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| Feminist in a Strip Club |
I went to a strip club last night. For the people who know me, that is probably the last statement they would ever expect to hear come out of my mouth. And to be honest I have very mixed feelings about the experience.
This all started when I broke up with Douchebag. I was feeling shitty--down and out for sure. My friend K. gave me an intro pole dancing class. I was ambivalent about it. A feminist at the core, how could I ever do something that fundamentally objectified women? But I was in such a rut, I took it. Lo and behold, who was teaching it, but a former ballet teacher of mine! It was so great to see her--I had always enjoyed the way she taught her classes. And while I was taking the class, I began to feel sexual again, for the first time in a while. There were no mirrors in the class, unlike ballet, so it was not hours of scrutinizing imperfections, but moving your body to the music and feeling sensual. I signed up for a full session that day.
I've been enjoying the class (and Crafty has been enjoying the benefits...) and the female comraderie. So even though I was coaching that night and had severe reservations, i agreed to meet up with everyone for the field trip to a strip club.
To be fair, it was a bikini bar. The women kept their tops on, and tips were put on the stage instead of on the dancer's body. Some of the women were awesome, doing incredibly athletic tricks and dance moves. Others, just paraded around in sad looking, too small costumes. Most had a dead look in their eye, with only one or two looking like they were actually having fun. Guys think this is sexy? One old man would walk up to the stage and throw a wad of ones at the girls and watch them pick it up at the end of their dance. That struck me as the saddest part. These women teetering around in impossibly high heels and skimpy clothes picking up discarded one dollar bills that were tossed at them for showing their flesh. Yes, there is definitely some dancing going on. But in the end, the women who were there on the field trip were the only ones who seemed to realize it.
It made me sad. What do we do in exchange for what we think we need? I got a text from Crafty: "this job is literally killing me." I told him "If it's literally killing you, it's not much of a life. Few things are worth your health. Cash is not one of them. But you already know that."
He never answered. A half an hour later, I wrote, "Don't mean to be preachy. If you truly loved this, I'd be behind you all the way. But all I ever hear is you hating it and hurting. How much is that worth? But that's all I'll ever say about that."
He still hasn't answered, which is unlike him. I believe he is mad at me. But right now my heart is tired, and I can't really muster the energy to do anything about it. I told him the truth. If he can't deal with it, then there is only so much I can do.
But really, don't we all do things that kill us a little in exchange for what we think we want? I chose a profession of constant rejection, failure and disappointment. And in my personal life, I seem to settle for so much less than what I truly want. I accept nuggets of affection, instead of veins. Minutes of time instead of days. Text messages instead of interpersonal action. And each time I settle, i think a little part of me dies. There is what I think I deserve and what I am willing to accept. The two are so totally different. Will they ever align? Will I ever learn to demand more? Or will I just forever lower my expectations until I am just a memory of who I am now?
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Posted by datingretard on 2008-02-16 21:38:47 | Rating: | Views: 159
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