Grinding to a halt

Rosslyn Smith
Labor Day 2013 marks the demise of The Lusty Lady, the nation's only unionized peep show.  It almost goes without saying this employee owned affiliate of the SEIU is a relic of  San Francisco circa the mid 1970's.

Customers weren't allowed to dictate the show in any way, but that didn't stop of some them from pantomiming stage direction through the glass. A "whoop de doo" finger spiraling in the air meant "turn around." Fingers together and flapping out like fish fins meant "spread 'em." Poor lambs, to each motioned command, the answer was the same: No.

If this seems an insignificant detail, it is anything but. That the terms of interaction were non-negotiable underscored for many dancers a valuable aspect of sexual self-awareness: This is mine. In private or shown for hire, clothed or bare, it's mine. After a few weeks at the Lusty, when I walked down the street, I felt less threatened by men talking shit to me. My posture changed. If it wasn't liberating, it was certainly uplifting. Who would have expected such from a peep show? Not me. Then again, to dismiss the idea that vulgarity and uplift can coexist side-by-side is to deny the degenerate magic of San Francisco.

The clueless author of this piece, a former dancer at the Lusty Lady, blames big business and the internet for the club's demise.   She doesn't seem to realize that the universe of paying customers who want to be dissed by feminist strippers was never larger or that peep show and related businesses exist to stoke the fantasy life of the patrons rather than those of the workers. 

hat tip: Instapundit

Labor Day 2013 marks the demise of The Lusty Lady, the nation's only unionized peep show.  It almost goes without saying this employee owned affiliate of the SEIU is a relic of  San Francisco circa the mid 1970's.

Customers weren't allowed to dictate the show in any way, but that didn't stop of some them from pantomiming stage direction through the glass. A "whoop de doo" finger spiraling in the air meant "turn around." Fingers together and flapping out like fish fins meant "spread 'em." Poor lambs, to each motioned command, the answer was the same: No.

If this seems an insignificant detail, it is anything but. That the terms of interaction were non-negotiable underscored for many dancers a valuable aspect of sexual self-awareness: This is mine. In private or shown for hire, clothed or bare, it's mine. After a few weeks at the Lusty, when I walked down the street, I felt less threatened by men talking shit to me. My posture changed. If it wasn't liberating, it was certainly uplifting. Who would have expected such from a peep show? Not me. Then again, to dismiss the idea that vulgarity and uplift can coexist side-by-side is to deny the degenerate magic of San Francisco.

The clueless author of this piece, a former dancer at the Lusty Lady, blames big business and the internet for the club's demise.   She doesn't seem to realize that the universe of paying customers who want to be dissed by feminist strippers was never larger or that peep show and related businesses exist to stoke the fantasy life of the patrons rather than those of the workers. 

hat tip: Instapundit