The Big O

People often feel a little guilty about objectifying us girls when they visit a strip club. I guess that’s one thing to feel bad about if you’re an asshole about it. But it’s also condescending to think of strippers as victims of objectification. I mean really, no one seems to feel sorry for the 14 year old Kate Moss in that Calvin Klein campaign. It’s the very thought that turns it from an appreciation to an objectification.

It’s what a lot of women like to think so they can feel sorry for us and be safe because obviously we are all fucked in the head, which therefore makes us less appealing, and therefore less likely to steal the husbands or boyfriends of theirs that we have absolutely no interest in stealing. These concerned girlfriends and wives obviously haven’t heard that thing about how crazy girls are the best fucks in the forest because if they had they’d be increasing their benzodiazepine intake to allay their fears of members of orthodox or born again church groups; women living in isolation on self sustaining farms in bum-fuck-no-town-no-where bunking on mattresses stuffed with sustainably farmed organic straw in shipping crates collecting the hair shed from their bodies to reverently stuff the pillow of their long haired guru; and of course girls in mental hospitals who can be unpredictable and on all kinds of meds. And they certainly would not see the correlation between the benzo use of themselves and the latter. No need to worry so much about the strippers or the crazies. The kind of bitch who will go after your hapless man, powerless like a deer in tit lights, will not be contained to just one industry. That kind of bitch, is that kind of bitch, no matter how she makes her money.

It’s what a lot of men like to think so they can feel like nice guys when they ask you “What are you doing in a place like this? Doing a job like this? You’re such a nice girl. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. Sweet…” As though they are really, no I mean really seeing us as humans. As if you can’t be all of those things and take your clothes off for money. As if you can only be all those things if you star in Disney kids shows (ja cause Britney and Lindsay are such awesome idols for your children), or work with special needs kids, or work behind the counter at Baker’s Delight getting paid $12 an hour and stuffing your face with samples of sundried tomato pull apart bread all day long – I only say this because that’s what I’d be doing…. No offence intended for anyone who actually does work at Baker’s Delight. OMG and shit quality custard tarts!!! I would smash those all day every day til I was sweating sweet gooey custard that I could collect from my arm pits and scrape back into empty pie shells I bought from Woollies on a Saturday morning, refrigerate and then eat all over again in the afternoon.

On the nights that my humour is still in tact and guys ask me what I really do for a living, what income in a respectable trade I need to subsidise, I often tell them I work with people with special needs. People who dribble and sometimes even vomit on themselves, don’t understand social etiquette, have addiction issues, anger management problems, mental retardation coupled with sexual perversions, autistics from across the entire spectrum and people with Aspergers disease who don’t understand emotions and how their words and actions effect others.

“Wow! Really?? That’s so saaaaad. Those poor people. How long have you been doing that for?” Sometimes they get it. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes I let them in on the joke. Sometimes I don’t.

“Yes, I really do work in community services… a way. Yes, sometimes it really does bring me down. It can be pretty intense. Yeaaaaaah.”

Sometimes nasty ladies of the 9-5 circuit come in and objectify us too. They sit at our podiums specifically to snarl and snigger at us and talk about our cellulite, or how their bff 4 eva sitting next to them is waaaaaay hotter than that girl on the stage, or how she has been going to Pole Divas for nearly 2 years now and is totally so much better at that descending angel inversion than that girl is…oh, and waaaaay hotter too. I imagine this last type of girl actually ends up demonstrating this inversion on a pole at 1 Oak in New York’s west side, or any which one of Melbourne CBD’s unsuspecting sign posts in the wee drunken hours of her “later that night” montage. Unashamedly displaying her g-banger and the half of her butt cheeks that drew the short straw and didn’t get to hang out the bottom of her skirt that night. This epidemic of pole rape is sweeping its way across many nations like wildfire. And it’s not due to globalization or climate change. I hope it never stops because it’s insanely entertaining and hopefully therapeutic cause these girls obviously have something they need to express that isn’t seeing the light of day or the dark of night frequently enough.

On the flip side of that female market there are also many feminists out there defending our rights as real people with real feelings and to them I’d like to say thanks for the sentiment of care but without delving into a muff that I don’t know that much about having never done that myself, us kids are alright! And if we aren’t, it’s not due to being objectified by strangers. If this were the case I’m pretty sure every girl who walks the street out there in pretty much every country, fat or thin, short or tall, would also be in a high risk category and worthy of an armed defence force and pamphlet literature containing A LOT OF UPPER CASE BOLD text.

To be honest, sometimes it’s a relief to be the object of my own heart’s desire. To just be a shell of a girl. Shiny and bright. Under lights that erase the imperfections of my body that I notice daily. Languid limbs dancing slowly to my own song on a pole in the middle of a snow globe. Suspended in time with glitter falling all around until the floor is covered in a life that seems brighter than the shit day you just had, the Aunty you visited in a hospice last week who’s skull is the most prominent feature of a face that once had a sparkle you’ll never forget. It can be your 20 minutes of peace that set, or your one accumulated one hour of happiness that day. Unless they play top 40 Katy Perry, Skrillex or any one of the empowering Pink ballads on the system. In which case your day is still fucked and the soundtrack to your nightmares has been decided for you by the DJ who is too busy getting a blowjob in the booth to care what kind of ear violation he is subjecting you to.

Objectification is in the eye of the beholder. Hold onto it, or let it go but please don’t spoof into my sparkle globe with your condescending cunt or cock confetti.


17 thoughts on “The Big O

  1. This one speaks loudly to me. My pet hate in this job is people feeling sorry for me, like I’ve been forced into this ‘awful’ situation. I love my job! Freedom, meeting awesome genuine free-spirited ladies, money to do what I please, working for myself, meeting and learning about a broad spectrum of characters, hearing a different story every night, learning of people’s secret lives and secret desires and getting to know people and their most carnal needs that they often can’t tell a mate or a loved one. Not many people in a ‘normal’ job can be exposed and privy to so many walks of life. This job has taught me to be truly accepting of all people and to never, ever judge a book by its cover. I doubt many accountants, lawyers, solicitors or other people who tend to feel ‘sorry’ for us could claim to be privy to the same education in their job as we are.

    That’s my two cents anyhoos 😬


  2. When they say “It’s okay, you’re just doing it for your education right?” I’m like.. N.O. I’m doing it to do whatever fuck I want, doesn’t matter if it’s law degree or million bags of cocaine. Customers who justify my job as if I’m doing a bad thing is just SO condescending.


    • Just couple more stories. One ‘banker’ lady came in, and she said to me, ‘I have money, does that turn you on?’ I was like “well, I probably make your weekly wage in one night, and will forever be hotter than you.” (and smile and walked away) Oh oh also, one girl said to me when I was on the stage “she’s not that tall, look at her shoes”, and another girl came up to me “you’re so smart, why do you do this?” (she hasn’t even talked to me for 1 sec, I mean, I could be the dumbest person in the world), and the girl who grabbed my vagina out of nowhere while I was walking, the one who was kissing her bf while looking at me like ‘he’s mine’ (oh, yes please because I want him so much.)… the story can go on and on.. haha I mean, all I want to say to the ladies out there, ladies, you’re there to have fun, have fun!!!


      • haha love you more. I was reading your post going ‘that’s right.. so right.. so right..’ and then read the DJ part, almost cried laughing.


      • Well yeah. I wasn’t the one unfortunate ebough to witness that… Our creepy girl who wants to smell your essence was the victim of that cock crime. And just for the record – it was NOT a dancer dishing the goods that day


      • It was AWFUL!!!! He didn’t shut the curtain to the back of the Di booth entirely, and I was unfortunate enough to be onstage and have a direct view straight in. Ewwwwwwwwww. And yes, not a dancer!


      • There are some things in this life that we can never unsee. I’m sorry that happened to you. Nobody deserves to unwillingly witness the bobbing sea of hair performing an act of intimacy on such a beaat such as the dj in question. No matter how much we adore him. And trying not to vomit on stage is really just the pits!


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