Art Sex Music

by Cosey Fanni Tutti

  I was lucky that both my model and dancing agencies knew and understood that I had other priorities, so I could fit their bookings in around TG and other projects. But it was physically exhausting dancing up to four hours a day, going to our Martello Street studio at night and weekends, doing TG gigs, recordings and art projects. When I look back at my diaries, I’m amazed that I also had such a full-on social life, considering how much else was happening. But stripping did have some unexpected advantages at times. I acquired some steel surgical instruments from a pub, including a rib-spreader and a speculum. I have no idea what they were doing there, discarded in an old cardboard box in the storeroom that doubled as my dressing room. But they were most welcome and fitted in very readily with our other interesting activities of the time.

  I auditioned for the Gemini stripping agency at the infamous Chelsea Drugstore in the King’s Road. It had been an old haunt of Chris’s and he’d also worked there on the set of A Clockwork Orange. Those connections made me feel more at home. But I was nervous as I knew that it was a one-dance chance and I had no idea if I’d fit the bill. I go-go danced in my silver sequinned bikini, behind the bar on a small ledge they called a stage, and I could see my potential agent, Bob, and his wife stood across the room watching intently as they assessed me. When my music finished Bob beckoned me over … I got the job. I was surprised but elated.

  Leading up to the audition I’d spent months doing research, mainly going to the Arabian Arms in Cambridge Heath Road, Hackney, which was not far from where I lived in Beck Road. I’d watch the different dancers, noting how they moved, what music they used, their costumes and how the customers responded. As I came to understand how it all worked and how it could work for me, I decided I’d use the name ‘Scarlet’, with all its connotations of the ‘Scarlet Woman’. It suited both stripping and my interest in magick. I made my costumes and compiled my music.

  Selecting the right music was one of the most difficult tasks. Back then, in the 1970s, everything was on vinyl, and singles were either 7" or 12", so it was important to keep them to a minimum if only to limit the weight of your dance-kit bag. Also there was no room for duplication: the dancers had to use music the DJs didn’t play and also select different songs to one another. The choices were limited but inevitably some great songs lent themselves so readily to stripping – in mood, rhythm and lyrics – that girls duplicated, but usually never when they worked together.

  Money and ego were the two sources of competition between the girls. The issue of who was better than who often raised its ugly head. We all cultivated a ‘look’ and persona, and our costumes reflected that, so it was irritating when these got copied. It was also unacceptable to have two girls dance with the same outfit – it made for unwelcome comparisons. I made my own costumes so I was lucky that none of the girls could copy them, but there were arguments about who danced to any one particular record. Fortunately it only happened to me once, at a pub in the King’s Road. It had a large wooden dance floor and good sound system, so whenever I was sent there I took the opportunity to really dance away to Candi Staton’s ‘Nights on Broadway’. The girl I was with was up next and used the same song, saying, as she passed me, ‘That’s my track.’ She was reprimanded by the DJ.

  Stag (bachelor) parties were different from pub work because there were no single dances, only stripteases, and these were performed to two or three tracks, so girls compiled the music for their stag acts on to cassette tape. One tape for each act, so the tape could be quickly rewound – but not on a machine. We couldn’t cart that around with us as well as make-up, vinyl, up to ten costumes and everything else, so we had to rewind manually: pencil or Biro through the sprocket hole and spin. It was a common sight in dressing rooms to see girls sat talking while nonchalantly rewinding their cassette tapes in readiness for their next show.

  It quickly became apparent to me that the striptease scene was a world apart from my art, music and modelling. Up to this point, everything had connected well, each informing the other in the most rewarding ways. But this new venture was uncompromisingly social in context, with me as the focal point to ensure that the few hours I was there were exciting, fun and erotic. This was entertainment and, unlike modelling, I had the lion’s share of control. After all that time since my teens, I got to dance, dress up and more or less have a party every day. Of course, that’s a simplistic view and paints a far better picture than the realities I faced, but nevertheless I recognised the opportunity it gave me to express myself within an unfamiliar environment.

  Working in live and volatile situations twice a day called for a quite different means of coping, and I faced a steep learning curve. What I’d experienced in the world of pornography had been tough in other ways. I was never followed home from modelling jobs, whereas leaving pubs on my own either in the afternoon or evening left me vulnerable to being stalked and possibly attacked. That’s when my faithful ‘fans’ helped, as they’d often see me safely to my car.

  But they weren’t around when I worked in Dagenham one day. It was a good money-spinner, with all the Ford workers drinking there at lunchtimes. When I left I noticed a guy in a car following me. I thought nothing of it at first but no matter which way I turned to test him out, he followed me and continued on my tail all the way to Bethnal Green. I could see the guy’s face in my rear-view mirror and I began to panic. As I stopped at the traffic lights at the junction of Cambridge Heath Road, a motorcycle cop pulled up alongside me. I quickly wound my window down and shouted, ‘What do I do about a guy who’s been following me from Dagenham?’

  ‘Any reason why he should be following you?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t know him.’

  The cop looked behind at the car I’d pointed out and said, ‘When the lights change to green, drive off and I’ll keep him here.’ He positioned his bike in front of the stalker’s car and I drove off. I thought I’d shaken him but as I reached Crouch End I saw him again. I drove past our flat and straight to the nearby police station and parked, and he pulled up a short distance away. I pointed to the neon POLICE STATION sign and shouted at him, ‘I’m going in there to report you and give them your registration number. I suggest you FUCK OFF!’, and I walked into the station. I stood in the lobby for a few minutes, then peeked tentatively through the window – he’d gone.

  When I first started with Gemini in 1977, the scene was still quite tame and focused on go-go dancing. It was changing fast, though, and topless dancing was no longer enough. But the landlords wouldn’t pay the girls extra for stripping, so in answer to the customers’ demands, and with the permission of the landlords and my agency, a few of the girls began to collect money from the customers by taking a pint glass around. The tamer girls didn’t want to reveal all and gradually disappeared from the circuit. The costumes reflected the more dance-orientated girls, all tassels, sequins and rhinestones. It was only when stripping took over as the expected norm that the costumes and music changed. Striptease required a very different style of ‘dance’ movement, pace and mood. I had to deliver a fantasy for the customers. Just dancing to your favourite records didn’t work. The package was all-important.

  I did break out now and again and dance to personal favourites. I danced to ATV’s ‘Love Lies Limp’, firstly just as an ironic comment I felt I needed to make. But, quite unexpectedly, it was rather popular, so I’d dig it out now and again. Captain Beefheart’s ‘Hard Workin’ Man’ was a keeper. It was raunchy and gave a no-nonsense thumping message as I entered the stage for the first part of one of my strip routines. My choice of music was diverse, driven in the main by the need for the audience to relate in some way, especially at Christmas time when all the party bookings came in.

  I was always on the lookout for new costumes. When TG had played in LA in 1981, I’d visited the Frederick’s of Hollywood lingerie store on Sunset Boulevard and picked up a stunning gold basque with matching gold garters complete with Christmas bells and a tiny gold whistle. Alongside diamante acce
ssories, that became my Christmas stripping outfit for the classier stag nights and office parties.

  If I wanted to exorcise some restless energies, I’d dance my heart out to Patti Smith’s ‘Because the Night’. I didn’t give a shit at moments like that. For that one dance it was about me. I worked at so many pubs around London, Brighton and the South-East, and wherever my agency sent me. One of my regular London pubs was the Wellington at Shepherd’s Bush. When David Thomas was in town with Pere Ubu, he and Gen came along with me one Friday afternoon. I’d been using Pere Ubu’s ‘Heaven’ in my strip routine. It had all the elements I needed: a great melody, so danceable, and the lyrics were suggestive enough for me to use for such an erotically charged setting. When I finished, I joined David and Gen at the side of the dance floor. I got the sense that David didn’t quite approve of my using his song. Someone suggested it might be because he was a Jehovah’s Witness.

  I’d be booked for the ‘liquid lunch hour’ break, from 1 till 3 p.m., Monday to Friday, and then in the evenings from 8 till 11 p.m., and be paid only as a dancer. The job was more than just throwing on some sexy underwear, then taking it off to music. There was a standard to maintain or you got sacked. Gemini kept a check on us to see if we’d put on weight and whether our costumes and dancing were up to scratch. If for any reason the agency had doubts, we were suspended until we hit the benchmark again. Over time I gained a certain popularity, which meant I got requests for regular spots. One was the Queen Anne pub at Vauxhall. It was a small pub but its location amid many white-collar office blocks meant the customers had well-paid jobs, so the jug money was very, very good.

  Gemini acted as a safety net and filter to fend off any seedy or risky bookings and made sure, as much as possible, that us girls were not put in bad situations. But the business being what it is, you can’t always predict what happens. When you’re booked, the situation can turn out to be something quite different from what was arranged and agreed. Or, in other instances, the charged atmosphere mixed with alcohol-fuelled bravado could spark off terrible verbal and sometimes physical abuse for the girls. One of my friends had her nipple half bitten off by a guy who leaped on the stage as she lay on the floor during her act. Such places were put on a blacklist, but I don’t recall the police ever getting involved. One of the girls had sussed out how to keep safe. She took her two huge German shepherd dogs with her to every booking and had them sit on guard at each side of the stage. If anyone came near her, you’d hear them growl, waiting for her command to attack. That was enough to deter any trouble on the stage or when she left to go to her car in the dark.

  Like all the girls at the agency, I had my favourite pubs to work in and my faithful ‘fans’ too. So when I checked in for my next week’s bookings, I always tried to secure some I knew would be easy and lucrative. More often than not I had to settle for some rough with the smooth. And there were some very rough pubs frequented by some equally rough customers.

  One time I took an evening job at a club above a shop in Tottenham, not far from where I was living. As soon as I stepped off the street I felt uneasy. When I walked into the club it was clear by the comments made to me that I was the only white person in there. But I asked where the dressing room was and who to speak to about my music and time slot. I’d been booked along with a black girl from another agency, who I didn’t know, and who made it crystal-clear that she didn’t like me. She took to the stage first and immediately proceeded to fuck herself with a beer bottle offered to her by a guy in the audience. That wasn’t a good start to the evening. Usually the first act from each girl was delivered clean. After that, depending on negotiations, it hotted up. I had to follow a full-on bottle-fucking floor show with my straight topless dance. It didn’t go down well. In situations like that, I went even straighter than normal, as if to hammer home the point that I wasn’t on offer. The atmosphere was so charged I kept my bag packed and ready to go if I needed to make a run for it. As I sat at the side of the dance area, the room erupted into laughter and the sound of backslapping. A calm-looking white guy was led to one of the front tables. I could feel him glaring at me. I didn’t make eye contact. I was asked, or rather ordered, to join him. His name was Angel and he’d just come out of prison. I was told ‘Be nice to him’ by the club manager. The situation was getting really edgy and dark and I wanted to leave, but it also became obvious that I’d need to work my way out of there. I was at the farthest part of the club from the entrance, and one floor up behind two locked doors. I sat at Angel’s table as instructed. He looked angelic, so I could see where his name came from, but assumed it was ironic, judging by his time inside for GBH and his obvious high status among his peers. He was a gentleman in the way ‘connected’ villains are, but had a shadow of sadness about him. We had a polite to-and-fro conversation, a preamble to the inevitable request for sex, which he’d clearly been told to expect. I’d been brought in for him under the pretext of ‘dancer’ as a gift to celebrate his release. White girl for white man. I knew I had to read this guy fast, try and figure out where his sadness lay. Lucky for me, I was somewhat familiar with guys like him, as well as precarious situations. I steered the conversation round to relationships and he expressed the importance of loyalty. Phew! That was my in to get out. No hesitation, I told him I didn’t sell sex, that I had a long-term partner I was faithful to, and that we had a young son. Oddly, but thankfully for me, his body language changed, he became relaxed, his face softened and he said quietly how wonderful that was to hear. We talked a little more, nothing heavy, and I kind of liked him. Then he leaned over, gave me £50 and said he would see me to the door and safely off the premises – before it got really heavy.

  Stag parties were always a bit risky. They varied from social-club strip nights disguised as stag parties to a group of guys in a flat above a shop (very dodgy). It was at such a ‘party’ that I first met Brigitte. There were four of us girls, me, Joanne, Jane and Brigitte. As soon as we got there the men were pushing us all to do sex for money. Joanne and Jane were happy to oblige and as soon as I told them I wouldn’t they badgered Brigitte to join them. Brigitte was visibly stressed over the pressure to oblige. She sat on the edge of the bed, wringing her hands and shaking her head. I bent down in front of her, took her hands in mine and said to her that the answer is simple and short: ‘No.’ She didn’t do it. From that night we became friends and allies and often worked together.

  One Friday night in 1982 (the year Nick was born), Brigitte and I worked together on a typical stag night. It all started with the usual bookings process. I rang the agency: ‘Hello. Is Bob there?’ Mandy had answered the phone. She wasn’t the ideal person to deal with. She’d been a stripper herself and enjoyed doing the girls no favours at all. Her privileged position gave her a vantage point she revelled in.

  ‘Is that Scarlet?’ (She always called me by my stage name.)

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’ll have to call back,’ she said dismissively.

  That ritual happened with irritating regularity every Friday afternoon. Getting in quick for bookings meant you could get the best-paid pubs and stag nights and not be stuck with the nasty leftovers. To some extent I could call on my expertise and popularity to secure half-decent dates, as long as I could get Bob in a good mood. It worked more times than not, mainly because I’d entered Bob’s world as someone different to the usual ‘dogs’ he took on (his endearing terminology). He regarded me as intelligent: I knew where I was going and striptease to me wasn’t just about an easy-money game. He liked that, even though we fought for the upper hand now and again.

  I had a love–hate relationship with stripping. I loved the dancing, the exhibitionism, the wanting looks, knowing they couldn’t have me. A kind of power trip that made me feel good at times and helped me get through the down times. But sometimes it made me feel bad and I’d hate everyone and everything the situation stood for – putting myself in the position of a target for drunken lechery and insults, and having to be constantly on
guard against possible trouble and unwelcome propositions for sex.

  To fill in the time before calling Bob back, I rummaged through my bag of tricks in readiness. A treasure trove for every sexual fantasy. I selected the red-satin and silver outfit and the powerful, dominant, black ciré costume with zips. I never used accessories like whips (at least not for stripping) – they were too passé. Certain sex toys were for my pleasure and had to remain untainted. Besides all that, some of the rougher guys had been known to use the whips on the girls. Ugly scenes would develop if the DJ didn’t keep the guys in check. It was always a fine line between teasing for pleasure and teasing to belittle and insult the guys. Some girls got off on that – those who had been totally fucked up about sex for one of a hundred reasons and used striptease as a way of exorcising some of the pain. For some it worked, to a degree. There was a lot of self-hate, come to think of it. That saddened me.

  As I was getting ready to go to my stag booking, Chris took our baby son for his evening bath. I put my bag down and went through to the bathroom to join them. This was my world and the time of day I set aside for myself and my dearests. Nick was splashing happily, making those baby sounds everyone goes gooey over, and Chris’s face was lit up with a smile of devotion. Nick was cocooned in love. The warm feelings of self overwhelmed me and I left Scarlet behind.

  But not for long – the phone rang. Bob had called back, mainly because he wanted me to do one of his special jobs. Favour time, so he was extra-nice. I did most of his more respectable bookings. Since I had made the cover of the Sunday Times colour supplement as a desirable, presentable stripper for hire, a lot of work had come my way, which Bob had benefited from. People asked for me, ‘Scarlet’, specifically. I got to jump out of cakes and lie across cars, which made a welcome change from the smoky, dank pubs that were my regular haunts. Seeing as Bob wanted a favour, I took advantage and in fair exchange got some good bookings for the following week. Plus he’d obviously been for a drink at lunchtime and was in a happy, cheeky-geezer mood. He wouldn’t have been out of place selling second-hand cars. Bob treated the girls like cheap bargains at times and he’d bad-mouth them to me. That and his attitude sat unhappily with me, not only because I had to work alongside these girls but also because I liked them and so did the guys.