I Strip But I Swear, I’m Not Actually a Stripper
I’m not saying I know I’m pretty because then that would make me sound too arrogant, but I definitely know I can get what I want whenever I want because of my looks. Multiple men buy me drinks at bars. Need some weed, coke, molly, I got you. I've made my way around to get free photoshoots. This guy even offered to pay for my gas one day because he claimed he was so “blown away by my beauty” and “bless my parents for making a princess.” Obviously I took the compliment and the money; I let him hold the pump while I sat in the car with my sunglasses on, as if I was Miss Daisy herself.
I’m not trying to feed into my ego, either, but there’s a couple reasons why I believe I’ve gotten away with the things I have. For one, Asian girls are in now. They’re “exotic” and “cute” and “fun-sized.” I learned how to put on lashes after high school, and they’ve been part of my signature look since. I usually maintain a good diet, I love doing cardio, have a good skincare routine and sleeping schedule, and my fashion style varies with the different aesthetics and moods I have. My confidence spiked after senior year and has carried me to where I am now.
I’m not saying that’s why I decided to be a stripper, but I’ve definitely thought about it. The first time I ever really considered it was when I was about to have sex with my now ex-boyfriend. I’m not a pro, but some people say the secret to strip-teasing is taking it slow and going with the music, but I think it’s all about eye-contact. When you play the game of dominance, it doesn’t matter how rough or fast you do things; it’s about how much you can control.
I controlled Tate the moment I sat on top of him. Some people say it’s better if you have distance, but I like to get to the point—I also might’ve just been really horny that day. I controlled him with the way my hips shimmied on top of his. I controlled him with the way I unbuttoned my blouse, letting the sleeves fall to the sides of my arms, but not off completely. I controlled him when I tossed my hair over my shoulders so I could show off the twins—all while looking into his eyes. When you keep that contact, you don’t just see their love or their hunger. You see their struggle of wanting to keep this staring contest, but also wanting to see all that you’re revealing to them. And when they break that contact, either out of shyness from the intensity or because they simply give up and can't hold themselves back, you know you win. You’ll be able to choose how much more you want to give, but also how much you want to take.
I watched as Tate’s eyes traveled to my lips, down to my bare neck, to my breasts and even to the tiny bow clasped at the center of my lacy bra. I listened as he sucked in a breath. He looked down to my matching panties, soaking up from rubbing against his bulge.
“Holy shit, you could be a stripper,” he blurted.
That’s still not when I decided to be one. Although I may sound like a freak in bed, I was actually very conservative when it came to being sexy in public. I wasn’t the type to show off my cleavage too much, and my shorts weren’t the ones that made your butt “pop out.” I was happy with myself, but I guess that wasn’t enough for Tate, because I later broke up with him when I found him talking to someone else.
Originally, I was mad at her, as any jealous girlfriend would be, but after staring and stalking and analyzing her Instagram page, I soon realized she wasn’t even the problem. I’m not trying to toot my own horn—she definitely wasn’t better-looking than me, though she wasn’t ugly either—but I figured the only reason she must've gotten the attention she had was honestly just because she liked to flaunt around in lingerie.
And that’s when I figured, it didn’t matter if you were sexy in bed; guys were still going to look at whatever and whoever was revealing to them, but you were basically a prude if you didn’t have the “confidence” to expose yourself like that on social media. Other women understood it as a thirst trap, only done to get validation when they were feeling low—and she was cute, I’d be happy to give it to her—but to men, it was like these girls were goddesses, and they would really give up anything—and I mean anything, even a good relationship—just to keep looking at them.
The break up took a lot out of me. I also ended up losing my job in July and was struggling to find another one. On top of that, I had subleased an apartment that summer, so the next rent payment practically ate my checking account. It was decreasing by the week as I went out to buy food and other things for the house, and I needed more money, fast.
That’s when I thought about being a stripper. I asked my roommate, Anaise, what she thought about it, because it was the first time I seriously considered this, and she was completely against the idea. “Why, you don’t think I’m pretty?” I asked, glaring at her as she slumped on the couch with a PS4 controller in hand. I was watching her play Fortnite.
“No, you are pretty—too pretty, in fact,” she said, eyes never leaving the screen. “But you’re just not that type of girl. You’re actually smart.”
I was offended at the “not the type of girl” part until I realized she was referring to the connotation that normally comes with strippers and other sex workers. We usually think of them as trashy, low-leveled, and filthy because all they do is wear skimpy clothing to get money.
And yet ironically, when I thought about it, I actually believed strippers were some of the smartest people because all they did have to do was wear skimpy clothing to get money. It was only derogatory because men didn’t want to admit they were that weak to give in to them.
Anyway, even after all of this, I never had the balls to go in for an interview. I couldn’t pole dance for shit, and the idea of potentially being in a private room with a complete stranger scared me. I heard stories of strippers getting beaten or molested even though there was “security” to prevent that, and I knew there was never really any justice because some people believed “that’s what you get” when you show yourself off like that. And while that's a whole other topic, I was still too pussy to even check it out, but I was still persistent in getting what I wanted. I knew there was a similar way to get money with my looks without exactly becoming a stripper, but sometimes I still wonder about the kind of damage I could do if I actually became one.
I spent the rest of the fall looking for sugar daddies. The idea occurred to me when I saw a man on Tinder looking for “a babygirl to spoil.” I always knew older men who were willing to pay for a girl at their side existed, but I didn’t realize there were plenty of them in Chicago once I raised the age range on my profile preferences. I was willing to go for long-term relationships since it would’ve potentially meant helping with my bills, but it was hard to find the “right” one. Most of these men weren't fully divorced or wanted something on the side, or they had kids my age, and that felt weird to me. It was like I was desperate, but I was also picky. I wanted a single, lonely soul, not one that already belonged to someone else.
The very first man I courted was named John. What caught my attention about him was that he was looking for someone to travel to Asia with. I also learned he went to Japan and taught English there for several years, so naturally, I thought I was lucky to find someone who was genuinely interested in and respected Asian culture.
We were seeing each other for about a month and had weekly dinner dates. He stayed in the northern suburbs, but because I admitted I was a little uncomfortable going home with him like that, he got us a hotel room every time he visited instead—and him being considerate like that made me like him even more. On top of getting $500 each night we met up, I honestly felt like a princess with him. He thought I was stunning. He'd compliment me every second of our dinner, and he'd constantly kiss my hand as we walked by the river. He'd bring me small gifts and would hold my bags when I asked him to. I soon began to think, money and the desire to travel aside, that he was genuinely a really nice guy, and something could potentially work out.
But the more I hung out with him and heard his compliments, listened to his stories, picked out certain words and phrases, I noticed something in particular. Everything was about Japan; it was always something new to share at dinner or on our walks, and as insightful as it was, I was tired of hearing about it. It was like he was trying to compete on being more Asian than me with his knowledge about Japan, just because he had lived there for a while, but he was also holding me on a strange pedestal with the way he obsessed over my body. I didn't want to stereotype him as the typical white man who fetishized Asian women, but I couldn't help it sometimes.
I’ll admit, sex with John wasn’t the best, but I never fully got off from it. I try not to compare my partners, but he didn't love foreplay as much as Tate and I did. He liked to be in charge, and he rushed me whenever I tried to do my little strip-tease. He'd tell me, “Let’s hurry up and get this thing off,” and rip my clothes, gawk at my body, but never meet my eye. He never let me be on top.
I didn’t like that it wasn't fun. I didn’t like that I was building up his excitement, but not my own. It was like he just wanted to get his own sexual frustration out but then would leave me hanging. I loved going out and being showered with gifts and compliments, but sex with him was the definition of no chemistry, when I really thought about it. He made me feel like an object. Just something for him to use to make himself feel like a bigger man at the end of the night.
“You’ve got such a beautiful body, oh my God.” He was hovering over me at the head of the bed one night. I was fully nude, and he kept running his hands up and down my sides. He chuckled to himself. “You know what would be really hot?” he asked. “If you wore tights and a skirt.”
“Is that your kink?” I asked him back. “Like, you’d be the teacher, and I’d be the student?” It seemed harmless, and it made sense for him, considering his previous occupation and all. I figured perhaps it would spice things up a bit, and maybe that’s what I needed to feel good on my end, but I also had a strange feeling he was implying something else.
“Yeah, like a Japanese school girl.”
And then I understood. I froze in my spot, staring at him while he did the same to me—completely oblivious as to why his remark blew my mind.
His idea of dominance had a deeper meaning. He wanted to be the white man who saved me, a poor art student with a decent sex drive who was struggling to make ends meet. He wanted to fulfill every one of my needs, buy me clothes, designer items, keep me fed—like the real sugar daddy he was. But the price would be for me to play the stereotypical Asian girl. Shy and timid and helpless, docile and precious. To top it off, he didn't even remember what exact ethnicity I was. He didn't give a shit about Thailand or Laos—like any other white person, he lumped me into “Asia,” which was mainly Japan, for all he cared. Which mainly meant being the equivalent to an anime girl.
He sexualized my people, but only a specific kind, and he was trying to mold me into that ideal. I was more than just an object to him; I was a trophy. And he didn't just want a cute Asian girl at his side. He wanted submission.
“I’m not Japanese,” I muttered.
“Well,” John sputtered, “you know what I mean—”
I automatically kicked him aside and got off the bed. “I’m not fucking doing this.” I quickly got dressed and then held out a hand in front of him, in which he glanced at dumbly. “Where’s my 500?” I demanded. He scoffed.
“Forget it. If you're not going to do anything, then I owe you nothing.”
Now I stood there dumbly in front of him. I knew I couldn’t force him to give me cash and that he technically had a point, but I thought he was being bogus because I still came for the night. There was a part of me that said to just shut up and go along with it, but there was also another part that said being disrespected wasn’t worth it. So I reluctantly left the room and called myself an Uber.
I blocked him after that. I figured a “relationship” with older men wasn’t the best idea, so maybe hookups with slightly younger ones were better, since it was also the most common on Tinder. Most of the men I encountered were sales reps or, interestingly, physical therapists. Occasionally, I’d match with the bigger businessmen who came to conferences from out of state. It was fun at first, going out with a new person every other night and getting $200 or something, but ironically, eventually I got tired of just meeting with random people for sex and money. Maybe because most of the time the sex wasn’t even that good. I always found myself in doggy position faking an orgasm, and being glad I didn't have to look at them while wondering, Why couldn’t I find a real job? Why did I have to stoop so low and give myself to someone for a couple of hundreds, that I would later waste away on rent and alcohol? I know sex work is considered a "real job" to people like strippers, but I wondered if they ever felt this way, too.
It’s interesting to think that some women get turned on from that, actually—the idea of feeling low. I know in my generation, it's common to make self-deprecating jokes, but I'm mainly referring to when men call women “dirty sluts” or other names of the sort in bed or whatever. I always thought it was twisted. Or like, when people say they're into rough sex, but are practically okay with getting beat up. I'm normally open-minded, but sometimes it's hard for me to understand how there's excitement through pain, especially the sexual kind, but maybe I was only scared at the moment because I’d never tried it before.
Anyway, I’m bringing this up because one of the next guys I hooked up with was into this. His name was Jason, and he was a stockbroker visiting from Boston. We sexted a lot through Tinder and he seemed really confident, so I trusted that he knew what he was talking about.
To make things a little more fun, when the night to see him came, I literally dressed in nothing but a bra and panties, covered with a winter coat, with heels. We didn't make dinner plans because he said he ate with his company, but he was excited for me to come over, as was I. Anaise laughed at me when I walked out the door. “I didn’t know you went on full-stripper mode.”
She made it sound condescending, but I actually felt pretty badass. I think it was the help of the heels. Was this what strippers also felt like?
The thing that caught me off guard, though, was that Jason told me to just come right up to the room when I got to his hotel. I thought that was kind of rude, like he didn't even want to "officially" meet me, even if it was for a few seconds in the lobby. He treated me like I was some kind of delivery boy. I wasn’t a fucking delivery boy, so I turned the joke on him and made him take the stairs twice, with me joining the second trip.
Like my last meeting with John, Jason wanted to move right to sex, and I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, but for some reason I was hoping to get to know him a little more. I realized then that that was a bit hard when I was also literally wearing nothing but lingerie under my jacket. Stripping in front of him was weird because I didn't have any other layers, but it was like I wanted some, whether to get me more in the mood or to make the night last slightly longer. But he didn't hesitate to push me onto the bed after I unrobed.
“So, you’re a bad girl, huh?” he said. “Just came over here for some dick?”
I think Jason had another definition for dominant because everything he did was rough, but I couldn’t find “pleasure” in any of it. He liked to constantly smack my butt, and the sting lasted the entire night and well onto the next day. He also liked to pinch and scratch and dig his nails into my skin. He liked to pin me down. He liked to bite like he was genuinely trying to tear off my flesh. I didn’t know how this was supposed to be a turn on at all.
He looked gross during intercourse, I’m not going to lie. His brows scrunched together and his mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but he never did. I didn’t think it could get any worse and was honestly fine bearing it until the end when suddenly, I felt the same smack that landed on my ass come across my face.
I probably looked like him at that moment, with my brows scrunched and my mouth open because I was wondering who the fuck he thought he was to hit me like that. That kind of thing, I believe, deserved consent, and he crossed the line on his own. He could slap my butt, my thighs, my tits—whatever. But my face? I wanted to beat the shit out of him.
Before I could say anything, he then sat up and pulled me by the hair to his bulge. He made me finish him off, craning my neck up toward him and saying, “Let me see that pretty face”—the same one he smacked just a second ago. “Take it, like the worthless whore you are.”
One of my bangs fell across my forehead and when he reached to tuck it back, I thought he was going to hit me again, so out of instinct, I knocked his hand aside. I shoved him away. “I swear to God, if you touch me again, I’ll cut your balls off.”
I couldn’t tell what was worse: the fact that he had actually hit me, or what he dared to say right after. I hated my generation. Lately on social media, I’ve seen these memes of men taking their anger out on women during sex, something I consider extremely intimate, but the justification is “it’s supposed to be funny.” There was one that joked, “When she says choke me, and she’s been getting on your nerves all day.” I don’t understand the humor.
There was another picture of this “new sex position” where a man’s foot was on a woman’s head, holding her down while he took her from behind in doggy. I always cringe at the thought of it; the idea of having someone’s foot on my face makes me livid. It’s so disrespectful. I don’t care if it’s a new position or not; I’d cut balls off for that, too.
Maybe all this—the hitting, the smacking, the holding captive—triggered me because I thought of my abusive father. Or maybe it made me think of how I was molested by my mother’s ex-boyfriend when I was 17. Or maybe I thought of what commonly happens in Southeast Asia, how so many women are victims of sex-trafficking, sold by their own husbands or white men who come for travel, or even during the Vietnam War, by soldiers. My mother once told me, “I’m glad we moved away from Laos. If we stayed there, I feel like you might’ve been given away to another man.” Sometimes I wonder if there’s really any difference here in the States.
My whole encounter with Jason only lasted twenty minutes. He wanted me to stay the night, but I told him I had morning plans and didn’t want to get up earlier than I should. He hung his head low but called my ride and gave me my cash, but honestly, $200 wasn't worth what happened.
I realized after that night that I wasn’t going to be treated like someone’s bitch. I wasn’t a dog, I wasn’t a worthless whore, I wasn’t a dirty slut. I had this sudden distaste to men after looking at all my unlucky encounters—and the funny part was, I was just asking for money. It was like men these days didn’t even have any manners, and I wanted to get back at them.
So I had a new plan. I began robbing every single guy I matched with on Tinder, not just the rich ones. It didn't matter what they looked like; I swiped on everyone. The amount of boys was countless, but my process was the same for each once the conversations opened. I’d flirt with them, get to know them, sext them, send the occasional strip-tease videos with messages like “I wish you could take this off me instead.” I’d plan dates with them—I wasn't going to do hookups anymore for the reason of meeting another Jason—and I'd ask them to give me some money beforehand so that I could “get something cute to wear.” Some saw through it, but most went in blind. They’d sent money over Paypal, Cashapp, Venmo—I had it all. And because I was talking to normal, every-day guys, the pay wasn’t always high. Sometimes it was $20, sometimes it ranged up to $40 for a fresh set of bra and panties. The highest I got was $100. Even though I was mainly getting small amounts, the money came frequently because I was going through so many people.
But the fucked up part was I'd never meet up with any of them. I’d slow the messages around the time I’d tell them I was getting ready, leave the chat open for another hour or so in case I wanted to make up a story about how I was running late—otherwise I’d block them and move on to the next one. I felt like men owed me for their time, just as I apparently “owed them” for sex, so I was going to take from them using the only thing they loved looking at, and not reciprocate anything back.
It may have seemed cruel, but they were all the same to me—Tate, John, Jason, Stephen, Kevin, Erik, all the other boys I lazily swiped right on who told me about their career or family or hobbies, who became infatuated from pictures of me holding my breasts or videos of me playing with my panties. Fuck every single one of them, who only liked women because of their bodies, who only used them for their bodies, took their frustrations out on their bodies, and didn’t see them as anything else. These men had stripped me of my confidence—everything I built up and learned to love after high school. It didn’t matter how comfortable I was with myself; in the end I was just a pretty face. I was put on a pedestal because of a pretty face, and yet, I still meant nothing to them.
They’ve stripped me of my culture—my traditions, my clothes, my looks. People didn’t care about the history or the significance behind Asian music or art or names. They wanted to take the aesthetic of dragons and fans and swords, ninjas and samurais, while being glad they didn’t have to be called chink or oriental or yellow, and they wanted to use it for their own trends and image, all while I took their stigmatization. I hated all of them.
“You know, I think the temptress archetype fits you,” Anaise said to me one day. It was another game night in the living room with her, her slumped over her controller and me watching the TV screen. “Men have done you so wrong in the past, so it makes sense. You’re cold-blooded. Cold-hearted. The baddest bitch.”
Was that what I was, now? Before, I was too pretty, too smart. I went on “full-stripper mode” and then became a “bad girl,” a “worthless whore,” and now I’m just cold-hearted? Was this how strippers felt, too? Were any of their feelings validated? Did they ever want to be more than what meets the eye?
It wasn’t always a badass feeling, being this “temptress.” Sometimes at the end of the night, I felt ashamed because I knew that wasn’t who I really was inside, I wasn't always money-hungry. Yeah, it was an everyday issue because I needed it to live, but I realized it actually wasn’t my main problem anymore: getting respect was. Getting the right kind of attention was. I had leafed through endless Tinder accounts to get $20, but I was also subconsciously hoping to find someone who wouldn’t actually do it, and who cared enough to stick around. Who could hold an intelligent conversation, who would see me for more than just ass and tits. Who asked about my own career and family and hobbies, and my dreams of going to Paris, and who read the words I wrote, the pieces I published. Who understood what I stood up for as a woman.
I got banned off of Tinder before I could find that soulmate—and before you ask, yes, it’s possible. I guess someone—or rather, a couple people, actually—reported me for my little “business” and now I couldn’t use it for the right reason.
I ended up getting a job at the end of the year, thank God. It’s a pizza place, but it's something I can finally do on my own for my bills and expenses. I started tutoring some freshmen at school, excelled in more of my classes, and made time for my friends. My work, academic, and social life were as fine as ever, but yet the issue still remained: who would help fill the void I had in my chest after losing myself so much? I began looking at other dating apps.
I strip but I swear, I’m not actually a stripper. I haven’t taken a single pole dancing class. I wasn’t hired on the spot for having a great butt or nice boobs. I can’t walk in ten-inch heels. I strip but I swear, I’m not a stripper; I’ve had things taken away from me, used against me—my culture, my looks. I just want to be respected. I just want to be financially stable, get my degree, and be comfortable and vulnerable with the right person. I’m not actually a stripper, but I’ve felt their same low, while at the same time, felt their same high from being praised so much. They're a blessing and a curse, your looks. You have the privilege of getting what you want when you want—at least, if it's materialistic—and you'd think you'd be deadly if you were both attractive and smart, but in the end it doesn't matter, even if you truly are successful. People will only see you as a pretty face
MULAN is Chicago-based writer, editor, performer, and model/cosplayer. She has been published in various online magazines such as Cosplay Realm Magazine, Hair Trigger 42, Mental Papercuts, and The Vignette Review. To learn more about her, please visit www.iitsmulan.com