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

The 4 Types of People Who Run Strip Clubs

I sat in silence at the kitchen table in awe of my purple and blue legs as the night’s tequila shots slowly wore off. My knees and shins were bruised in ways that two weeks earlier I hadn’t known were possible. It was nearly five am and although my mind was wired, my physical will to do anything besides sit and ache was non existent. So I counted my stack of waxy Australian dollars for the fourth time, quietly reveling in my success.

It was the first time I had held that amount of cash from a single night’s work. Seriously. It was more than my week’s pay for the restaurant management job on Wall Street (yes, that Wall Street) that I had slogged 60+ hour weeks at for nearly four and half years. My brain launched in to the adrenaline fueled gymnastics that only comes from earning your first fat bag at the club. I felt euphoric, invincible even. I had finally arrived. I told myself I could definitely do this work until I turned 30. And as I began climbing the mountain of imaginary stacks I’d have after stripping for 4 more years a massive cockroach soared through the second story window of my shared Bondi apartment, jolting me back to reality. I didn’t even know roaches could fly.

This February will mark thirteen years since that night in Sydney, Australia. Thirteen years of not only navigating a stigmatized job that society tells you isn’t real, but approaching it like a career in an industry that seems hellbent on chewing us up and spitting us out. If you’ve been here with me for a while, you’ve likely gleaned that doing this work has never been easy and is often paradoxical. Within this neon microcosm I have fostered some of my most wholehearted, healing, and inspiring connections to other Strippers/SWers. I have also suffered and eventually learned a lot of tough lessons. Many of which have been a direct result of how strip clubs are run and by whom.

Recently, as part of an outlining exercise for my book, I tallied the cities, states, countries, continents, and number of clubs I’ve worked since publicly donning my first lycra g-string. As I recalled each of the 37 tittie bars, Gentleman's Clubs, and everything in between, memories of how those establishments were run and by whom came flooding in. Low and behold what I realized is a majority of strip clubs are owned and/or managed by the same 4 personalities. Science!

The following is a breakdown of each of these personalities, in no particular order. Think of it like a personality test. But saltier. The data I’ve used to compile these archetypes stems from a single source. Me. And while my experience is vast* it does not account for every single club in existence and therefore every strip club owner/manager. I am positive there are at least 5 kinds of personalities who run these places. It is my hope that fellow Strippers will feel called to contribute to this study.

*Cities: 17, States: 10, Countries: 4, Continents: 3, Clubs: 37

MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE

Characteristics:

“Been in the nightclub and/or strip club industry forever”

All. The. Hubris.

Knows everyone

Knows everything

Formulaic in mgmt style

Cliche in values

Volatile

Uses vocabulary incorrectly

Micro Manages

Money Talks

Predatory

Type of Club: Corporate

EMO

Characteristics:

“We’re all family here”

Emotionally manipulative

Quick to cut you off if you don’t stroke their ego

More concerned with being liked than making sure the club is ran well

Sneaky

Complacent

Not so secretly hoping to date you

Mansplains regularly how to do your job

Micro Manages

Money Talks

Predatory

Type of Club: Mom & Pop

MIDWEST CHILL (not necessarily from the Midwest but reps that legendary chill)

Characteristics:

“Bruhhh”

Rarely engages with Strippers

Slow movers

Not particularly vigilant

A lot of try in particular ways

Encouraging

Respectful

Exhibits ownership in attitude but is hands off in day to day

Money Talks

Too chill to be a predator

Type of Club: Corporate or Mom & Pop

ORGANIZED CRIME (i.e. Bikers, Politicians, Mafia, Drug Dealers)

Characteristics:

“Don’t see nothin, won’t be nothin”

Zero small talk

No frills

Intimidating

Entitled, cheap “friends” that seem to live at the club

Eager to beat ass

Preoccupied

Subtle

Hands off mgmt style until something goes very wrong

Money Talks

Not predatory but their “friends” sure as shit are

Type of Club: Corporate or Mom & Pop

Noticeably absent from this pie chart is former Strippers. And while I’ve heard of the occasional former Stripper turned manager, or even rarer club owner, from other workers- I've yet to work with her. Sadly the tales I have heard from fellow Strippers who have worked with her are often accounts of how terrible the experience was. What is it about crossing over in to upper management that causes former Strippers to one up their male counterparts in harsh and/or exploitative work practices? I don’t know. But I cling to a dream that this is the exception and not the rule. That the more Strippers turn management and club owners, the better clubs will eventually be ran, and our work environments will continue to improve. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll find myself being among them ;)

Next Post: I am taking the month of November off to be with family, and will

be back December 6. In the mean time, if you enjoy these posts,

Please share with someone you think will value them.

Xxo, Val

Photo taken by: Bettina May, Valerie Stunning