Strippers are often seen and seldom heard. These performers interact with their audience on direct, frequently intimate terms, but there remains a fourth wall between the two – and it benefits both parties. They give us fake names, partially for their own safety and peace of mind, but also because we don’t necessarily want to know their real names. If Bianca, the Naughty Schoolgirl, suddenly breaks character and becomes, say, Nicole, the girl with a shitty apartment in Silver Lake and $15,000 in credit card debt, the whole elaborately crafted artifice of the so-called gentlemen’s club falls apart. Nicole confronts the reality that she’s rubbing her own crotch against a total stranger, not Bianca’s. And on the other side of the lapdance, the eager customer is forced to recognize that he’s clumsily pawing at the breasts of an actual person, not just some warm-blooded sex toy.
Well, I’ve never been much for artifice. I’m not one to question the obvious pleasure of a roomful of naked women, but I can’t help wondering who these women really are. What are their stories? What drove them into this line of work? What do they have to say?
As I found out, these are not easy questions to answer. The first problem was convincing these women that I was really a writer working on a magazine article, not just some creep angling for names and phone numbers. Beyond that, it was difficult to maintain a stripper’s interest once I told her that, no, I wasn’t interested in “going upstairs and having a good time.” These girls are, after all, there to work, and the time spent talking to me might be more beneficially used separating some poor schmuck from his paycheck.
Finally, I contacted the management. I figured this was my best opportunity to A) find girls willing to talk, and B) not wind up rolled up in a carpet at the bottom of the Woonasquatucket River for snooping around a strip club asking questions. Even after that, I found myself in the awkward position of trying to get women to keep their clothes on so we could talk. For the first (and I hope the last) time in my life I had to say, “No, please, put your panties back on. I really just want to ask your opinion on the economy.”
The fourth wall was proving difficult to break down. Strippers are so used to being mere eye candy that I don’t think it ever occurred to them that someone might ask for their opinions. I often wondered if my they were actually listening to my pitch, or just instinctively waiting for my lips to stop moving so they could once again promise me a “good time.” If I suddenly began talking crazy, would they even notice?