Years ago, I had a meaningful friendship with a white woman with dreadlocks. This wasn’t “back in the day” before I had my first lesson about systemic racism. It wasn’t before I understood the degree of violence Black people have faced due to wearing traditional hairstyles. This was in the middle of the first round of Black Lives Matter protests–in the wake of the murders of Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray, and Eric Garner. This was after I had watched videos of young Black children prevented from attending school for wearing natural hairstyles. This was after I saw photographs in articles showing Black babies, their hair in shambles after white teachers took kitchen scissors to their beautiful coils. This white woman with dreadlocks and I worked together for a few years, and despite my initial disgust and resentment over her choice to wear an appropriative style, we struck up a friendship. Why? Because in spite of her choice to wear locks and obliviousness to how she was enacting harm, she was not a malicious person. She was kind. She could be giving and thoughtful, even if she did not care enough to understand why her dreads were offensive.
I share this anecdote, because I feel like it illustrates the relationship that I have with the polefit community. While polefit dancers (current and former strippers excluded), may participate in oppressive systems that enact harm upon sex workers, polefit dancers are not necessarily bad people. I have had polefit performers volunteer their time in support of strippers or other sex work activist groups. I have had meaningful friendships with polefit performers. However, being “good people” does not exclude polefit practitioners from critical analysis. I want to suggest that it is time the stripper community takes a hard look at the role polefit has taken in:
1) sanitizing a style of dance that intentionally divorces the it from its sex work roots
2) cosplaying the “sexual liberation” offered by strippers without engaging with systemic violence we face
3) in appropriating the struggle of algorithmically enforced invisibility intended to created by FOSTA/SESTA to target real sex workers.
4) enacting systemic harm due to a lack of willingness to engage with the gravity of the fight for sex work decriminalization and labor rights.
5) Additionally, I want to suggest that “polefit” itself is a misnomer, because there is nothing further from fitness than pole dance because the discipline damages the body rather than improving fitness.
I also want to suggest that perhaps there is no ethical way for non-sex workers to practice polefit in countries where sex work is criminalized—in much the same way that there is no ethical way for white people to wear dreadlocks while white supremacy persists: until we are all truly free, certain cultural practices should remain off limits to outsiders.
Before I dive into this heated topic, I want to define what polefit is. Pole fitness, aka “polefit” is an exercise trend inspired by the rigorous dancing style pioneered by strippers. This genre of exercise involves performing a series of tricks on a static or spinning metal pole. Some of the tricks performed resemble movements that originate in South Asian wooden pole dance traditions like India’s Mallakhamb discipline; however, the polefit movement most closely resembles aesthetics which originated with strippers. Polefit dancers wear minimal clothing, due to the necessity of utilizing skin contact points that allow dancers to grip onto the pole; dancers often wear Pleaser shoes, which were popularized by strippers; and they perform movements that even social media algorithms consider to be sexual in nature. The dance style has become immensely popular, and many people, including some notable celebrities, have decided to try their hand at the sport. Additionally, a lucrative competition industry has popped up around the polefit boom. Pole dance, which was once an activity completely enmeshed with stripping, has taken on a life of its own.
Since the advent of the hashtag #notastripper, there has been tension between polefit dancers and strippers. Many polefit dancers have chosen to explicitly distance themselves from strippers, suggesting that the pole performances that happen in pole studios and in competition spaces did not originate in the strip club, but that the discipline instead originated in some “ancient traditional dance,” whether it be an African homage to phallic love, Southern Asian feats of masculine strength, a Sumerian striptease, or any of the other less than likely origins. They posit that only “exotic pole” style comes from strippers and is sexual in nature–that in fact pole dancing is not inherently sexual. While certain moves may have been taken from Southern Asian traditions, the overall aesthetic feel of polefit better resembles contemporary stripping. I have argued for years that if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck. If polefit dancers are using metal poles seen at strip clubs, wearing Pleasers which are the #1 stripper shoe choice, and utilizing tricks created by strippers, they are performing an art form pioneered by strippers–specifically Black strippers. To suggest otherwise is cultural erasure. It is impossible to divorce polefit from strippers. To attempt to do so is to avoid accountability for the ethical implications of participating in cultural tourism of the oppressed.
I have wondered, as a stripper, why the people who are so invested in polefit choose this form rather than aerial dance? Why not find self-expression and sensuality using aerial silks or aerial hoops–two forms that have nothing to do with stripping or sex work but that utilize many similar techniques to pole dancing and which can be sensual performances? What does pole dancing offer that these other disciplines do not? I can only assume that the draw is polefit’s proximity to sex work. The sexually liberated, taboo image of the stripper is enticing to “civvies,” a.k.a. non-sex workers looking to cosplay our dangerous liberation for a moment, so long as they can take it off at the end of class. Utilizing our image imbues upon them a taste of transgression without any of the danger strippers must navigate by nature of our occupation. The difference between aerial dance–descending gracefully from colorful silks or creating beautiful shapes on a suspended metal ring, and pole dance is the proximity to sex work. There is no argument as to whether or not aerial dance came from sex workers: aerial is its own sport; however, I believe it is impossible to separate polefit from its origin at the strip club.
And yet, many polefit performers and instructors insist that the art form has nothing to do with us dirty strippers and our sexual movements. They wish to sanitize the show. Why? Why go through the effort of dancing on the pole only to distance yourself from the underlying kink of stripper cosplay? This prudish demographic can’t seem to wrap their heads around the cognitive dissonance of why they are pursuing stripper aesthetics. They attempt to frame it as nothing more than a form of expression; a display of athletic prowess; a new event to add to some future Olympics competition; something for affluent people who can afford to pay the high price of lessons–who believe the best place to enjoy a pole routine is in a sunny studio in a posh neighborhood. There are Christian polefit dancers, hellbent on criminalizing sex work who can’t help but enjoy a spin around our metal poles. There are polefit dancers who claim that they are attempting to liberate the art form from its oppressive roots–to create a matriarchy where there was… patriarchy?
As for the polefit performers who are willing to acknowledge the strip club roots of polefit, many exclude strippers from community conversations or speculate upon our oppression without directly engaging with us or our movement. In fact, due to the algorithmic erasure enforced by SESTA/FOSTA, many polefit dancers feel entitled to a taste of our oppression. It’s like a contact high: they aren’t smoking the weed–we aren’t even hot boxing–these people are standing ten feet away from us, outside, worried that they might fail a drug test if the cops *happened* to stop them. Polefit dancers posting their performances on social media are finding themselves subjected to regulations on sexual content. They too are facing shadowbans and deplatforming. Some are so far divorced from the struggle of criminalization faced by sex workers that they believe this phenomena to be targeting them. This selective ignorance is insidious and can reinforce the systemic erasure sex workers are already up against. If polefit dancers are intentionally missing the point of their algorithmic censorship, then the fight for true visibility and empathy is blurred to the point of being unrecognizable.
Some of you may not know what I mean when I speak about “systemic violence,” particularly in the context of stripping. Stripping is one of a handful of legally recognized sex work occupations where I live in the United States. As such, we enjoy a level of power and privilege our counterparts working in criminalized sex work occupations do not. While many strippers laugh at the idea of writing “stripper” on a resume or housing application due to the immense danger of stigma we face, it is a taxable, recognized profession and there are strippers who have emblazoned their occupation loud and proud at the top of applications. There are far fewer hand job whores, or street based sex workers who could get away with that level of transparency (I say this as a proud whore of hole and hand alike). In the media, stripping has become glamorized by the likes of Cardi B, Blac Chyna, Dorian Electra, and other former strippers who have managed to create empires from their earnings in the industry. There are even efforts underway to unionize the industry, one club at a time. While there is a lot to say about the progress made in the industry, we are still far from free. Strip clubs have been allowed to be predatory institutions that regularly engage in wage theft, blackmail, intimidation, sexual harassment and assault. Why? Because strippers, like other sex workers, are considered to be less valuable, and less worth fighting for than other femme labor forces. Historically, sex workers have not only been treated as less than human, the term No Humans Involved was used by the LAPD colloquially to refer to sex worker homicides, particularly the homicides of Black and Indigenous sex workers. I’ve been told plenty of stories of police raids on strip clubs, during which strippers have been interrogated and their legal names called out in front of customers. Additionally, many strippers perform full service sex work at the club, which can leave them vulnerable to blackmail or worse, criminal prosecution. While strippers may enjoy a degree of privilege, we are simultaneously subjected to institutionalized violence specific to our industry and endemic to a system that sees our kind as subhuman. Because sex work as a whole is criminalized, even legally recognized professionals are treated as criminals.
When I attempted to work in San Diego, California, not only was I required to register with the police department and get fingerprinted, I also had to pay over $400 for the pleasure of surrendering my right to privacy. All of this to receive an adult entertainer permit that I would have continually to pay to renew. I felt as if I was registering for parole when in reality, I was just attempting to get a job—a job that for many people is a survival decision.
Stripping is one of few industries in which people must pay to work. Strip clubs have set “house fees” or quietly mandatory tip-outs. Clubs also take a percentage of each lap dance sold that can range from a few dollars to 70% of the total price. If a stripper refuses to comply with these tip-outs or house fees, they are often left to fend for themselves. DJs may refuse to give them stage time. Bouncers may ignore dangerous customer harassment–they may even refuse to walk strippers to their cars knowing well the peril this lack of supervision may cause. Lack of tipping can also be cause for termination–illegal as this practice may be. Strip clubs may veil their reasoning to cover their tracks, but the reason is clear. We know how precarious our employment is. We know that our industry sees us as disposable. We know because managers aren’t subtle about it. Too many of us have heard some anecdote about how strippers are like cockroaches: you get rid of one, there are plenty more where that came from. Strippers’ bodies are constantly policed not only by customers, but also management—a practice that feels like a remnant from a bygone era that unfortunately persists in strip clubs across the United States. I have watched fat strippers fired on the spot, no reason given, but they knew. They could look across the room and see which strippers retained their jobs. Black dancers continue to face rampant discrimination from overt racial epithets hurled at them by management and customers alike, to covert exclusion with veiled language such as, “We have too many girls who look like you,” or the classic, “We aren’t hiring right now,” often said in front of a sign cheerfully exclaiming “We are always hiring girls 18+!” Career strippers who graced the industry for decades—who were once the proud faces of promotional posters, and who toured the country representing their clubs—are unceremoniously kicked to the curb like retired racehorses once they reach a certain age. It doesn’t matter if they continue to make money or if they have dedicated customer bases who patronize the club. When you’re out, you’re out.
When strippers try to sue a club for mistreatment, word spreads like wildfire and they get blacklisted. A dear friend of mine was stopped in the parking lot of a club on the way to audition because the club learned that she had sued another club for workplace abuses. Ask any stripper in the United States and they will confirm that the situation I have laid out is true. The ubiquity of oppression even in legally recognized sex work professions underlines the gravity of the fight for decriminalization and an end to stigma, and I hope illustrates why even what some might perceive as micro issues are not so micro afterall.
To strippers, pole dance is not just a fun hobby. It is not our sexual liberation. It is not a fitness regimen. It is our livelihood. Not only that, but because it is work and requires substantial exertion for hours on end, it also serves to deteriorate our bodies over time. Strippers joke about “stripper knees.” We post pictures of our battered legs on social media after particularly demanding shifts. In the dressing room, we talk about nerve damage and the cost of physical therapy we must shoulder independently because our jobs do not provide healthcare. Our joints crack and pop because of the toll pole dancing for a living takes on our bodies. It isn’t a hobby we can take a break from: it is the profession that feeds our families and pays our rent. When we are injured, we do not have the privilege to take breaks or wear special orthopedic shoes at work. Stilettos are often a mandatory part of the uniform, and we pay the price. To suggest that pole dance has any connection to health or fitness is misguided to say the least. It requires strength and technique, but the lifespan of a pole performer, much like other dancers, is short due to the damage it exacts upon the body. Even polefit performers know, and yet like fucking moths to a fucking flame, they pay exorbitant amounts of money to permanently damage their bodies.
Previously, I have taken what could be considered a “harm reduction” standpoint on the polefit movement. I did not think it was possible to convince people dead set on learning pole dance to choose solidarity with sex workers over pursuing the forbidden fruit. My public critique of the industry, particularly celebrities co-opting the aesthetic without using their visibility to platform the sex worker rights movement, was met a lot of resistance. I did not think that a hardline stance would receive the consideration it deserves. Instead I offered guardrails against the worst kinds of abuse: hire a current or former stripper to teach you; credit strippers for the art form; promote the stripper labor movement alongside pole performance posts; share proceeds made from pole studio lessons with sex worker outreach groups. I saw some of these provisions implemented by pole studios, but many refused to engage with any degree of ethical obligation—cloaked in their smokescreens of ahistorical, asexual, sex work-exclusionary dismissiveness. I continued seeing pole videos on social media ranging from cringe to deeply bizarre. I couldn’t get past this gut feeling that something about these sanitized displays was not only offensive, but morally wrong. If I, a stripper, was suffering due to the systemic oppression of dancing, how could this community joyfully participate, blissfully unaware of my pain? Unaware of the pain faced by the Black dancers who created the art form in the first place? Unaware of the communal pain strippers face, or how their happy hobbyist participation paints a stark contrast to the strain of performing survival sex work. Why are polefit dancers allowed to revel in liberation while we, the original pole dancers, are so far from free?
There are additional levels of complexity to this argument I don’t want to ignore. For one, polefit has been a gateway for some strippers into the industry. For better or worse, because polefit has become such a visible sport, the dance styles cultivated in the polefit community have bled into strip club performances. Many “baby strippers” have confided that they felt they needed to take a pole class before auditioning to work at a club. Additionally, more and more stripper-led pole studios have popped up as a means for retired strippers to continue making money while utilizing skills cultivated over years of sex work. There are classes organized by strippers dedicated to teaching strippers pole tricks. Many strippers want to learn dynamic pole routines for the love of the discipline, much like polefit performers. Another aspect is the issue of discrimination. Strip clubs heavily discriminate, which means that people who may otherwise want to be strippers may be excluded from participation. Black, fat, gender-nonconforming, or otherwise marginalized people often cannot get hired as strippers. If they could, they would, but since they can't, what about them? I have seen polefit dancers come together to create fat centred strip shows, all black strip shows, trans strip shows–shows that due to the systemic discrimination of the stripping industry could not exist within a traditional club framework. I do not want to muddy my initial argument, but I do believe there is room for nuance.
Perhaps by the end of this essay, I have not convinced you. Perhaps you are a stripper or other kind of sex worker who disagrees with me. Maybe you see it as “just for fun” or “no big deal.” Maybe you enjoy watching the polefit videos that come across your feed because they serve as inspiration and teach you new tricks. I can’t say that I’ve always been completely immune to scrolling for new tricks. I also wasn’t immune to thinking some white people wore dreads well. It wasn’t until I began reading perspectives that gave voice to the quiet oppression I was experiencing that my views shifted. No, sex work is not all pain and struggle. It can be joyful. I have experienced the kind of joyful client relationships and financial liberation that strippers aspire to. I have also suffered. If you are a sex worker in a country where your labor is criminalized, chances are you have tasted at least a bit of that suffering too. You may not always want to own it–in fact, some of you may be very anti-naming and claiming any negativity. However, that does not mean that other strippers are excluded from claiming not only the good and bad of our experiences, but also the culture we have created. What if we all decided that this one thing is just ours? What if we gave ourselves permission to say to polefit dancers, “Your liberation cannot come at my expense?” Pole dance is for strippers. It was made by us, it is for our livelihood, and maybe, it should not be for everyone.
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