When I was travelling in New Zealand, I stayed for a while in a hostel in Auckland, just next to a strip club. There were 3 or 4 girls on my floor that always disappeared at night and I wander what did they do during those hours. Some of them were pretty open to talk about it. There was an English girl, very skinny and petit that you would never imagine that she worked as a stripper, but she did and I heard she was very good at it. A cool girl that could be your girlfriend or you neighbour told me how she turned into Lola —her stage name and the one I will use in this article— to dance under the lights of a kiwi strip club.
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Children's Commissioner Cindy Kiro is investigating how a year-old girl who escaped Child, Youth and Family care twice last night could work as a stripper in Nelson.
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Strip down to your underwear and get up on stage," barked Rebecca. I took a deep breath and steeled myself. This was the moment I'd been preparing for, the reason I'd purchased a new bra and matching underwear. Rebecca was the dancer manager responsible for hiring the strippers excuse me, dancers of an upmarket "gentlemen's club" in the red light district. This was the first time I'd ever been in a strip club.
No music was playing and an eerie silence filled the space around me, along with the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke. She flicked a few switches and the club transformed into a mystical dark pit, with sparkling red and pink lights that cast beautiful, swirling patterns across the stage.
The poles gleamed and music flowed out of speakers in the ceiling. It was time. I looked around, completely stricken. I was 17 and had no idea what to do. I was here on a day between two of my final Year 12 exams — a pimply redhead with a plethora of freckles and skin so white it was practically translucent.
This was a long way from the exam room, where I had been writing essays only the day before. The other girls in my group were undressing and climbing onto the different stages. I took a deep breath, and clambered up, gripping the pole tightly with both hands and beginning to sway my hips to the beat.
The girl nearest to me, Jasmine, had worked as a stripper before, so I watched her closely, trying my best to emulate how she moved. Feeling awkward and unsure, I unhooked my Target bra and did my best to copy what she was doing. A couple of minutes later, it was over. The lights back on, we dressed and lined up in front of Rebecca for our evaluation. What do each of you want to be called? Deciding on your stripper name is a rite of passage. Once you pick one, you are pretty much stuck with it for your entire career, because you develop a following of loyal customers who ask after you by name.
I'd already chosen my name: Amber. Undeterred, I tried my second choice — Amy. Crestfallen, I tried my real name — Emma. I couldn't even use my real name? Something small, cute and bouncy. I can work with Suzie. I showed up early for my first shift after the audition. Too early — the club wasn't even open yet. I wandered through the dingier parts of the red light district to kill time, fingering the fabric of the barely there outfits in sex shops, staring at the working girls on the street corners and looking at the flashing neon lights, thinking, "I'm part of this now.
I still couldn't quite believe it. I felt like an imposter, as if I was getting away with something which I guess, given my age, I really was.
At the club, amid the clouds of hairspray and body glitter, I introduced myself to the other dancers, and told them if they saw me doing anything wrong, could they please stop me. It was very important to me that I was a "good" stripper. That I got this "right". They nodded vaguely as I stared enviously at their towering stilettos and sexy lycra dresses.
My eyelids were filled in with blue eye shadow, my mouth painted a garish shade of red. At least I'd lashed out on a "proper" stripping bra and G-string with side clips for easy removal , made of black spider-web mesh.
I tried my best to remember a few of Jasmine's body movements at my audition. I befriended a group of four men sitting close to the stage, who were delighted to learn this was not only my first night — but my first podium! They called it my "initiation" and, as I clambered down from the stage, they formed a protective circle around me and herded me to reception to book me for my first private show — known within the club as a "private".
A security guard walked us down a dimly lit corridor to an empty room that was to be mine for the minute show. I will be watching. I nodded gamely, hoping I looked a lot braver than I felt.
I writhed around onstage, played with my boobs and parted my legs for them. I was still working part-time in the gift-wrapping department of a large store. In that job, I wrapped presents. At the club, I was the present. I unwrapped myself and showed men parts of my body. I had no qualms about showing my private parts. They told me my body was beautiful and said those magic words, "You're doing great.
At the end of the group show, Hawaiian Shirt said he would like to book me for another show — just me and him. At first I was happy. Then I felt worried. I only had a limited repertoire of sexy moves; he was just going to see the same thing. He did and he didn't care, booking me for a third dance. Then one of the other guys booked me.
I did the same show. Then another guy, then Hawaiian Shirt again. By the time I'd performed the same striptease for each of those four men, my minute routine was down pat and I knew that not only could I do this, but I could also be good at it. Really good. I was smiling to myself on my way back to the change room to freshen up after that first wave of "privates", when familiar white dots started dancing in front of my eyes.
Not now. I couldn't have a migraine. But I was called on stage just as the long icy fingers of pain started snaking their way up the back of my skull. I only just made it through my minute podium before stumbling upstairs and emptying my guts into the toilet.
I explained myself and my migraine to the receptionist, who granted me an early mark. To my year-old self, this was a small fortune! And it would vastly speed up saving for an apartment deposit. There are serious perks to working in "gentlemen's clubs".
Firstly, the compliments — any lingering issues I may have had about my body were quickly dispersed. Men complimented my pale skin, little pot belly and natural boobs. The money was usually great and I had conversations with some very successful men.
I enjoyed the chatting almost as much as I loved the performing. I was not a "wham bam, thank you ma'am" kind of stripper. I wanted to get to know my customers.
Despite it being against the rules, I did occasionally venture out of the club with regular customers. Freddy was a high roller who paid for you to sit at his table in the Diamond Room and entertain his friends during his extravagant client luncheons. The Diamond Room was the function room of the club, where customers paid a premium to be served elaborate seafood platters and to watch full-nude shows performed by showgirls.
For us "regular" girls, nudity was compulsory on podiums in the Diamond Room, which made selling "privates" a challenge — you had to try and convince a customer to pay for what he'd already seen for free.
Often it was a scramble in the change room, as we pooled clothing resources to put together an appropriate outfit. The camaraderie in a strip-club change room is like nothing else I've ever experienced.
Toilet doors were never closed so we chatted while we were peeing, and sometimes we were booked together for double shows where a customer booked two girls at once. This meant we got to know the intimate details of each other's bodies — but often very little about our real lives outside the club. I sometimes eavesdropped on the other dancers — some of the girls flatted together and the change room was like a naked version of Flatmate Finders. I guess it was easier than trying to explain your irregular hours, unusual clothes and lifestyle to a "normal" flatmate.
I was still living at home. Mum thought I was waiting tables at a hour cafe in the city. One night, two of the girls were discussing the rent on a luxury apartment that they were proposing to rent together. Ah, it's just three 'privates'! I'll take it! I was quietly horrified at the idea of blowing that much cash on rent. I was still dedicated to my mission of being a property owner. With my sights set on a mortgage and paying it off as quickly as possible , I settled into life at the club.
My life as a stripper: I never dreamed where this world would take me. Emma Lee Corbett , Feb 18
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Have you ever looked at your life and thought to yourself, "If this doesn't work out, I'll just become a stripper"? It almost seems like the easiest and most fun job in the world. I mean, what could be better than getting to stand up on a podium all night and have men throw money at you? Aside from the impossibly tall high heels, there can't be too much effort required — right? According to Melbourne dancer Violet Kymber, I'm right about the fun side, but taking to the stage night after night is hardly an easy gig.
Each dancer had a fifteen minute "set" on the stage before they swapped with another girl and returned to the club floor. Hiiii I'm baaackkkk! Violet had been let go from her job at a make-up counter a few months earlier. A struggle with untreated and undiagnosed mental health issues led to her having a "break down" in front of a customer, and a few months after the incident she was still unemployed and lacking confidence in her ability to ever work again.
But on a birthday night out with friends, she bumped in to another client from the make-up counter: this one, a dancer at a gentleman's club. Violet decided then and there that she would apply for a job at the same club, and that's how she found herself clinging on to the pole a few weeks later, realising that her new job maybe wasn't as easy as she had hoped. The money isn't in doing your minute stage sets, it's in approaching usually-intoxicated men who often aren't there to spend any money, and convincing them to buy a private dance with you," she said.
I remember walking up to a rowdy group of young guys who were splashing their cash on girls left, right, and centre. When I approached one of them to offer a dance he said no, and straight-up told me that my ass was 'too flat'. Being insulted was a regular occurrence. And as a nineteen year old who hadn't grown in to herself yet, that one stung!
There was also the client who pretended not to understand Violet's instruction not to touch her during a private dance, and forced his fingers inside her when she was bent over in front of him.
A bouncer at the club evicted the man and charged him the equivalent of one of Violet's therapy sessions for the assault, at her request, but the incident still affected her. Unfortunately for them, it isn't true: come 4am, those same patrons leave with barely enough for a taxi," she said. For every bad experience, though, there were countless other good ones. In the girls' dressing room, dancers exchanged stories about clients and drank, talked, and laughed with each other as the shift carried on in to the night.
Many clients tipped generously, and some paid just to talk. He was a wonderful guy, we had a lot of fun together! But in case you think there was a never-ending stream of cash, Violet learnt quickly that the industry was unpredictable. Your body, always your choice," she said. Money is abundant, but there is plenty more of it to be made. It can be glamorous, exciting, and the attention from patrons is flattering, but a strong sense of self and worth is more rewarding long-term. There's nothing better than coming home with a big wad of cash knowing that you didn't allow anyone to disrespect or mistreat you, and that you practised integrity.
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