while there’s a strong queer element in the sex industry, most of the strippers/peep girls I know are in fairly standard monogamous relationships with a dude. This would seem to go against the widely accepted wisdom passed down from bloke-in-pub to bloke-in-pub that while you should definitely have fun with a stripper, don’t ever try to keep her. Hey, I understand: I’m fairly Swedish when it comes to sexual morals, but a lot of people can’t deal with the idea of their partner being naked and performing sexually suggestive acts in the presence of other people. Just as it takes a person of strong mind and sense of self to work in the sex industry without being dragged down by all the societal and personal bullshit that can go along with it, it takes a fairly robust sort to love them and be with them. A lot of people seem to think they’ll be able to deal with it. At first it’s kind of exciting: you’re dating a Bad Girl, it’s all a bit illicit and naughty in a teenage sort of way. It’s the reason there are so many people who have (or claim to have) a stripper somewhere among their exes, that crazy girl who taught them a million new positions and gave them all these stories that they can now dole out at parties in a tedious attempt to make you all forget that they work in sales (but they were wild and crazy too once, at least vicariously).

There’s a point in any relationship, be it between stripper and boyfriend, wife and wife, master and gimp, me and a Walkman (you were so awesome and old-school and I made a million mixtapes for you. Why do you keep eating them, little one?), where the honeymoon period is over. Suddenly the partner is wondering, does “No Touching” really mean “NO Touching”? What if someone really hot books her for a private show? Is she going to do this forever? Stripping and peep show work is great, but the negative fallout for your relationships can be dire if it’s not handled properly.

Not that I have anything to complain about, personally: I’ve had two partners in the time I’ve worked in the industry as a whore and a peep girl, and both of them have been nothing but supportive and all-around lovely about it. A lot of the people I work with haven’t been so lucky. Part of the reason I’ve always chosen to be open with my friends and partners about what I do is that I’ve seen the strain it puts on girls who feel forced, whether through a misplaced sense of shame or fear of societal censure, to lead a double life. Imagine having a long, trying day at your job, coming home feeling like you just want to curl up into a ball and cry and not being able to tell the person you love what’s bothering you because they think you work in day-care. Fuck that, dude.

Although the fact that being part of a class that’s widely viewed as vulnerable (even more than most women) means there’s undeniable problems about the possibility of attracting some extremely predatory creepy fuckers, I’ve yet to know any girls with a truly Bad Boyfriend. You know, the prison-tattoed, wifebeater clad “Gimme some sugar, baby” sneering douche of legend. What I have seen, however, is an awful lot of ordinary guys who think they can handle it, get in way over their heads and end up being…That Guy. That Guy isn’t necessarily a guy, they’re whoever thought it would be fun to fuck around with a sex worker and didn’t stop to consider that he or she is a person, not a goddamn trophy or fodder for their attempt at Gonzo journalism. That guy who brags to his mates about dating a stripper, but won’t let her meet his family. That guy who phones or messages ten times an hour when she’s working “just to check in”. That guy who wouldn’t have a problem with his girlfriend not wanting sex because she’s tired from working in a bar all day, but who loses it because she’s “having sex for other people all day, don’t I deserve some?” That guy who manages to convince her and himself that since he “lets” her work as she does, it’s up to her to support his lazy arse. Fuck that guy right the hell off. And that’s the worst part of the stripper-as-novelty-girlfriend. If the partner does decide to leave, the girl is left wondering: is that what I deserve?

That was a lot longer and more rant-y then I’d intended, so here’s a story from last week:

So this older guy, thin on top and rocking a sizeable beach-ball under his jumper, comes in and books me for a private. As soon as we’re in the room he is Cecil B. DeMille and I am his starlet:

“Ok, so I’m going to take off my clothes now, is that alright? And then I would like you to take off your clothes and sit down on that stool there. I don’t want you to use any of the toys. And I’d rather you didn’t speak.”

He strips down to some distinctly un-tighty un-whiteys and black socks. I obligingly perch myself on the stool opposite him in the tiny, tacky private room (mirror balls and paper hearts and black pleather, oh my). He sits and begins giving me detailed instructions regarding what pose I am to adopt. The legs go like *this* and the arms out like *this* and hold your head like *so*. I felt like Chef’s “Miss May” (née December) from Apocalypse Now, minus a bird or two. Once I am properly positioned, he begins wanking with a fury, staring at a point somewhere to the left of my ear. He does not speak again until fifteen minutes later, fifteen minutes of me sitting still and quiet like a doll, when he finally blows his load.

“So tell me,” he gasps, pulling on his track pants, “Do you get off when you work?” It’s a fairly common question, and I know what they want to hear: oh yes baby, it makes me so hot, I’m getting my seat wet, blah blah blah. But dirty talk costs extra and I’m a mercenary bitch, so I answer (as always) truthfully.

“Sometimes, if I really feel like it. But not usually, no.”

“Did you get off this time?”

“No.”

“That’s good,” he smiles, and puts another twenty on the pile he’s already given me as he walks out the door. Halfway out, he stops and turns, not smiling anymore. “Because if you’d been lying to me, I would have known.” And then he’s gone.