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Strip Clubs as Therapy

By Gloria Diaz

Check out Gloria's Blog — Edge of Gloria!

Fort Wayne Reader


I’ve been thinking about self-esteem and body issues lately. Men never seem to get it, but it’s a bigger deal for women to be concerned about their bodies. That’s because men are judged on what they’ve done, whereas women are judged as to what we look like. Admit it, you stupid sexist bastards—an unattractive woman could develop a cure for cancer, alcoholism, and diabetes, but all you’d care about would be her lack of hotness. Never mind that you’ve got a brain tumor, you can’t put down the bottle of Jack Daniels, and you’ve lost both feet. “Yeah, she’s gonna to save my life, but dude, have you seen her face? She’s totally not doable.”

A co-worker of mine talked about going to a strip joint, and it really kind of surprised me until I asked her what the appeal was. She said it was a self-esteem thing. When she explained it, it did make sense. Another co-worker spoke about going to a strip joint in South Bend where one woman’s chest equipment was down to her waist. Hmmm.
I guess this is the woman’s equivalent to men who compare their own size to other men’s junk. Men go to “gentlemen’s clubs” for male bonding and to see naked women. Women go to see naked women and comment on the fakeness of the chests, any sagging going on, and the ability to say at least we’re not heavy in the thigh like that one chick is.

I think I’m probably too over exposed to the media and how it can distort what we think is reality versus what really is real. Diablo Cody’s hilarious memoir, Candy Girl, is an inside look at strip joints both ritzy and rinky-dink, and how they’re run. It’s not just women dancing. The dancers have to sell trinkets to men, curl up on their laps, get the guys to buy them drinks and solicit lap dances. It would be one thing if it were strictly dancing. Even Cody was reluctant to schmooze with men who really didn’t seem all that thrilled to have her company. That was hard, but apparently seeing the anatomy of her fellow co-workers gave her enough of a boost to forge on.

Bottom line is that so much in the media is fake. Doesn’t matter if it’s Playboy or Martha Stewart Living, or even O the Oprah magazine published by America’s cheerleader for the downtrodden, real life is about natural sagging breasts, big thighs, hair that just won’t go right when you need it to and oatmeal ground into the carpet. It’s being a waitress and sharing a Manhattan apartment with perhaps three or more people, not that large, two-bedroom apartment in the “hip” district.

But that’s something to consider, when I’m having my days when my hair is just nuts and my eyes are puffy from the crying jag the night before. A trip to the strip joint with work buddies might be good for the self-esteem as well as a few laughs.

Knowing my luck though, we’ll go on “perfect” day, when all the strippers are flawless and I’ll think about how much I want plastic surgery. At least, my breasts are real and don’t sag to my waistline. Yet.

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