READER DISCRETION ADVISED: This entry contains mature subject matter, vulgar language, and outrage. Please forgo this entry if you wish, I thank you for checking in either way.
He was strong, muscular and older. Thick stubble coated his face; he’s definitely a man not a boy. He’s in a fireman’s uniform, authentic, city issued. The music thumps loudly and he begins taking off his clothes. The Emcee is funny but annoying. Of all the strippers who’ve defiled the stage, this one seems to know a little more about seduction. He understands a bit more about what the ladies in attendance want. Raising his arms he settles them behind his head, showcasing his large biceps and wide forearms. He appears to be hot, he relaxes languidly against the pole, eyes shut, apparently exhausted. Slowly a spotlight reveals his massive chest as he fades into his own world, his own fantasy. His thick sculpted body feels the ache of repression. Where was he going with his slow movements? How would he ease his tiring angst? He wasn’t with us; he was inside his body instead. Our invasive eyes faded away until he was alone. It was hypnotic. I felt taken in by the fantasy of a man who was about to feel himself in love, about to touch himself in arousal and begin his release through masturbation. Instead, he snapped out of seducing me and opted for bravado as women lined up, cueing themselves for humiliation.
We were there this past Friday. The visit to the strip club was intended as a distraction from reality for Ana’s cousin who was re-diagnosed with breast cancer. Our outing would be about escape, control, power.
The men at this place showed little interest in seduction. After the first show, both Ana and I felt sick, literally. We weren’t new to the strip club, though we hadn’t been to this location. Some things had changed since the last time we visited.
I was disgusted by what I saw, it was painful for me. Women paid these men (who should've been seducing us) to objectify them and humiliate them. Maybe these women didn’t see it that way, maybe they didn’t know better. The women lined up on stage, one after the other, so these ego-filled strippers could pretend to fuck them (as if they were doing these women a favour, as though these women were un-fuckable). In one scenario, a woman held on to the stage railing while the stripper lifted her legs in a wheel barrel fashion, pulled her head back by her hair and fervently pounded his hips against her, fucking her viciously. She didn’t ask for that, but that’s what happened.
Over and over the scenario of domination repeated varying only slightly. These strippers made their way to the stage exuding a larger than life attitude yet they were unable to dance. Once on stage, they only took their clothes off in reaction to audience response, after much ego stroking. Why am I doing all the work?
Well…fuck you and fuck this shit. These men were in control. Since I held the cash and was in a women’s strip club, it follows that I should be in control. I was there to objectify them, so why was I feeling used?
I didn’t go to the club to let any man tell me what to do. I didn’t go to the club to have the emcee attempt to brainwash me with his mantra of, ‘you came here to see cock.’ No I didn’t. Don’t tell me what I came to see.
Don’t objectify me, don’t tell me what I want, don’t humiliate me, don’t tell me what I need, and don’t expect me to pay for these wonderful services, because guess what? I’ve been objectified by men, been told what to do, been humiliated by them and told what I needed. You know what? It was all for free. I didn’t like it then and I don't like it now.
These men revealed everything, they never used to. They presented their long skinny dicks like it was a prize, the epitome of a man. There are women in the world who know what it means to be a man, better than these.
It’s a strip club for women - don’t sell me what you want to sell me. Sell me what I want to buy.
The problem: the club owner is a man. Only a woman knows what a woman likes. If he was a good businessman, he would’ve asked instead of assumed.
What’s worse? After the male dancers have danced, the club allows men to come in from the streets, turning the women’s side into a bar. Do you see? This is not for us, this is for them. Women are their hunted, gathered prey in a small dimly lit space vulnerable to predators who linger outside and are now allowed in. This is not respect. This is victimization and control. This is bondage.
Men who cannot surrender to the essence of a woman cannot understand her Power, cannot love her Power, can never hope to become it. If the owner of the club respected women, he would not sell sex like a man. He would seduce the roses between our thighs and stroke it like a woman.
How can we allow for a safe place where women can be in control of their own fantasies? I know there are places in other parts of the world. Nothing here comes close.
Since I have no capital to remedy the situation with a club of my own, I’m leaning towards starting an ulterior blog where I can express my idea of fantasy, seduction, power and control, as a woman for women (or men who want to know). This idea isn’t new but personally, I’m angry about what happened and feel a need to materialize an equal and opposite energy; women in control of their sex, their body and their freedoms. If in my fantasy she wishes to be degraded by a man, so be it, the choice is hers and that’s what’s important to me. It’s a little battle but I plan to fight it.
Continued on Wednesday July 27th, 2011
Until then, I remain yours,
Lesley
Hallelujah Heartist
I love how you described this experience Les. It is true, that these men have no idea what women truly want, and even in a club for women, they try to call the shots. Too bad women do not value themselves enough to know that they deserve to be served by these men.
ReplyDeleteThanks for your comment Nel, you nailed it exactly.
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