Caitlin Petrakis Childs

This is a piece I wrote to read at the 2007 International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers event at Charis Books and More and sponsored by Charis Circle. I helped to organize the event with 2 other ladies. One the main parts of the event was a sex worker open mic. Since sex workers seldom get the opportunity to speak for ourselves, we wanted to highlight the voices of those in the industry. Since I helped organize the event, I felt like I should step-up and participate in the open mic. At the time, I had not read or shared my work in public since elementary school. It is posted below in it’s full uncut version (I cut it down slightly at the actual event due to time constraints.)

In the year that has passed, I have been writing more and in March of 2009 my writing will be published as part of Visible: A Femmethology! I thought I would post some of the things I have written in the past to get some content up on the blog. So without further ado:

2007 International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers Piece by Caitlin Childs

The following are some completely random reflections and memories from my time in the sex industry and specifically my time as a stripper. There are so many things I could say, as the subject is really complicated for me, but these are just a few snapshots.

I want to show how complicated my relationship is to sex work, but how it has mostly been a positive experience for me. I want to express how my feelings can change from one moment to the next or even one sentence to the next. How I feel better on the nights I make tons of tips and I am dancing more for me than for them and they know that and it makes them want me even more. I want to talk about the scary things that happened. The negative things that happened. While maintaining that I am not exploited in this industry. That I consent to many things in this environment that I would never consent to in any other context.

That stripping made me safe and alive and present in my body for the first time in my life. That I finally felt sexy and sexual in a way that I felt I controlled and was not simply projected onto me by others. That I got comfortable with sexuality in ways I didn’t realize I wasn’t already comfortable in.

That I loved the way my muscles and feet hurt after a busy night. That I miss being on stage, being in heels, dressing up for work and picking out my favorite music to dance to. That I loved the ritual of counting my money at the end of the night. Separating it into piles of $100 and writing notes on how much I made after tip out, memorable moments from the evening and how much I spent in the jukebox. The customers who surprised me or caught me off guard with their wit, brains or similar interests.

That I hated the slow nights. The nights when it seemed like everyone was making money but me. The nights when I would rather be home in bed or with my girlfriend or at a meeting of an activist group. The nights when it was smoky, crowded and loud. When customers came in to laugh at my co-workers and I. The times customers told me ‘You’re too pretty/smart/insert other generic compliment to work here’ and were surprised when I didn’t take it as a compliment. When people sat at the bar and didn’t tip. When people tried to invade my personal boundaries. The boring fucking conversation.

How I would try to infiltrate the club with my books of feminist and queer theory, the latest issue of Bitch or $pread. The Team Dresch and Bikini Kill on my cds. The conversations of politics with customers, which at times interesting, often distracted me from my purpose of making rent. How I would infiltrate the club with pieces of who I am. The burlesque costumes and music. The feminism and idea of sex worker empowerment.

The wads of 1s or 20s that I would find hidden in random places that I had totally forgotten about. The knowing looks I got at the gas station by the club when I came in in slobby clothes and a face full of stage make-up to get smokes on the way into work. The knowing looks at kroger in the same slobby clothes and make-up now runny, smeared and caked-on when I stopped for food on the way home.

How hard it is for me to trust folks outside the industry with my experiences. How I am equally wary of the sex radical feminists who are not and have never been sex workers, but are endlessly fascinated with this industry as I am with the Andrea Dworkins and other anti-sex work “feminists” who think that I am either a) a victim or b) brainwashed by the patriarchy. The way you never truly understand how complicated and grey this industry is until you are chin deep in it. How I never really understood that as a sex radical feminist outside the industry, but after working in it off and on for over 6 years and dancing on and off for 3, I see and feel the issues very differently.

The way stripping seemed interesting and fun until the 1 1/2 year mark and then I started to burn out. How at the 2-year mark, I was in full-fledged burn-out mode. How I keep quitting and keep coming back. How I swore I would never get into that cycle. How I can’t bring myself to work for shitty money in a shitty job. How no matter how burnt out I am on stripping, stripping always seems more appealing than that. How I really, really miss it at times and other times the idea of dancing makes me sick.

Feeling endlessly frustrated that it is near impossible for me to get a job that pays a living wage outside of the sex industry. Feeling like no matter how smart, successful and self-made I am, people would rather pay me for my tits than my brains. Knowing that some of the people who look down on me for working in this industry enforce the status quo that makes it so hard for me to get jobs that I am qualified for and are brain-based because of my lack of formal education.

When I joined the board of a feminist organization that had board meetings on one of my regular work nights. Painting my nails during board meetings, showing up in pjs and full make-up. Bolting early to make it to work on time.

How I’d walk from my house to my car with my stripper gear in tow (including a pair of knee high heeled boots always) and wondering what the fuck my yuppie and elderly Christian neighbors thought.

The times people I was dating or sleeping with came to the club to watch me dance. And watch other people watch me dance. And watch those people want me. Feeling like we had a special secret conspiracy we were pulling over on them.

The millions of times people asked me if I was from France or Europe.

The time my mom came in.

The amazing women I worked with. The way we really are a dysfunctional family. The way I always felt safe and knew they had my back.

The number of fights I saw. The number of drunks I saw vomit on the carpet.

The night I came into the dressing room to discover a dancer had taken a shit on the carpet. The fact that years later, there is still a stain on the carpet.

The time all of my co-workers and I pooled money together to re-do the dressing room. Coming to work to find another dancer in nothing but a money garter and 4″ heels putting up drywall.

The way I felt I needed to be closeted about my work in many contexts. Going through an intensive training with a rape crisis center to be a crisis line volunteer and survivor hospital advocate and not telling anyone I was a stripper because of anti-sex work articles that were in their handbook. How I rushed from an intense training over to the club to make my shift. And while in the process of trying to transition from talk of sexual assault and rape kits to stripper mode, in walks a fellow volunteer-in-training.

Feminists and queers who came into the club and didn’t fucking tip. The person in the Lusty Lady shirt, who came in, sat at the bar and didn’t tip anyone at all. The irony of wearing a shirt for the first unionized and worker-owned co-operative strip club in the United States and not fucking tipping strippers.

The night I got someone to buy a table dance for the last song of the night, walked him back to the corner, sat him down in a chair and waited for the song to come on. Then I hear it, the Fraggle Rock theme song. Seriously. Giving him a dance and thinking about how weird it was to be sticking my bare ass in a strange man’s face while a song played that I associated with eating cheerios in front of the TV as a young child.