A Personal View of Exotic Dancing when Facts become Fiction

I have heard ex-dancers I completely respect and admire tell me exotic dancing was almost spiritually empowering to them. This was not my personal experience in twelve years on stage and I still argue with myself about wishing I saw it their way or praying they saw it mine.

I learned even if a man complimented my beautiful, long brown hair, it was a lie. I truly have some serious locks. But, it was the compliment that was a lie. His stated interest to my hair was false and his words, and words like them, were a tool and that tool’s only purpose was to chisel away at another’s innocence. The deceitful tools of their selfish agenda only destroy the pure, wholesome trust of an innocent mind.

In the loss of the innocence beyond my virginity, I could see nothing but married men, complaining about their wives while their arm was tossed fondly over my tanned, shapely and exposed shoulders, purchasing my fictional smile and my awe of, and interest in their manhood.

Sometimes it would take only one song; sometimes it would take months for the question to arise: Can I take you to dinner/hotel/Bahamas/bed? And I would be faced with telling the truth and saying ‘no’ or lying, make the date and stand him up.

The clubs I was trained in early on didn’t allow us to make dates and said spotters would check, so I would say ‘no’ to the invitation. Then, every compliment the man told me to fuel emotional, not financial, interest in him proved to be fiction because I would be immediately excused with a cold, dismissive attitude and he would treat me like I had just played him. But I couldn’t believe he truly thought that either. It was just another conversational tool to get me to leave and he could pursue the next prospective dancer.

One thing I call fact is each exotic dancer makes their own job for themselves under the umbrella term: exotic dancing. Each dancer has a personal limit of how far they will ‘go’ while working, no matter how much money the man is offering. Not only do they have limits of physical liberties, but conversational, visual, subject matter, sexual interests and social behavior. But sometimes the job changes as the dancer’s limits are broken to keep the intoxicating fictions factual and nourished in her mind.

To give men the equality of many different personal reasons for going into a club where pretty young ladies dance nude for money, a fact is quite a few men didn’t ask the dancers out and didn’t complain about how their wives crushed them. Not as many as I wished, of course, but a whole lot less than what I’ve heard people think.

Many of my days were spent completely clothed, chatting away with some regular who decided to play hooky from work. Dance. Talk. Dance. Talk. Dance. And he would go home to his wife, thanking me in cash for my entertainment. At first glance one might even say he’s a nice guy, but was it really my company in particular that he needed to complete his day as he so charmingly led me to believe?

It was my emotional survival to think he didn’t. In fact, I’d be more worried if he did. I had to think he was hustling me so I could hate him for that and make my lies not only justifiable, but almost righteous. That is a fact of the job and I accepted and expected it, but I have to admit it was very confusing when I was first put into the clubs at a very young age.

I wanted to believe these people liked me; like they said. I wanted to believe I was smart and special; like they said. And in time I learned the real fact: that if I believed the fiction they told me in pursuit of my ahem favors, I was telling myself the most destructive lies I could: that I mattered to, or could actually trust, anyone at all.

I have found in my researches and conversations that many ex-exotic entertainers still believe some lies the men told them in the club while he was trying to get a date with them. The dancer knows notto believe that he is single, has a house in the Hamptons or knows Brad Pitt personally. But she always believes the man, to the core of her being, when they tell her she’s the most wonderfully intelligent, scantily dressed woman in the club. Sometimes it might be true, just like my beautiful, long brown hair.

What reality check is she going to have to cash when she stops dancing and discovers that the only inhibition she is left with is about notbeing the absolute center of attention? The fact is, the; I’m so fabulous. Give me what I want and I’ll grace you with my presence, doesn’t work outside the magical walls of the club in the same way. And until she learns she bought into the stories of the men she entertained as much as they acted like they bought into her stories, she will use the sexual prowess she mistakes for confidence in herself, to keep the grand yet fictional view from atop her mislabeled pedestal.

I hope the day will come in many an exotic dancers’ life when she realizes, despite the fact of her real beauty, there is much fiction in the value others gave her beauty and more fiction in what real successes she thinks her beauty will so deservingly bring her. And may she realize the contrived attentions and flattery she accepted as factual, not performing the nude table dance, were how she showed herself disrespectful and further condoning their fiction as her fact in her self-view and actions is a way to handicap her, him and on a grander level, via my soapbox, society.

Maybe some of you don’t think exotic dancing and respectful are words that belong in the article. I’ve been to those clubs, too. But honestly, I think nudity is beautiful. Dance is beautiful. Nude dancing can be beautiful and respectful even when performed in a sensual, erotic manner for strangers. But so often the true beauty of exotic dancing is obscured by social perversions (not to be confused with a sexual fetish), power-trips, carelessly misdirected anger and greed of all kinds. But mostly the beauty of a young woman’s exotic dance is shrouded by the seductive fictions of false praise and strategically deceptive compliments that warp awareness of the facts; the power of her real strengths and the worth she possesses beyond her physical desirability.