Ivy League Stripper

by Heidi Mattson

  The momentary burnout was my method of checking the balances. It was a reminder — not that I needed one — to define myself and my actions.

  Why don’t you tell Mom?

  11

  Sex as a Weapon, Sex as a Tool

  It isn’t what you do, it’s how you do it.

  — Mae West

  “Show me your ass!” he yelled, waving a crumpled bill.

  It was senior year, fall semester. I had stopped by the club one afternoon to neaten my locker and check in with Jackie and the managers. My extended disappearances were approved, but I felt occasional hellos would best ensure my privileged position at the club. As I passed by the stage, the crude man barked this request at a dancer.

  I didn’t often take the time to watch other strippers — when I was working I didn’t take the time for much of anything besides making money. Today was an opportunity to observe without distraction. I paused and pressed myself against a mirror to witness the girl’s reaction.

  Dominique turned slowly. Her curves, barely contained within a frame of crimson feathers, undulated beneath Lycra of the same supernatural shade. Head high, exuding disinterest with only the slightest pout and a stare that landed a few feet behind the man’s face, Dominique slowly, confidently zeroed in on him, rotating heels and hips with each step, tall as an Amazon. She hovered above him, bleached hair and stage lights creating an electric halo befitting the feathered specter she embodied.

  The now shrunken businessman sat down, his head at her feet. I imagined his heart was pounding clumsily, no match for her magnificent image. Suddenly confused and unsure, he stammered unintelligibly to his neighbor, another suit, at the stage.

  Dominique posed grandly above them, her small eyes dark spots highlighted by frosty shadow and blusher. “Oh my,” she said almost sadly, sympathetic to his limited scope. “Just where do you think you are?” she demanded in an even voice, not challenging but ready for a debate.

  At first the two suits could manage nothing more than a nervous readjustment of the ever present drinks and plastic ashtray on the edge of the stage in front of them. Then the first offered the bill again, but humbly this time, his earlier enthusiasm deflated by her haughty attitude. Both men continued to watch her, their heads upturned like baby birds begging to be fed. They feasted with intense concentration, enthralled by her despite her disdainful expression.

  Aware of, and comfortable with, her success at wilting him, Dominique’s interest grew. She rotated enticingly slowly, allowing the men a view of her awesome rear, which strained the fabric’s already generous stretch ability. With a dramatic flourish of her pale, fleshy arms, red feathers fluttering and shimmering, her glowing halo turned pink and the boa writhed into the air. Gracefully it fell, settling around her red leather spike heels. Miraculously, the delicate shoes supported her imposing figure on just a few square inches of earth.

  Eyes unmoving, the second suit dug out his wallet.

  Dominique, slyly peeking over her shoulder, smiled at him.

  The three of them were playing the arranged game — Dominique in the role of the bewitching, two-dimensional woman image; the men as hopeful males, needing to win the favors of the female. The men were secure in their victory. This game only went so far. The threat of loss was removed, money being their guarantee. Temporary as their win might be, it obviously filled some empty place in many of the men. They returned again and again. The Foxy Lady was the stage, an arena of arrested development and fantastical escapism.

  Dominique made a good living and could afford economic advantages — be it a new sports car every year, an education, or all the clothes she could fit in her mortgage-free house. It’s amazing what a few good customers could do.

  And I do mean customers, not men.

  The issue is money and business, not men, not sex. The customers place Dominique and me — and most other strippers at the Foxy — on a pedestal. Like Dominique, I simply took advantage of it, playing the goddess to their twenty-dollar bills.

  I thank them very much.

  The men receive temporary distraction and pleasure. They, as long as their money lasts, have their manliness buoyed in the oldest sense. They are the alpha, the leader of the pack, the dominant male. It feels good. It’s worth spending their money on. The women like the money. A mutually satisfying relationship. No damage done.

  In this opinion, however, I was the distinct minority. Could I be mistaken? I didn’t want to be blinded by my practical and economic needs: it was time to determine my beliefs. I was curious, as though distant from the situation. I wasn’t willing to give up a job that had changed my life in such a positive way. But I needed to know why my choices were despised, and why I could be despised for making them. It could be as simple as the secretive nature of the work — ignorance breeding fear and hate — or it could be bigger than that. Perhaps my actions were immoral. Unethical. Dangerous.

  Is something terribly wrong with me? If I was being “bad” shouldn’t my common sense have tipped me off by now? Am I so damned rational that I have no scruples?

  But I knew I did have scruples, I did draw the line somewhere. But the nature of that line surprised me. At times it seemed arbitrarily chosen; at other times it was definite and obvious. What I was doing came pretty naturally, the calmness in my gut told me this. It allowed me the luxury to delve more deeply, undistracted, into the world of thought, idea, and education.

  The American Dream.

  Feminism and issues of equality were subjects I hadn’t been concerned with before stripping. I was grateful for the efforts, truly courageous and revolutionary, of earlier feminists. I was running with the ball that the “genderquake” had earned. Furthermore, I had been raised to deal with the blows and do my best with what I had. I had believed that intellectual and political arguments were extravagant pursuits, suitable for those fortunate enough to have the time and energy to devote to activism, the bored upper classes. My recent actions, however, whether I liked it or intended it, were political. I wanted and needed to explore the seemingly obtuse workings of my society. I had evolved.

  Issues of morality and equality intrigued me. I wanted not only to determine my personal stance vis-a-vis the world, but also to understand the world’s stance vis-a-vis the individual.

  On me, the subversive stripper.

  It was clear that society prefers the safe and normal. Become difficult to categorize and society lumps you in with “bad,” the scary. I expected more. I believed in the extraordinary.

  Fortunately, during this semester I came across the work of Camille Paglia. I was stunned to discover that, within feminism, there existed a feminist debate. I had avoided the entire party. The zealous nature of political consciousness at Brown had bored me. I couldn’t drum up the passion that my classmates seemed to have in spades. Every argument has two sides — that I knew. I wasn’t seeing many sides expressed around me, though. The extremist, intolerant nature of campus politics (within the confines of today’s phenomenon of political correctness) became tedious and turned me off. Reading Paglia’s uncommon observations regarding female power struck a resounding chord.

  She wrote, “Woman is the dominant sex. Woman’s sexual glamour has bewitched and destroyed men since Delilah and Helen of Troy. Madonna, role model to millions of girls worldwide, has cured the ills of feminism by reasserting woman’s command of the sexual realm.” I related to this, enchanting my crowd at the Foxy Lady clothed in an airy cloud of chiffon as the Foxy Fairy, granting imaginary wishes for a buck per swish of my magic wand. At the back of the club, Sugar Shantal charged twenty dollars in exchange for three minutes of being looked at bare-breasted. Were we in command of the “sexual realm”? I knew I was in command of myself, and wasn’t that the ultimate goal of feminism?

  Not only were Paglia’s writings intriguing, they helped me understand my behavior. I was happy to discover there was more to feminism than my fellow co-eds scribbling and scratching the names of our male classmates (as “
potential rapists”) on the bathroom walls on campus. Curious, I explored the issues on my own, attempting to consider all sides.

  Some feminist philosophies, such as those of Andrea Dworkin and Catherine MacKinnon, infuriated me. I followed their observations, troubled here and there, but the victim perspective slanting their arguments bothered me. I wasn’t raised as a victim. I believed that as tough as it gets, you create a finger-hold somehow and pull yourself up. Isn’t that the American way? The solutions these women urged regarding equal rights problems upset me most. (Retreat from society because men created it?) Camille Paglia and Naomi Wolf, another feminist writer, offered a much more optimistic and realistic approach, one that matched my practical nature. I couldn’t dispute the fact that sexism exists. What to do with it seemed to be the debate. I found I possessed a viewpoint, an arguable opinion. Despite my doubts, I did know what I was doing.

  I began to relate my readings to my experiences both at the club and in my day-to-day life. Although I had hoped and thought otherwise, I secretly wondered if I possessed an undeniable sense of right and wrong. I realized now that I had been right all along. My decisions had been based on an unconscious sense of ethics and an ingrained sense of my worth, my equalness.

  I thought back a year. The rabbi wasn’t prepared for that. He presumed I was willing to trade in my self-reliance for his gift of power, fame, and security. How unusual would this behavior and this trade-off be thirty or forty years ago, when my mom was growing up, when sexual harassment was flattery, even opportunity?

  So what if I took the higher moral ground? Society certainly didn’t care; society didn’t see that deeply. Society didn’t matter. My reward was personal.

  If society doesn’t care, then what good is it?

  I could respect myself. Stripping hadn’t changed that. A few weeks into the semester I’d realized how strongly I had been affected by defining my personal boundaries. A man came to my apartment to install a mirror. He knew that I worked at the Foxy Lady; we even discussed it casually. When he finished the installation he handed me the bill; I paid him, and walked him to the door. In the doorway he turned back to me and said, “How about a dance?” He opened his fist and extended his arm toward me, my seven tens fanned neatly across his palm. “Just one song, and you can have this back.”

  I was speechless.

  So much for being a jaded stripper.

  He was looking at me with hopeful, childlike wishing in his eyes. I found my voice, and said blankly, “No. Absolutely not.” A moment later I added, as though he wasn’t aware, “This is my house, my home.”

  “Aw, please?” he whined.

  “No.” Wasn’t it obvious?

  “Please.”

  What! I’m in my little home, dirty hair in a ponytail, big old sweatshirt and sweat pants covering me, doing homework. This is my home!

  “No thank you, but this is my home. Absolutely not. You are free to go to the club,” I said as an afterthought.

  He has no idea how nuts I will become if he causes me trouble right now.

  I was approaching melt-down. My taboo against letting work mix with my outside life was incredibly powerful. I could barely contain my utter disbelief at his casual suggestion.

  “Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying. Thanks anyway. Have a nice afternoon,” he said good-naturedly. He shrugged sheepishly and left.

  As I had with the rabbi, here again I responded instinctually. It was only after he left that I realized what had occurred. I hadn’t even thought about my boundary rule. My reaction came from my core. I was amazed and relieved — and proud — to discover that my gut reactions, my most basic beliefs of right and wrong, were unchanged.

  The mirror installer sent flowers and a note later that day, with a courteous letter. He apologized for his assumption and thanked me for being so decent in turning him down. I was happily surprised. This working-class guy had class, far beyond that of a globally renowned rabbi. The installer had learned from my behavior. This was a victory. Being honest and clear was effective.

  Actually, everyone I came into contact with was reacting in one way or another to me. The narrow-minded and short-sighted concluded that the mild-mannered blonde from Brown was really nothing more than a slutty shake dancer, deeply flawed morally. The others learned that Heidi was both a topless dancer and the same hardworking, friendly girl she’d always been. “What!” one man said to me at a doctor’s office. “You? A stripper? You certainly don’t fit the stereotype!” Another reaction, from a woman professor, was, “Oh! My!” Then relief — “You must be researching the horror?” I explained that it was my job; it was how I supported myself; and although I was learning things, it was far more than an intellectual experiment.

  As short as our conversations or contact might be, I challenged many people’s limited notions of what a stripper is like.

  And what a Brown student is like.

  I was more social on campus, and since it was my senior year, it was my last chance to be so. My practice, from Day One, of being frank meant that anyone who knew me or asked me about my job knew, “Yes, I do strip.”

  Except for my family.

  I had begun to organize my summer Foxy Lady journal into a story. Two of my favorite professors from the English department were reading my pages and advising me. They and most acquaintances learned to respect my ability to succeed at what they thought of as impossible: I danced erotically for money while being a decent human being. I took off my clothes for strangers and maintained my self-respect. It was a challenge for them, but I was living proof. Except for my family nestled, ignorant of all this, in Bucksport, Maine, I didn’t keep my work a secret from anyone. Being open was a luxury; I didn’t have to worry about losing my standing in the community as some women did.

  In the public world, the scarlet letter still exists. I was fortunate in that I could be open, could afford to suffer stereotypes and stigmas. At times it became uncomfortable, but I looked at it as a screen, a built-in litmus test. If someone prejudged me, I didn’t need them. I hoped to surround myself with the people who believed in the incredible and opened their minds to unique possibilities. One of my better friends at work wasn’t so privileged. The parents of her first-graders, for example, would never suspect that she, the squeaky-clean, church-going teacher of their children, was also known as “Kristina,” exotic dancer. A wig, kept on a shelf right next to my locker, helped to mask her identity at work. Would Foxy Lady customers really want to fantasize about an elementary school teacher?

  As cautious as Kristina was, she still had a few close calls. Not only at the Foxy Lady. One day Timmy, one of her young charges, in a six-year-old’s panic announced in front of the class that “teacher doesn’t wear any underwear!!”

  Kristina was mortified. What is he getting at? Why would he say that? She didn’t understand how he would know anything. Maintaining her composure, she took Timmy aside and asked him, “What do you mean, Timmy? Of course I do. Why don’t you think I wear underwear?”

  Quite haughtily he replied, “Well, you don’t have any panty lines. My mommy always has panty lines — and you don’t. So I know that you don’t wear any underwear.” While this perturbed him, he was clearly proud of himself for uncovering his teacher’s secret (and informing his classmates).

  Needless to say, Kristina limited her G-string and thong panties to the Foxy Lady workplace after that. She switched from her no-line lingerie to full bottom undies at school the very next day. The sense of security her panty lines gave little Timmy and the rest of her class was well worth the bulkiness of her briefs. At the club, Kristina and I would exchange chuckles, recalling the incident of the distraught Timmy while we switched into our regular clothes at the end of each shift. All the strippers wore thong underwear outside of work (it was simply more comfortable). Except for Kristina. To see her change from tiny silky G-strings to her wide cotton line-makers was curious to the other girls. To Kristina and me, it was a nightly joke.

  S
exism is a part of American life. Rebelling like a sulky child and refusing to play (because involvement equals “buying into the system”) won’t change it. Confronting, understanding, exploring, and demystifying it will draw reality (and sexism) up to the surface, where it can be dealt with rationally. As Naomi Wolf wrote in Fire with Fire, “A real radical does not stand in the margins, admiring her own purity. Rather, she is a warrior to bring outsiders’ views into the center, asking, ‘How can my actions spark change for the good in the real lives of as many people as possible?’“

  Are customers so impressionable that a women flirting for a few minutes in exchange for money is evidence that women in general are nothing more than a sexually pleasurable, timed purchase? Are women going to believe that this is their only skill?

  Have more faith.

  Biology is powerful, but we have brains, too. American society is reaching the point where we sue others for our own behavior. (“If Joe hadn’t served beer at the barbecue I wouldn’t have been driving drunk and I wouldn’t have plowed into Mary’s car.”) Come now! If I want the credit when I succeed, I’ll accept responsibility when I don’t.