Ava Adore

FL Files: 3: Checkmate.

Never before had I ever felt that weight. That heaviness of shame not earned, guilt not afforded; the crushing, sinking feeling when you realize that someone feels entitled—and what that someone feels entitled to is your body.

That moment that feels like snakeskin not yet split; too tight, that gaze. Eyes with lucid clarity and appraisal held years behind them, experience in secure understanding of property, and in that moment you are seen as property.

It was slow that night, which added fuel to the fire.

I sat at the back of the square bar with a middle aged guy, not so finessed, who had called me over. I preened and doted; he asked if he could get me a drink. I asked for a champagne split, because splits helped cover our house fees.

He nodded, ordered it, and then gawked at the price when the bartender asked for payment. It was not an unusual cost, no more than any other top shelf liquor. He paid.

As I drank my champagne, he said, “So what do I get for that? Can I see your tits?”

“No,” I said. “You get the pleasure of my company. If you would like to get a little more personal, we can go for a dance.”

“So I pay $20 and I don’t see no titties?” He seemed genuinely confused. As if the drink magically entitled him to my bare chest.

“You paid for my drink and your beer. That’s the bar, not me. No… titties.”

“Fucking shit.” Appraising me. “I paid $20 and I want to see your tits.” Said matter-of-factly. As if I was gypping him out of the side of coleslaw to his ham sandwich. I think that’s what made it worse. I wasn’t even the sandwich.

“Another $20 at the lap dance bar and you can see my breasts.”

“That’s it?” As if I had not only just denied my breasts—glorious breasts!—but had told him breasts were as fictional as Santa and there would be no more, ever, and all previous breasts in his life have been a lie.

“That’s it.”

“Fuck no, I go back there, I want more than titties.” Still not giving up. Not writing off the exchange, but still pushing. He believes the drink, that one drink, has earned him access to my body. He believes this.

The bartender tries to help, not realizing she isn’t, suggesting a VIP instead. His brows raise. He asks how much VIP is, and before I can say so much as ‘you get the same thing in VIP as bench,’ he balks again at VIP price and says he can “get a hooker for cheaper.”

This is what it means to be objectified. No, not being compared to a hooker, nor the nudity nor the dancing. Not the slow smiles and soft touches on neck, cheek, arm, hand. That’s sexualized: that’s different. No: I was dressed and not touching him. And yet I was suddenly an object, a thing to be purchased.

Moreover, he had assumed not only my compliance in that purchase, but that he had already earned his ownership. That one drink earned him the privilege of any expanse I had to offer, by virtue of my presence. I felt like I was in some bizarre fairy tale, the champagne split a poison apple.

And this is what I want to highlight: he was not the only one. He was not the needle in the haystack of my 2010 Florida Stripping Extravaganza. No, the rare ones were the group of gents from the first night, those sweethearts, one of which took a shine to Lilah and was deaf. Those were the exceptions.

No, this guy was the norm. He embodied tenfold everything that was wrong with the Florida ‘game.’ I hear different regions run different ‘games’ or ‘hustles,’ but I don’t like the Florida Game anymore. I feel had by the balls. I feel gritty. It’s the only time dancing I’ve ever felt that way.

The language is different, too. Up north, you’re woo’d. The exchange mimics wining and dining, mimics meeting at a ‘normal’ bar, mimics first dates. You ‘get to know each other.’ In Florida, the language was curt. It lacked fantasy.

It was the exchange of flesh business. How much for that hunk of flesh and for how long. And can I keep a bit of skin. No foreplay, so to speak. Clients wanted to know in the first ten minutes if you’d fuck them. And for how much.

These men have lost their imaginations. They no longer want the illusion or the fantasy. They don’t want The Perfect Woman (for them); they want a hot piece of ass for as long as they can get away with. This is a product of the times.

Politics aside, Florida is overrun with prostitutes. That is arguably good for the prostitutes, but horrendously bad for the dancers—or anyone in the sex industry who doesn’t view putting out as part of their job description.

The skin competition degrades our art—and I bet hasn’t made things too good for the pros down there, either. I imagine the fantasy has also been removed from many of their exchanges in favour of cheaper, faster.

We quit after just 3 days at Porthole. But I have never been happier to return home to the House and have to turn down dates—as opposed to turn down house calls.