For women, it has nothing to do with sex. For men, it is about power
When we watch others shed their clothes, what do we reveal about ourselves?
The Chippendales are in Britain this month to kick off a 20-city European
tour, and the girls at the Spearmint Rhino lap-dancing club are always
available. This week, I have been to both to wonder what – if anything – is
exposed alongside the flesh?
In Edinburgh, the Chippendale audience piles in. It's a Barry Manilow
convention attacked by a hen party and digested by Sex and the City. There
are old women, young women, pretty women and angry women. Everyone is in a
group – there are no solitary customers – and everyone wants to sit together
at the front, close to the nudity. I expect to see women climbing on to the
chandelier, like bats crawling up a wall. They are excited – and showing
that they are excited. Their behaviour is precisely opposite to what women
are supposed to do when they like men.
What are you here for, I ask one group of teenagers. "Naked men!" they
scream. What about you, I ask another lady, who must be 80. "Antique
furniture is wonderful to see on stage," she quips.
The hall goes dark and a voice shouts out: "Welcome to the ultimate girls'
night out in Edinburgh! Don't forget to visit the merchandising stall on
your way out! Are you ready?" Yes, we scream, and out come the Chippendales,
dressed as builders. They swing their thighs, and look ecstatic, like
cartoon heroes.
It feels joyous. I am clapping. I don't know why I am clapping, or when I
started. And I don't think we are clapping the Chippendales as they churn
through every hackneyed female fantasy – the policeman, the fireman, the
soldier, the gangster. We are clapping ourselves, because we can be
lecherous and bestial, and we can scream it.
The Chippendales walk out into the audience. I was expecting the bolder
women, the ones who leap into the air to catch the Chippendales' T-shirts
like expert netball players, to lunge and go for tongue kisses and intimate
gropes. But it doesn't happen. When we are offered them at close range, we
go shy. Instead of running up to them, we move away. We seem to be avoiding
them. There is not a single woman here who actually wants to have sex with a
Chippendale. We are all mouth, and no panties. Sex has left the building. We
want cuddles, not tongues.
The Chippendales respond by becoming avuncular, and gracious. They hug us
and kiss our hands. They have turned from sex gods into kindly male
relatives. Outside I meet a woman who jumped for a T-shirt, fighting off
other women to get it. "I'm not that bothered about it now," she tells me,
"Do you want it?"
It is a fantasy, and the women here know it is. They seem happy, almost
relieved, to let it go. It was a day trip to Disneyland where Mickey Mouse
has monster abs.
The Spearmint Rhino Club in London, by contrast, is subterranean and
windowless. There are a few men sitting alone, watching a naked woman dance.
It is a pensive dance, oozing melancholy. Around the room, perhaps 20 young
women, in tiny dresses and porn-star shoes, vie for the men's attention. It
doesn't feel joyous; if the rhino had a face, it would be weeping.
The financial dynamic is different. The women pay the club £85 a night, but
will earn £20 for a lap-dance and £400 for a "sit-down", where they
accompany the men to a private booth and dance for up to an hour. To earn
the money, they have to beg. They have to walk up to the men and persuade
them to pay the cash. They all have different techniques. One smiles from a
distance. One bounces down on to a man's lap. One licks her lips.
I watch an elderly man with the face of Count Dracula holding hands with a
gloriously beautiful young black woman. He hasn't booked a dance yet but she
is holding hands with him in hope. He squeezes her thigh. She laughs.
Another man watches a blonde pole-dancing on the bar. He is staring at her,
but yawns openly. She smiles, puts her fingers to her lips, and says,
"Shush".
The manager brings two girls over to speak to me. One is about 30, with a
beautiful cat-like face. The other is younger and has the open, perfect face
of a child. Her breasts are totally exposed. Do they ever get aroused
dancing? "Never," says the child-like one. "It is like any other job," says
the other, "You have your down days and your up days."
"There are four types of men who come here," she says. "There is the one who
thinks he will meet his next wife. There is the curious man. There is the
businessman who brings his clients to nail a deal. And then there is the man
who never spends any money." She gestures towards Count Dracula. "He is here
four times a week and never pays for a lap-dance." He is still touching the
black girl's thigh.
So why do they do it? "The money," says the younger girl. Sometimes she
makes £2,000 a night. What do you enjoy about it? "Nothing," she says. "You
imagine hearing the same conversation every night for four years. Shall I
ask you what your tattoo means 20 times a night?" And why do the men do it?
"To pull a stripper is on every young guy's list," says the older girl. "The
older men know we will talk to them. They have their pick. It's a power
trip."
I didn't want to come to a conclusion as prosaic as Chippendales good,
lap-dancing rhinos bad. Even as I watched the Chippendales play dirty
cowboys, I wondered why they were doing it. But at least they were
worshipped. The power dynamic at Spearmint Rhino seems entirely different.
The men can make these beautiful women compete for them, when in real life
they never would. There was no joy or even appreciation. As I leave, I
wonder – have I seen a dark part of human sexuality, sliding wonkily down a
pole?
*This week Tanya watched* the Mariinsky Ballet Company perform Swan Lake at
the Royal Opera House. "Ballet dancers don't eat. Were their exquisite
movements really shouting, "I want some chips!"? *She read* Vanity Fair.
"Michael Jackson is still completely dead".
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/aug/17/tanya-gold-stripping
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