Respecting The Nude

A girl walks on her hands across the stage. Her legs are spread-eagled and bent at the knees. The bottoms of her heels graze her ass. This whole routine reeks of perfectionism, and indeed, if it weren’t for the crappy Missy Elliot song playing in the background, it would be perfect.

Still, I stare on in disbelief. I can hear my boyfriend next to me mutter “Holy Shit” to himself. Holy shit, indeed. The girl flips onto her heels without losing balance, climbs to the top of the pole, turns herself upside down and then dexterously removes her already minimal clothing. My boyfriend leans in close: “This is better than Cirque Du Soliel”. It certainly is. It’s stripping.

Jayce is up next. A techno version of “Making Plans for Nigel” comes on. This is what I’ve come for. I watch her coming up the stairs from the sidelines. She is just about to take center stage when suddenly my vision is blocked by a fleshy, gyrating ass. This stripper obviously doesn’t care that she is obscuring my view of Jayce. She is far too busy surveying the room for potential gawkers. Since I can no longer see the stage, I decide to survey the room with her. I notice that not one person is paying attention to her, because they’re all watching the stage. I shimmy closer to my boyfriend until I am practically sitting on his lap. Unfortunately he can’t budge because on the other side of him is another stripper, and on the other side of her is a man whose attention she’s trying to seek by pressing up against him and feeling herself up. The man couldn’t care less. He’s watching the stage too. I slide over in the other direction, where my boyfriend’s roommate is standing, bumping heads with him in the process.

Success! I can finally see what everyone else sees. Now I can see why Jayce has captured the attention of the whole room. The look on her face suggests that for her, this is better than sex. I’m not sure if it actually is, but she looks as though she is about to have an orgasm right on the stage. I could have an orgasm just watching her. And I’m sure I am not the only one. The smile on her face could bring any man to his knees, and the fervour in her eyes could bring any man to climax.

As amazed as I am, I can’t help but wonder what she can do with that pole. So far she’s barely even touched it. Maybe her skills don’t match those of the other girls, or maybe she just prefers dancing without it. When I ask her about it later, her answer is simple: “It’s a little sticky. Hasn’t been cleaned in awhile.” Say no more. Pussy juice. Dating back to god knows when. I could ask but I don’t really want to know.

Jayce was one of the first people I met in Toronto. It was a debauchery-filled New Year’s Eve at my then-boyfriend’s house. I don’t really remember talking to her that night, but I do remember passing out next to her at 8 am in my boyfriend’s bed. (Where was my boyfriend? Who knows.) When I woke up the following afternoon, she was gone. Apparently she had left for Vancouver that night. Then ten years later, I was told she had moved back and was now working as a stripper. I was instantly fascinated. I wondered how women could get naked in such an open setting without any qualms or hesitation. I was a receptionist at a rub’n’tug, where psychologically fucked-up girls abounded. I wondered if the stripping industry was any different. So, when we were re-introduced at a party, the first thing I asked was if I could interview her.

Two weeks later, I found myself sitting in her apartment. I had planned on a set of questions to ask, all regarding the psychological aspects of stripping. I was looking for complexity: ethical dilemmas, coping strategies, mental preparations, and whatever else might come with the territory. But that all went out the window when she took the interview into an unforeseen direction by saying, “It’s ridiculous that we have to wear clothes in public. I love being naked. Even in high school, I used to change in the hallway.” Now she gets to work in a place where being naked is a requirement. And she loves it. Plain and simple. End of story.

If it were me, the story certainly wouldn’t end there. I know that because I tried. Well, came close to trying, anyway. After being fired from the R’n’T for not making the expected receptionist-to-masseuse transition, I found myself yet again broke and desperate. Since I knew I wouldn’t be comfortable jerking off men for a living, I wondered if I would at least be comfortable having men jerk themselves off, if not in front of me, then in the privacy of their own home with the memory of me fresh in their brains. But I got as far as being examined by the owner’s stripper wife. Each request was a demand: “Stand up! Turn around! I want to see your ass!” Was I in a strip club or prison? Was I applying for a job or being sized up by my new cellmate? I wasn’t relieved when she hired me; rather, I was paralyzed with fear. Then when I saw her fingering herself on stage to Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall”, I was jolted into action. With my hands cementing my pants to my panties, I darted out the door at top speed and never looked back. Nor did I relate this story to anyone until now. Why? Because I was afraid they would lose all respect for me. But why should I care if anyone respects me? Jayce doesn’t give a damn.

“One thing I hate is when people say, ‘I respect strippers’, because to me it indicates that they don’t. But really, I don’t care if they respect me or not.” She wouldn’t be telling people about her profession if she cared, right? And she certainly wouldn’t be inviting them to watch her dance. If only I could have such a contented attitude toward nudity and other people’s opinions. With $20 lap dances, not only could I afford to live comfortably, but I could afford this $10 bottle of beer I had to buy in order to see Jayce and her associates.

Since I am here, I decide to opt for a lap dance of my own. I figure it’ll be worth the money. I ask my boyfriend to join me, hoping this could be a sexy couple thing for us to do just before it’s time to head home and fuck. But since he’s not interested, I decide to do it in the interests of research, and I’m bringing his roommate with me. I could go alone, but why waste a perfectly good dance on just myself?

The room Jayce leads us to is filled with other strippers and their hot and bothered customers. Luckily there is one seat left, and it is right smack in the middle of this is torrid, sweaty scene. Since the lone chair is too small for two people who hardly know each other to sit in at a comfortable distance, we have no choice but to move in close, compressing our two bodies into one. Jayce removes her dress and then sprawls herself across both our laps. She’s quite good — sensual, yet deliberate, and above all, natural—as she mauls her breasts with her hands while gazing warmly into each of our doting eyes. I would gladly hand over my $20, but to my surprise all that is required for payment is a chocolate bar and a bottle of water.

When we return, the same girl is doing her walk-on-hands routine to the same Missy Elliot song. Been there, done that, time to leave. I could wait and ask her if she’s the complex, fucked-up girl I’ve been looking for, but I figure I’ve had enough for one evening. Time to haul my horny ass back into the real world where clothes are a requirement and respect is hard to come by no matter what your profession.