In spring 2006, the first and last ever issue of a small zine called Swear Words was distributed to strip club dressing rooms throughout Portland. Between information on what it means to be an independent contractor and how to prevent the spread of staph (there was a huge outbreak in Portland clubs in fall 2005), there was a story titled, “My thoughts are who I am…” by a dancer named Ananda.
It is with a heavy heart that I write that Ananda took her own life on Friday, November 27th, 2009. Ananda was a dancer, but she was also a nursing student, a wife, a friend, and a daughter. As such, I have heard that she may not have been “out” about stripping to her family, so I am hesitant to write too much. I did not know her well, but we shared friends in the sex industry and punk scene, worked at some of the same clubs and saw each other around town. She is already greatly missed, and since I doubt many people have read this, I thought I would share it.
My thoughts are who I am. My body is how you see me. Portland has more strip clubs per capita than any other city in the U.S. Before I moved here I swore to myself that I would not strip. Strippers were dumb blonds who whored themselves out for not enough money and too much cocaine. Strippers were dumb, I wasn’t a stripper, I was a student…I was better than that. I tried what I’d done before; I even tried food service, but no go. So I thought, “When in Rome.”
Secretly I wanted to do it anyway. I figured I get objectified on the street every day… why not get paid for it. My initial fears about stripping stemmed from negative body image issues. I mean, I’m not fat, but I don’t have a “stripper” body. It seemed so out of character for me to get naked in front of people. Shit, it was only 5 years ago I wouldn’t have sex naked out of insecurity. But, people told me, “You’re hot, you’ll totally make money.” And like I said I had a friend who worked there, which did make it easier.
The first time I went up on stage I pounded a Sapphire and tonic right before and as I was making my grand debut I tripped in my 6 inch platform heels and almost fell. I was so nervous I thought I was going to vomit. When I first began my nights as a stripper I wouldn’t take off my panties, or look people in the eye. The eyes are the window to the soul. I didn’t want to share myself with perverts who tip a dollar for 10 minutes of T&A. The money was good, I got free drinks and hang out time. Met some interesting people, and some total fucking wingnuts. I quit before I went back to school last fall, selling all my stripper shit and swearing to myself that I’d never do it again. It was fun white it lasted, but definitely not a productive lifestyle coupled with school. I learned that it doesn’t matter if you can see my belly rolls when I’m bending over because…well, because my pussy and titties get all the attention. It was a fun new experience, but it’s so easy to get caught up in the drink and hustle that I didn’t want to get too comfortable.
Spring term had just begun and I was already out of my loan money. My best friend’s girlfriend worked at a strip club downtown and he frequently suggested that I work there. A night of bar hopping landed me in said strip club. I was drunk enough to have the courage to ask the bartender when they did auditions. I went in the following Wednesday, and so began my second venture with taking my clothes off for money. The same guys came in day after day, looking at my pussy, tipping a dollar per song, finding companionship in their cocktail and my faux laughter.
Soon I started to feel bad for these guys. The men who frequent strip clubs must be so lonely. They never bothered to take off their wedding rings. Their wives must not pay attention to them. Their kids hate them…if they’re lucky. If not, they live alone, and will die that way. So fucking depressing.
It hit me that if I was going to do something I should enjoy it. Pitying my customers was not heading me in the right direction. Make the most of what you do, and if nothing else you’ll come out of it having learned something. The way I began to act at work has taught me life changing lessons; how to be a better friend, how to be sexy, how to act and that people don’t care as much about me as I do. So, if the guys who come into my work are lonely, why not make them feel otherwise. Asking questions about their day, about their work and about their interests, about who they want to be generated smiles in their eyes. Myself as Ananda developed a relationship with the lonely men at the ‘rack.’ And they tipped better. I carried this behavior into myself as who I am and started asking my friends about their work, their interests, who they want to be, and I got more smiles. I was a better friend.
The punk rock subculture has done a grave disservice for women; it had made us devoid of sexuality. It’s not punk to be sexy. It’s not punk to try to be hot, or feminine. I wore my boots, spit, burped and was donned, “Bundy.” For the last 12 years I’ve been fighting my “god given right” to be a fucking sexy bitch. It’s only been within the last few years that I’ve been breeching this sexy tip. Recently I discovered that I had a wonderful opportunity to explore my sexy side. Every time I work it’s all fake eyelashes, sexy panties, perfume and hot motherfucking outfits. I’m discovered what it means to be hot and sexy. Although I do feel fucking sexy all sweaty with a tool belt and a skill saw in my hand, this is a different kind of sexy. This is sexy to the masses. This is so completely new to me…and I love it.
My flirting has gone from a PBR belch and a coy look across the room. Fucking with my eyes, that’s what I call it. It’s my bread and butter. Now when I walk into a room and people stare at me, my initial thought isn’t that my fly is down or that I’ve got a booger; it’s “maybe they think I’m attractive.” Sure I still have issues with my body, but women with body issues are like fish in a barrel. Stripping has brought me to realize that what is shown in magazines isn’t what most people want.
People tell me all the time how refreshing it is to see a real woman with a real body. If I’m parading around in my skivvies, or writhing around like I’m being fucked, I can say whatever I want to, make whatever face I want to, do whatever I want to and no one cares. I’m still sexy. I’m still cool. I’m still smart. My thoughts are who I am; my body is how you see me. I will always be me, so who fucking cares if you think I’m an idiot. When I realized that, it was my own personal emotional, intellectual, psychological, spiritual revolution. The walls came down and now more than ever I am able to be me, and find out who I want to be.
