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kenya. huffman and i were sitting against a house. white-washed and in the jungle. bleached from it's position along the equator. needless to say, it was hot. uncomfortable - balls sticking to your thigh, feet on fire - uncomfortable. and we were going on very little sleep. two to three hours a day. running patrols along the somali border, and it had taken its toll. 
The Truth About Strip Clubs |
What Strip Club Owners Don't Want You to Know There are so many misconceptions held by people about strippers. Below are some demystifying facts about the reality of this profession. Working as a Stripper Is Not: Safe - Murder and violence happen on a regular basis in and around strip clubs, and seemingly at an increasing rate of frequency. Patrons are often sexual predators who build obsessions on the dancers. Gang members, drug dealers, pimps, and other criminals also frequent strip clubs. Some of these criminals are the employees themselves, and all strip club owners are involved in some kind of criminal activity. The safety of the dancers is not a high priority. Healthy - Many strippers suffer from drug addiction, alcoholism, abusive relationships, and dangerous lifestyles. The stresses of the job bring on many physical and emotional problems. Depression and anxiety disorders such as post-traumatic stress disorder are common among dancers. Years of dancing cause back, feet, and leg injuries, some totally disabling. And there is no retirement plan for dancers. Glamorous - The day-to-day reality of acting friendly to perverts and degenerates is disgusting. Being assaulted in the lap dance booth is traumatic and utterly humiliating. Being regularly hit on by creepy guys making filthy comments at you is not at all glamorous. Being physically attacked by mentally unbalanced dancers is also unglamorous. Good for your self-esteem - Being treated like an object day after day by your boss and clients has a deleterious effect on your self-esteem. This effect snowballs as the years go on. Many dancers suffer from feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness. Worth the money - I have known strippers who have made obscene amounts of money and they are no happier for it. There is also a tendency among dancers to squander the money on drugs, excessive shopping, gambling, etc. Empowering for women - On the contrary, the job is degrading to women. To be admired in this way is not true esteem and dignity, it's exploitation. Its a conterfeit form of love and attention that weakens your sense of self. Without a price - Being constantly ogled, groped, lusted after, catcalled, insulted, pinched, and used for sex comes at a very steep price. I witnessed many dancers (including myself) leave the bar in tears due to an abusive patron or employer. A Victimless Crime - Even if you don't feel harmed by it, think of the harm you are causing to the wives and children of the men who come to see you, or even to the men themselves. Think of the dancers who do end up dead or emotionally scarred as a result of the job. Think of the damage being done to the community surrounding your workplace. Authentic Feminism - Feminism was never about the legalized pimping that is the porn and strip club industry. Feminism was never about making mafiosi rich by exploiting women's sexuality. Don't forget who takes home the most money in this business. Go to http://www.ccv.org/downloads/pdf/David_Sherman_testimony.pdf for a former strip club manager's testimony of his experience in the industry. Who Are Strippers? So many factors bring a woman to the decision to become a stripper. The most overriding factor seems to be early childhood abuse. The media portrayals of strippers are far from accurate. They are not all airheaded Barbie Dolls who smile constantly. They are college students, struggling artists, struggling actresses, professionally trained dancers, single mothers, abuse survivors, writers, wives, musicians, teachers, teenage runaways, performance artists, singers, nurses, athletes, film makers, students. They come from all walks of life. Some, believe it or not, are Christian. Please don't judge or stereotype these women. Instead, pray for them and support one of the many ministries in the links section active in helping sex workers find a new life in Christ. |
The lights down here are better though. Down in the well-deck. With the Humvee’s and the cold air. And I’m on Guard. Armed with an empty M-16 A2 service rifle and a journal. It’s pretty boring, but that’s life in the Marine Corps. Boredom and pain and some fun. A microcosm of life. But I’m thinking about 20 minutes earlier.
Up in the barracks, or cell, or rack, or whatever the Navy calls sleeping quarters. It’s break—I’ve also been assigned mess duty. Not exactly your shit-hot Marine. Nevertheless I’m on break and I find a rack and I’m fucking tired so I climb way up—the racks are stacked four high. Coffin racks. And I sneak up high on the forth rack and I lay there for a moment. I'm not claustrophobic, but I tense up. I dunno why. Just do. Then I settle down and think—that’s all you do on float. Think:
Life.
Sex.
Strippers.
Blowjobs.
Tits.
Ass.
Guns.
Killing.
Hookers.
Rear-naked chokes.
Cold Coors Light.
...Sex...
So you think like a young man.
And I think I want to cry. Really. My fists clench up and suddenly the outside hatch opens up.
CREAK.
Enter a young Ensign and his fiancé. She knows her young officer’s is about to go to war, or at least near a war, off shore. She loves him. She loves him and so does he, and they embrace.
Kiss.
Real deep and sensuous and there I am. LCpl Mandia up on the fourth coffin rack. Enlisted voyeur.
And the walls close in. All around. Tight and made my muscles twitch even more. Constricted. A boot on my throat. The young officer and his woman are in the midst of a legendary romance. A tale to tell the kids. An inspirational novel written by one of their future grandkids. Oprah book club shit. But every second I see/hear them, I come closer to imploding. To just screaming out loud and banging my head against the bulkhead.
Then my heart goes.
The Ensign reaches inside his fiancé’s blouse.
My heart wants out. Wants to tear itself from the meat and gristle and yellow fat and jump off the bow of the USS Boxer and sink to floor of San Diego bay. Hopefully a pregnant halibut swims by and gobbles it up, thus supplementing her lack of food, and my heart; the fist sized muscle above my gut, spawns new life. Very poetic.
His hand reaches behind her head. Pulls her hair. Jaw hangs. Kisses her neck. Smells behind the ear—right where you can feel the bone, that divot. Where her perfume hides. Her eyes close tight. She wants this.
I’m about to burst. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Goddamn it, get the fuck outa here you motherfucking zero! With your good happy life and beautiful woman and that bachelors degree from San Diego State.
Something calls out over the loud speaker. The Captain speaks. The young Ensign stops. The ships about to cast off. Last call. Their lips open, millimeters apart. One breathe. Hearts beating the same cadence. A moment frozen in time. And a peck on the lips. Then she hugs him, hard. They leave. And the walls recede.
I take a breath. I can breathe again and slip out the coffin rack to the deck below. Another breath and I hear my heart. Familiar staccato off in the distance. My heart jumps out the halibut’s ass and climbs the anchor chain. Over the slime and rust. Slums it down my esophagus and fills the hole. Doesn’t fit right though. Some slack. Gaps. But it’ll do.
An electric sound. A hum. Fluorescents-
SNAP on.
White light grows and fills the vacuum tube. They expose everything. Every blemish. Every wound. Ingrown hair. I don’t like it. I look at my watch and I remember I only had 20 minutes of break time before I had to go on watch in the well-deck. So I leave. Secure the hatch. Turn the cork screw or pull the latch, I don’t remember. But I leave.
And that was that. And now I’m sitting atop an empty Humvee with an empty M16 A2 service rifle. The air down here is especially cold. And I think I’m coming down with a stomach flu. I need to take a shit. But I can’t. Can’t walk off guard. It’s a rule. One of those pesky general orders you swear to. So I get out my journal and write under the yellow lights inside the hull of the USS Boxer.
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