You know those experiences that you never imagine yourself having until you find yourself in one feeling dazed and confused? For me, attending a Chippendales performance was one of those.
I will (shamefully) admit that I swoon and blush like a pubescent middle school girl when confronted with an overly-oiled perfect set of six-pack abs but, prior to this performance, I wouldn't say I was extremely enthusiastic about watching “Magic Mike” come to life. I couldn't be sure that I would be able to watch a 3-hour performance of thoroughly lubricated men parade their half-naked bodies in front of a crowd of mostly hot-and-bothered cougar types and be ok with myself coming out the other side. So, naturally, I decided to drink. I’ll admit, these guys put on a fun show. And with each over-priced cocktail that I knocked back, I found myself caught up in the music and the frenzy of female arousal that swirled around the concert hall like a heavy perfume. Unfortunately, no amount of rail vodka could help me to shake the nagging irritation at the underlying sexism of it all. While the barbie-esque blonde next to me instagramed furiously and shrieked with delight as each new costume crumpled to the stage, I held back my annoyance and told my feminist rage to shut up. In “traditional” strip clubs, i.e. those that cater to a male audience (and yes, I have been to one of those too…it was a strange Thursday night when a group of us thought it would be a fun “adventure’) the women are just…there. They “perform” per say, but mainly they are a living fixture within the overall decor. They don’t interact with their patrons unless the patrons desire it. The man holds the power. In the strip club for the female equivalent, Men also have the power. What’s up with that? We, the women, have a show put on for us and although our $40 ticket came from real money what we see (or don’t see), as well as what we certainly never get to touch, is decided by the strippers. The man’s prized possession, his penis, is treated like some sacred gem that can’t be exposed to the stage lights or “uncorrupted” female eyes for too long because it might shrivel up and die. It’s a constant reminder that any awareness and power in our own sexuality will always be out of reach, just beyond that campy, over-sized “CENSORED” sign. We can ogle the prize bulls but only from the safety of our chairs where our arousal can be contained. If you want the chance to get near the stars you have to pay $20 per person just for, wait for it…a picture. Men can get a lap-dance for less. Beyond the basic levels of suppressed sexuality, equally as troubling was the image of the “ideal” male that Chippendales promotes as every woman’s fantasy come to life. The archetypes of men were paraded in front of us like a well-toned sushi buffet…with more beef than seafood. Beyond the “perfect” bodies what I got was that if my guy is not a hip hop dancer, fireman, cowboy or soldier with an encyclopedic knowledge of sex positions that he can execute perfectly…then he is not a real man. It’s a frustrating reinforcement of the unattainable standard that women think they are supposed to seek out in a mate. One particularly bizarre moment was a “military” scene where the men marched out in United States Coast Guard uniforms to the music of Enrique Iglesias’ “Hero” while a billowing American flag was projected on the screen behind them. Maybe I was being overly-critical and missing the “fun” of it all, but watching those pretend, proud soldiers strip down to their star spangled boxers and discard their uniforms into a pile on the dusty stage, it all struck me as very far off from patriotic. Am I glad that I went? Kinda. Would I do it again? Probably not. I understand women’s excitement and enthusiasm for these types of shows. I get that they seem sexy, dangerous and naughty. I just hope that these same women recognize that what the Chippendales sells is not realistic and that their product is not something that is attainable in real life.
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