I'll take 'Anal Clenching' for $600 Alex

I don’t Jeopardy often but when I do I am instantly transported to 1991-1992, when I was about 6 to 7 years old. The game show takes me back to when my mom, my brother’s dad, and I would catch the after-dinner double feature of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune on our wood paneled television. The television, like the plastic covered couch and stalactite prone basement were accoutrements of the creaky old house my great-grandmother left to my mother when she died. I hold tight a handful of childhood memories from the couple of years we spent there, and living out my fantasy of being a high scoring Jeopardy contestant is one of them. 

The other day I binged three episodes of Celebrity Jeopardy without a pee break and as I yelled answers at the screen a few things became apparent:

1. Ken Jennings is aiiight. He honors the boxy suits, precise diction, and droll humor that the show’s longtime host, Alex Trebek made iconic.

2. As each of the 9 celebrities explained the charitable cause that their winnings would benefit, the apparent buzz word of the day was “underserved.” 

3. I was annoyed. 

It was clear that each celebrity had expertly delivered their media trained talking points on “how to speak to a mainstream audience on network television about people who are suffering.” And while I don’t hate the player, I am side-eyeing the game. Not Jeopardy. No, Jeopardy is perfect. Well, nearly perfect. I personally felt LeVar Burton was the superior choice to replace Alex Trebek.

What I’m side-eyeing is the use of the term underserved. Where did it come from? Who does it benefit? Who does it detract from? And who’s two cents were taken into account when deciding that we were going to collectively use “underserved” and words like it as blanket terms for people in need? 

And while I’m at it, as I side-eye, I am also steeping in a bit of shame tea at my own past dalliance with these froufrou terms. 

Let me explain…

During the last five years I lived in Las Vegas, I sat on countless floors throughout countless sex worker led organizing (or as I like to call it: whoreganzing) meet ups. Topics of these meet ups varied, though mostly circled around staging rallies and protests, raising mutual aid, providing street-based outreach and supply drop offs, hosting community events, and cold calling district representatives in support of or opposition to circulating bills that directly affected sex workers rights. 

The experience was incredible. People from various socio-economic, ethnic, race, religious, gender, and sex work experience voluntarily assembled to contribute their knowledge and opinions to the topics at hand in a non-hierarchical format. In spite of how chaotic these forums occasionally felt, or that they always seemed to run over time, the fact that all of us came together to pool our collective resources in hopes of affecting change was no small feat! I am proud to have been a part of it. 

But multiple truths can coexist. And thinking about the Celebrity Jeopardy contestants use of the word “underserved” reminded me of a part confusion, part grievance I had back when I organized that I wish I aired sooner.

My regret is that I didn’t speak up when I felt frustrated by our organizations use of a prescribed media safe lexicon when addressing the public. Particularly the non-sex working public from whom we were attempting to mobilize aid and support. When we spoke amongst ourselves we tended to shoot it straight. More often than not we used plain direct language to describe what needed to get done and why. But once we were on camera, or being quoted for an interview, we (myself included) regularly used terms like: marginalized, underserved, under-resourced, and experiencing food/housing insecurity.

It was all very coiffed vernacular that permeates today’s social justice movements and I’m sure was intended to communicate the expertise our organization had on the subject. A thought I now find silly. As if our collective experience of being sex workers who regularly bumped up against the systemic blockades in place to keep us down wasn’t “expertise” enough. 

On one hand I felt like a poser. Why had I adopted this reductive language that did not come naturally to me? And on the other hand I let imposter syndrome get the best of me. Who was I to critique this seemingly official language? I don’t have any previous experience in organizing. Nor do I have a college degree which many folks within activism revere as the marker of having good ideas. 

While I believe myself to have good ideas, and often times the best ideas, what I tend to lean on to inform my ideas is mostly derived from my experience in the world. And in this case I think about my experience growing up poor.

I know being poor. Poor and I go wayyy back. 

I know what it’s like to see your parent break from the insidious stress of constantly being one meal away from not being able to feed a house full of kids. I know what it’s like to have to move every few months because eviction is always nipping at your heels. To occasionally not have electricity in the winter, so you sleep in all your clothes and keep perishables in a crate on the back stoop. I know what it’s like to accompany your parent when they have to ask for help in getting your family’s basic needs met. 

And because I know this, when I think about being a mouthpiece for an organization who aids families like mine or in broader terms, people who are suffering, I can’t shake this feeling that the audience is being coddled when we attempt to convey struggle in sanitized terms. 

When I say: “families where parents suffer chronic debilitating illness and can not work are disproportionately dealing with hunger and eviction”, it communicates the crisis at hand directly. If I say, “underserved people are experiencing food and housing insecurity” it reduces the urgency of the situation and takes the edge off at a time when the audience really needs to be confronted with the edge.

Let's take it one step further. If I describe my own experience in these terms: “I came from an under-resourced family who regularly experienced food/housing insecurity” it's a great way to completely rob an aspect of my story of it’s color and texture. It minimizes the living breathing experience of my humanity. And for what?! To make other people more comfortable?

Another experience I’m familiar with is witnessing countless people who’ve heard me recant stories about growing up poor nearly lose their bowels. I shit you not. What is spoken about casually and often with wry humor with folks who have shared my experience inspires a palpable discomfort in those who do not. 

One mention of food stamps, the OG ones that came in a perforated booklet that we had to tear actual stamps from, and their body stiffens. Double down with details about how most of my meals during the school year came curtesy of the free lunch program and the extra poor kid special: free breakfast (so much mystery meat and cartons of whole milk), and their intestines start rumbling. Top it off with fond memories of looking forward to the church’s food donations for the shear variety it offered, and they’re fleeing to the toilet!

“I’ll take ‘Poor People’ for $400”

The first forty times I encountered this reaction I thought it was because these people, people who did not share my intimate understanding of how hard it can be to survive, felt above it. Eventually I came to understand that nine out of ten times the anal clenching I witnessed was more of a sort of cultural wincing that occurs when people are directly confronted with another’s suffering. It isn’t that they feel above it, it’s that they can’t relate. 

But that’s not my problem. Nor is it the problem of anyone representing an organization who’s job it is to raise awareness and support for those in need. 

Holding space for another person’s suffering is not about relatability, it’s about looking it directly in the eye without judgement and accepting it for what it is. It’s a really human impulse to want to look away from suffering, or in this case use language that takes the sting away. But when I think about our collective agreement to use media safe language like marginalized, underserved, under-resourced (and the like) in place of saying the exact thing that is occurring, I am concerned that we are only successful in letting people off the hook from directly confronting it.

Sure, it might make for a tighter elevator pitch, but the more we make it easier to look away the harder it becomes to hold space for another persons suffering. And for the audience who is really listening, an opportunity is being missed to engage empathy and actually connect over real human conditions. 

How does this help those we are aiming to serve? Why are we putting too much of our already thinly spread energetic resources into cultivating clever words to convey conditions that are really quite simple, when we could be using that energy to connect people in need to what ever it is they need?

Bye! For now...

After a thorough expedition through the metaverse I am happy to report that I did not half ass it. No. If there’s one thing about me, it is when I take interest in something and decide to pursue it, I am full ass all the way. For better or for worse, I consider it one of my finer traits. 

Over this past decade I have social media’d hard. While in the throes of optimizing engagement and building a “following” I had a lot of fun acquiring on the job training with brand development, digital art directing, visual storytelling, and SMO and SEO utilization. I had even more fun interacting with like minded spirits who share my passion for living fully on one’s own terms. And I had a lot less fun getting caught up in my own hype.. feeling reduced to a persona, and a slave to a corporation’s algorithm which inevitably only benefits them and their bottom line.

For a brief moment I had envisioned some kind of grand finale for this last blog that I’ll be posting on my socials. I thought about compiling a highlights reel of my top posts. Perhaps even sprinkling a few of my favorite smutty images in there and finishing off with a recap of all the wonderful projects I’ve built and promoted while engaging on this platform since 2014. A final digital shrine to my social media’s greatest hits. Because, if there’s anything I love to celebrate, it’s me. 

But when I brought a 10 week old Catahoula Leopard Dog home this past Thursday, I quickly got over myself. Nothing will snap you out of self delusions of grandeur quicker than a two month old living creature who needs you to teach it how to function in the world. 

It was a necessary reminder. That everything I am currently excited to engage with, and invest my resources in, exists out here in the tangible world. With its puppy turds on my stair case, slobbered furniture, and daily incremental signs of growth and development. So nuanced and minute, that if I’m not fully present I’ll easily miss it. 

It's a far cry from the manicured glamour and performance art I’ve excelled at curating here over these past years. And I am grateful. I am grateful that I have given myself permission to grow and change and step fully into a new era. 

I used to be a lot of things. I used to be 28 years old, like when I started this account. 

I used to be a Baby Stripper who was new to Las Vegas, and was arrogant and religious in my ways of thinking. I used to think that what I wanted and believed then would be what I wanted and believed always. I scoffed at people who owned dogs, put down roots, and had kids. I judged them as suckers and I would have fervently dueled anyone on that hill. Their way to do life was wrong, my way was right. Obviously. 

I am now approaching 39 and excited to log off and go analog. For how long? Who knows.. who cares?! I just know it’s time. 

I’ve been stripping for nearly 13 years and am starting to contemplate a change in careers. I’m also shopping for a plot of land to homestead. Me! A big city girl who didn’t own a couch for many years because I conflated being comfortable with being complacent. (more on that another time…) I’m also considering the small loss of self and sleepless nights I’m experiencing while training this obnoxious (but super cute) puppy as preparation for the new humans I hope to one day birth into the world. I’m no longer dying on hills about how other people live their lives. In fact whenever I find myself distracted by other people I remember the advice of a 103 year old man that I recently read: The secret to living a long and healthy life is to mind your business. 

Most importantly though, what I have extracted from this experience of living my flashiest trashiest internet life is how whenever life has bitch slapped me with heartache, loss, failure, injury, and illness, and I’ve taken long breaks from logging on, it was never the thirst traps I missed posting. Instead, what has always consistently lit me up is sharing my thoughts, philosophies, and curiosities on human issues via the lens of my personal experiences.

And so while this will be the last blog I promote on my socials (indefinitely), I’ll still be here writing. You can sign up via my site to receive my latest blogs direct to your inbox. And eventually when my book drops y’all will be the first to know. 

Thank you for being here!  

Valerie Stunning, circa 2016. Photo by Peter Karate. Styled/Directed by Sina King

The Other

We were dying a slow death in the back of our ride-share. Our condition, post-thanksgiving agita. Slumped in a pile of gastro-intestinal regret, my good friend and I continued to chug water and swap sea stories as the driver weaved his way toward the Lincoln Tunnel.

It was a long day spent going hard as one does when catching up with extended family in northern Jersey. All the markings of a holiday were present. There were games and hugs, music and laughs, and a slinky canine out for whatever scraps he could hustle. A low level of stress pulsed around the roasting bird. Would it reach its intended succulence? Did anyone remember to remove the gizzards? Generous portions of home cooking were passed around, seasoned to perfection by (the seemingly requisite) unaddressed familial feuds. And the oven caught on fire. I felt grateful for a full belly and the effort each of us put in to not only showing up, but engaging.

In the back of our hired Tesla, my good friend and I began discussing banks. We’re both sex workers and can commiserate that trusting a banking institution is like trusting the guy hocking a $40 Louis bag on Canal Street. You just don’t. It was during this conversation I was reminded of an incident from this past summer:

There are three strip clubs in Colorado Springs. And they are small. Small towny clubs where in this instance the club’s part time DJ also doubles as the manager of my bank’s local branch. When I first discovered this I was super annoyed. Annoyed that my private life and work life now intersected in an environment that as a sex worker I am already on edge about. The bank*.

*For those of you who aren’t aware, current policies such as FOSTA/SESTA make it possible for banks and payment apps to restrict our, not just SWers, but all of our access to funds and/or freeze accounts should they suspect that the money we deposit and/or receive as payment is a result of suspicious activity. There is no warning before this happens. No legal warrants are served, backed by concrete evidence. And in fact often times when this occurs there is no recourse. One day your rent is sitting in your bank account or payment app, and the next day it’s gone. See here for an explanation of FOSTA/SESTA I also encourage you to google it's additional impact on all of our freedoms.

What further annoyed me was how it didn't register to the club’s hiring managers or the DJ himself that the DJ’s day job might pose as a conflict of interest. And it became evident that there were no discretionary measures discussed about how the DJ should behave if he were to see any of the women he works with at the bank he manages. You know, little things like not acting like he knows us, not mentioning the club ever, and certainly not standing over the teller’s shoulder eyeing the screen that reveals all of our private identity and account information as he’s engaging us in conversation. All things that, you guessed it, I actually experienced. Though I wish it stopped there…

One summer day, I waltzed into the bank as I often do post work-weekend to make a deposit. I previously used the ATM to make deposits, but after the machine ate a $100 bill and falsely told me it returned it to me..But did not..Nor did the bank agree with me after I filed a formal complaint with the their corporate office and they completed their “thorough investigation.” Instead they kept the $100 dollars that I traded back breaking labor for, and so I no longer use the ATM. Instead, I now walk my ass in the building and look a human in the eye as they confirm each and every deposit.

I digress.

On this particular day I was wearing a vintage 70’s halter top that I’ve prized as a summer staple since I thrifted it in my early twenties. It’s clearly home made and I like to imagine that some righteous anti-military-industrial-complex working woman made it in her humble apartment to wear at her next rally. Women love it and compliment me often when I wear it. And the teller was quick to do the same when I walked up to her window.

We exchanged pleasantries. Then somewhere between me placing a stack of mixed bills in the tray, instructing her to deposit it into checking and her counting said bills, her initial small talk about my top began to wane. She slowly cocked her head. I recognized this cue. But by the time I translated her shift in energy and body language as her having misinterpreted my politeness for an invitation to pry, it was too late. I braced myself for impact:

Teller: Are you a bartender?

Me: No.

(Silence)

Teller, lowers voice, looks up at me: The other?

Me, as my blood begins to boil: The other? You mean a Stripper?

Teller, nods tentatively. begins to pick up on my energetic shift into a murderous cat about to pounce

Me: Yes

(I sharpen my claws. My pulse slows)

Teller: Oh I usually ask bartending because I don’t want to offend anyone

Me, screaming internally, you’ve asked this before?!!, externally: I’m not offended by the work I do. It’s a good job.

(I wait for her to process my transaction and offload more ignorant comments)

Teller: Oh, umm, I didn’t mean it that way

(Enter Teller Number 2. Sat beside Teller Number 1. and clearly overhearing this go down)

Teller Number 2, gleefully: What club do you work at?

Me, contemplating double homicide: There are only 3 clubs in town.

Teller No. 2: Yeah, I know the manager of one…

Teller No. 2 continues to babble about some towny degrees of separation that I couldn’t care less about. I nod and calculate that as long as she continues to have a one sided conversation, I can escape without saying another word. Finally the transaction is complete. Teller No.1 asks if I want a receipt. I decline.

I head for the exit just in time for the DJ who had been lurking on the other side of the room to start making his way toward Tellers 1 and 2. We lock eyes. He says hi, I acknowledge him and leave.

My fury festered on the 9 minute drive home and by the time I arrived to my partner going about his day in the kitchen, I completely lost it. I yelled the injustice. I gesticulated and questioned “what ifs” regarding safety and legalities. I lamented that I had to be the one who took the high road instead of committing murder. It felt unfair. And I felt powerless.

A few days later I was back at the club. Upon finishing my stage set I spotted the DJ sitting off duty at the bar. I arranged my ones, steadied my breath, and approached him. Before I could get more than a cursory greeting out, he started in about that day at the bank. He said as soon as I left, Teller No. 1 asked if he had worked with me at his other job. To which of course he confirmed. Then Teller No. 1 asked him to tell me that she “felt bad.” That she “has social anxiety” and “is awkward” and that she again “felt really bad.”

My instinct was to track the Teller down and shake the fragility out of her while simultaneously over annunciating that I do not give a fuck about her awkwardness or social anxiety. That her culpability has nothing to do with her pathologized behavior. Instead it has everything to do with her accountability.

Instead I swallowed my disgust.

I calmly told the DJ that her behavior was beyond inappropriate. I questioned why it was even her business to know where my money came from? I told him that both Tellers could have put me in danger. I gave an example that someone standing in line behind me could have overheard them and followed me to my car, deciding that I was a soft target to rob or worse. I reminded him that people commit violent crimes for less all the time. I also reminded him that it was none of her business and that her prying was a violation of my privacy.

As I spoke I saw his eyes glaze over. I watched him think about how he was going to respond and absolve himself and his staff from responsibility. I deduced that for him the only thing at stake here were both his and his staff’s discomfort over my direct challenge to their behavior. Other than that, no one cared.

When the DJ could no longer deal with his emerging discomfort, he cut me off and began minimizing my concerns. Customers began walking in. I reluctantly accepted that their defensiveness would take precedent over their accountability and I went back to work.

BTS Photo: Valerie Stunning