Iphigenia Rising

A Little Bit Iphy

Dear Performers,

I feel compelled to address an issue of appropriation that I am seeing and I’m going to use an instance of my own poor behavior to talk about it.

Story time:

Last September I was in a burlesque show at the Rendezvous and after my act, which was lots of floor fuckery–what pole dancers would call exotic, another performer approached me.

Her: Your act was really good, so exotic. I don’t know how to ask this without being rude but are you—

Me: A stripper? No, not yet, but I identify as one. I’m a nude model and a pole dancer and I want to strip. One day soon.

Friends, what I did there, my response, was wrong. If I could go back in time and gently place a manicured hand over my stripper-curious mouth, I would. And here’s why:

If I’m being generous, getting any form of naked on stage is at best 5% of what I do as a stripper. Stage work is such a small part of the job. It’s important, but it’s almost like considering a window display to be the entirety of a large store. It ain’t.

Add to that the difference in performance environment between the burlesque or pole cabaret stage and the club stage and you will quickly realize that while certain elements of performance are similar, there are some huge differences that make comparison irresponsible. If I went into all of the ways in which performing in a burlesque /pole show and performing at the club are different, I would be writing you a fucking dissertation. I don’t have the space to do that here, so I’ll only talk about two key components. The main two differences are these: proximity and expectation.

As a cabaret performer you have the ability to set and maintain your proximity to your audience. Usually, unless you are specifically choosing to cross the prescenium and engage directly with your audience members, you don’t have to. And even then, you’ve most likely had a host outline in clear terms what is acceptable interactive behavior between audience members and performers. Neither of these circumstances are luxuries that are afforded at the club. You want stage tips? You gotta interact and assume that someone will try to cop a feel or do something disrespectful and stupid while placing a dollar in your thong. Yes, there are wonderful people who throw bills for pole tricks, but most dudes want you to come chat with them and place that dollar. The fourth wall doesn’t fucking exist in the club. At all. And we also don’t have someone politely announcing rules ahead of time. Strippers are the first line of defense for our own boundaries.

Audience expectation plays an even bigger part in the difference between club and cabaret performance. The audience at a cabaret does not typically assume that they might have the chance to sleep with one of the performers (unless your sweetie’s coming to your show tonight OR you have a really creepy groupie in your community, which is awful, I’m not saying it isn’t). The audience at a club assumes that they will be receiving some sort of sexual performance at close proximity with a dancer and they will try to get more. They expect that tonight might be the night they get lucky. Strippers spend a lot of time and energy maintaining this expectation without actually fulfilling it completely. Riddle me that dramatic tension.

These are fundamentally different performance and labor conditions that use similar ingredients and stage language. And as I said before, stage work is maybe 5% of what strippers do.

If you haven’t listened to a hundred–maybe a thousand–men talk about their divorces, if you haven’t provided deep emotional labor,

If you haven’t thought to yourself, it’s okay, just one and a half minutes left in this song, how can I modify to keep myself safe? During a lap dance with a grabby customer,

If you haven’t walked towards VIP thinking, how am I gonna entertain this guy for an hour?!?!,

If you haven’t spent the energy keeping yourself positive after two hours straight of rejection and no money,

If you haven’t felt the success of actually helping a customer out and making his world a little brighter (and therefore the potential for a positive impact on other women he interacts with after you),

If you aren’t teaching someone about consent while you are literally dry humping them,

If you aren’t supporting yourself or your family and putting food on your table with this money,

If you haven’t worked nine hours just to be back-rented and go home with $50 only to come back to work the next day with a smile on your face and a good attitude,

I say to you with all the kindness and love in my heart, you are not a stripper. You are a burlesque performer, a pole dancer, both of which are wonderful and sexy and valid in their own right.

As someone who has been there and made that mistake, I understand that it comes from a place of admiration, but what appropriating our job title truly does is fetishize us and diminish our work to a small, small piece of what we actually do. You wouldn’t call yourself a brain surgeon if you only knew how to provide proper first aid for someone with a concussion. Please, don’t co-opt our job for the sake of sounding super risqué and edgy.

And if you are stripper-curious, go try it. See if you like it. The only thing that could have made my inappropriate comments worse is if I claimed the title of stripper and then couldn’t actually do the job. How embarrassing would that be?

I am a member of all of these communities and it sucks to have people who say they care about strippers appropriate our livelihoods in this way. As someone who’s learned and who now knows better, please, only call yourself a stripper if you’ve earned those stripes.

All my love,


Note 6.5.18: After further conversation with folks about this letter, I have a clarification and an addition.

I absolutely recognize that stripping and burlesque have an enmeshed history and would never advocate that those things be denied. I do however think there is a way to recognized shared history without co-opting labor that one isn’t doing. Essentially, the answer to “Are you a stripper?” Might not be a yes or no answer. Since the history and the current relationship is complex, the answer to that question should reflect the complexity of the topic. Perhaps it’s a good opportunity for education and allyship as opposed to simple yes’s or no’s.

Also, I didn’t include this as a reason for writing this letter, because I thought it might be apparent and didn’t need saying, but the whole point of this ask is that saying you represent a group of people that you don’t actually belong to can cause a lot of harm. The potential for the spread of misinformation and misrepresentation, intended or unintended, is high. That’s why I make this ask. If I marketed myself as a member of a group that I am not actually part of and know almost nothing about from a practical, daily livelihood standpoint, that would be awful and dangerous. I am simply asking that others consider doing the same.

Thanks again,



“Do you like redheads?”

At the club, being a redhead is one of my major selling points, but drawing attention to my hair has proven to be quite the learning experience. I don’t ask this question much anymore, but over the course of a few weeks I learned that there are basically four possible responses.

Option A:

Sexy smile. Gets my face close to their face. Do you like redheads?

Yea. I do. Like a lot.

Giggles. Well, lucky me then! You wanna have some fun with a fiery redhead?

Yea, sure.

*proceeds to take all of the money*

Option B:

Smile. Caress back of neck. Do you like redheads?

Eh. I can take them or leave them.

Oh. Well, have you ever slept with a redhead?

No. They’re too crazy.

That is true. We’re nuts.

Oh yea?

Yea! You wanna see for yourself?

*proceeds to maybe take some of the money*

Option C:

So, do you like redheads?

You’re a redhead?


Oh. I can’t tell in this light. It looks brown to me.

*dies in awkward, but giggles about it cutely* Maybe if I look dumb he’ll still buy something. Perhaps pass go and collect some dollars. (This is a very common response, especially if I haven’t been on stage for a while. Basically the main reason I stopped asking this question).

Option D:

Well, do you like redheads?

He sighs deeply. No, but for you I’ll make an exception.

Great. Because unlike you, I don’t discriminate between wallets.

A Religious Experience


It’s dead in here. I’m starting to regret coming in early on a Saturday. Sometimes there is no worm for the early bird to get.

I sit in my booth and take a few deep breaths. There will be work soon. Just then I see a shadow with a cane come through the entrance. He moves slowly to the back row, followed by my manager. He sits and she keeps walking. She passes by me and makes eye contact. I know what that look means by now:


Another deep breath and I get up and walk over. This will be a conversation. Older men like to talk. No quick sales.

I come face to face with Karl, a man who answers the question, “what if Walter White was a philosopher instead of a scientist?”

Big smile. Hey, how’s it going?

I’m just fine. You’re gorgeous. What’s your name?

I’m Rose. What’s your name?

Karl with a K.

Hahahah! Ok, Karl with a K. Nice to meet you.

We continue talking, his intense personality giving me plenty to work with. He quickly gets philosophical and my ears perk up. I filled my humanities credits in college almost exclusively with philosophy. So much for art school not paying.

I’m a social scientist. A philosopher. I’m writing a book. I’ve got this whole thing figured out.

Ok, that’s a little crazy town, but I can roll it. He goes on for a few minutes about knowing God. He quotes some Nietzsche. It’s like talking to a very intense manifester with narcissistic tendencies.

I like you Rose. I like your style. Most of these girls would come over here and right away, “Do you wanna dance?” You’re not like that. You like conversation.

I smile instead of laughing at him telling me what I already know. Of course! I love talking to you!

How much is a VIP room here?

Big smile.

We get into the room and continue talking, but now that I’m sitting on his lap and he hugs me, I realize something new about him. He’s not just a crack philosopher who loves to hear himself talk, he’s also incredibly lonely. And deeply sad.

His embrace isn’t grabby or even desperate, and he’s respectful of boundaries, but his need for human connection is palpable.

God is inside me, and I know God. God is also in you, I can tell, and YOU know God. This universe operates with purpose. There is no such thing as coincidence. Coincidence is two incidents that happen simultaneously. There are no accidents in this universe. We were brought together for a reason. This is destiny. We know God by knowing ourselves and knowing each other. I see you and I see God.

And this is how we spend our hour. Him talking to me about God, holding me. I barely dance at all. He likes a lot of eye contact, which I maintain. I function as a vessel for his loneliness and his need for someone to talk to who won’t judge him. He might be a strange old man, but he is at least well read.

I love you Rose.

Awww. That’s sweet. I’m glad I met you Karl.

It’s too damn early the next morning. Why did I agree to do this early event shift? I grumble towards my coffee shop. If I’m five minutes late today, my boss can deal with it.

Aside from lacking proper caffeination, I am nervous about today’s event. It’s a memorial service and I’m running it. How am I going to deal with mourning people all day long? It’s going to be touchy. Just please, God, don’t let me get triggered by this shit.

At the venue, an old Christian Science Church turned performance space now turned holy space for a day again, I learn more about what the day holds. A Quaker memorial for a prominent member of the community. A man who dedicated his whole life to education and public service. Who founded the event company I was working for. I had never met him.

The service was packed. Fifty people stood at the back and in the entry way. I maneuvered through the crowd to get my job done and make my cues, all while learning about this amazing man from his closest loved ones.

Before the service had started, the family asked a huge favor of me.

After the silent minute, could you carry a microphone around the audience for whoever wants to speak?

Sure, I can absolutely do that.

We don’t need it to happen really fast, we like the silences in between to absorb what has been said. You don’t have to rush. Is that okay?

I can do that.

I hope I don’t fuck this up.

It started slowly, at the back of the house and one by one I surfed along the crowd, delivering the microphone. This went on for an hour. In near silence, I looked out for raised hands, other members of the congregation pointing me in the right direction when I was turned the wrong way. The whole time stood, ready to give what was needed. A way to speak and share stories, endless stories, about this wonderful person. It was like a ritual crowd surfing, traveling all around the room on a wave of grief. It was exhausting and heartwarming. I liked helping them. Finally, the group decided the service was done. They all shook hands with their neighbors and made their way down to the reception.

Excuse me, miss? Thank you for doing that job.

Oh, no problem, I was happy to.

No, but you didn’t just do it. You–you had such a grace about it. You are very present.

Thank you.

What’s your name?

I gave her my real one.

I had conversations like this with multiple people by the end of the night. After eleven hours, I found myself back in the offices, writing up my event report.

You know, for all his crazy, Karl with a K might have been right in a way. You never know where you are going to find God. Sometimes it’s under black light and other times under church light. Sometimes it’s from a lonely old man, or a fucking smart woman, or grieving family, or someone who is no longer part of this world. We find God in other people, if we’re paying attention.

What a weekend.

On My Mom’s Birthday

Today would have been my mom’s birthday if she were still alive.

Ever since she passed I’ve had a fairly spiritual view of the world. While I’m not religious, I most certainly believe that my mother acts as my guardian angel. I get little signs from her as I go about my life, and as I started my stripping journey, i couldn’t help but wonder what my mom would think of me being a stripper.

Of course, knowing exactly what she would think would be impossible, but there are little things that give me an idea of her opinion.

My mother was the woman who made people do a song and dance to learn the name of her cancer.

My mother’s response to needing a double mastectomy was, “I’ll just get bigger ones later.”

My mother loved wine and chocolate more than anyone else. To the point of ordering dessert first at restaurants.

My mother did boudoir photo shoots when she was younger. And she played the cello.

My mother married a wannabe rockstar before marrying my father.

My mother joked about the effects of chemotherapy, radiation, and the lovely affects of pain killers. No one but a cancer patient truly values spit and nose hair.

My mother had a habit of getting involved with awful men, but did whatever she could for my sister and me.

One of the biggest struggles of having a parent pass away while you are still young is that they retain God Status. I was never able to interact with my mom as an adult and learn who she was as a human, not just a parent, the way I was able to learn about my father. She’s still idolized and idealized, a little bit more than human.

After she died, my father, who subscribes to a brand of spiritualism that I find appropriative and noxious, insisted that the dead could visit us in our dreams. But this was only possible if the dream wakes you up. If you continue sleeping, you didn’t really get a visit from your loved one. For years this made me feel like the dreams I had of my mom were somehow “fake” visitations. Less than the experience my father described.

The week I started stripping, I dreamt that I was at a party on the east coast. Green backyard, everyone crowded onto the back deck, August humidity pressing on everyone. In the midst of this party, my mother was opening gifts. I made my way over to her, but I had nothing to offer her. When she recognized me, she cupped my face in her hands and looked me right in the eye.

It’s so good to see you again.

The moment she said it, I jolted up in bed, tears already streaming down my face. I sat there, drenched in sweat and crying, and I thought about how happy I was. The last time I had felt so at peace with myself was in childhood. She was right. I was finally myself again.

It’s good to see you again too, mom. It’s good to be back.

Happy birthday.

How I Became a Stripper


Typical performance anxiety mediated by slight rage. At least I’m distracted from my nerves because I’m so mad. He really had to ghost me? Today of all days.

We were supposed to meet up for a morning date, finally. He already rescheduled twice this week. After checking in at 10:00am, saying he was about an hour away, he never showed. Cue “needy” text message bubbles:

Hey, just checking in. What’s your ETA?

So much for really wanting to see me.

Are you even still coming over?

I could have caught up on freelance admin work, or started a batch cooking day, but no. I had this date, so I cleared my schedule. He’s also supposed to show up tonight, but he won’t.

So much for him saying things like:

If you ever do an amateur night, I’ll be there. I’ll throw dollars at you.

Damn. You could make so much money. You’d have fifty guys lined up for you.

You should do it. Be a stripper.

The idea of dating a stripper sounds appealing, the reality is more complicated than that. I should have seen this coming. He had to disrespect me and make me cry on a day that was going to be hard enough.

It took me a year to decide to actually do this. To get the nerve up and be at enough peace with myself. When I quit my non-profit admin job in April, a full seven months ago, I was paralyzed by a single thought:

Did I really quit my administrative career to become a stripper? What will people think? What will they say? Am I crazy?

Cue months of sorting my bullshit, talking with strippers and other sex workers, listening, working as a waitress at a club, suppressing desire, trying to scratch the itch with “something like it, but not quite”—modeling, burlesque….

She quit to become a stripper.

Did I really?

Did I really come all the way, to this day, just to have some ghosting douche canoe give me yet another excuse not to go for this? Fuck nah. Fuck him. I’m doing this shit anyway.

So on goes my makeup over puffy just-got-done-crying eyes. I go down to class at the studio to warm up.

Anyone doing anything fun after class?

My “No, just going home,” betrayed by my bright red lipstick and contour. After class, I run to the club. Showtime.

First step, door dude.

Hey, how’s it going? I’m here for the amateur night.

Cool. Go see the bartender, he’ll give you a form to fill out and get you set up with the DJ. Good luck.

Big smile. Thank you.

I step into the main stage room of the club and spy the bar. A dude with dark hair, dressed in all black mans the post. Based off my experience as a waitress, I know to keep my communications with staff friendly, but mostly direct and brief. No needy questions. Make their lives easy. Figure the rest out on your own.

Hi, I’m here for the amateur night.

I am met with a well rehearsed speech:

Okay. I’m gonna need to see your ID and I’ll need you to fill out this form. After that you can go talk to the DJ about what song you want.

Great. Here you go.

I fill out the form, offer another big smile, Thank you, and head to the DJ’s booth.

Hey, here for amateur night. I make up a stage name for him to announce.

Hey, good to meet you. Watcha dancing to?

Got anything by Bishop Briggs?

That one hit she has.

Yea, that’ll work.

With my song selected and my forms filled out I am ushered back to a lesser-used men’s room to change into my costume. There’s just one other contestant. A sweet Latina girl who’s kind of shell shocked by the size of the club, despite it’s lack of weekday customers.

This is the biggest club I’ve ever been in. Have you worked at a club before? Are you trying to get a job too? Right on, right on.

We go to the back stage area that we were instructed to warm up at. I’m already warm from class, so I start practicing my inversions and circus climbs.

Hey, you two are doing the amateur night, right?

A tall, skinny brunette approaches us. We both give her an affirmative. She looks at me.

Well, you’re not an amateur.

I explain myself: pole dancer, yet to strip.

Well, this is amateur night, not show-us-everything-you-can-do night. I won because I was an amateur. That’s what they’re looking for.

The conversation continued and I thanked her for her advice. I then proceeded to the mirror and thought:

Hmm. Okay. Well. Here’s what I can do about that.

I hike my thigh high socks all the way up to prevent climbing and look my reflection dead in the eye.

Do everything you hate. Stick to the ground. Only beginner spins. Repeat moves. Nothing flashy. Still smile and make eye contact, but NOTHING ADVANCED.

I sighed a method-acting sigh and recited a mantra that might as well be tattooed on my eyelids at this point:

Dare to suck.

In no time, our bartender is back to grab us a few songs before we are to go on stage. I feel like I’m not going to win this. The other girl has way less experience than me. I can always just go pay for my license on my own, I guess.

The other girl’s performance was sweet. Lots of booty stuff, which I have like none of, and no real eye contact with anyone. I sat there worried. Can I really pull this off so they don’t think I have too much training? This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever been nervous about.

Then it’s my turn.

Okay. Go slow. Spend time at the mirror. Great, I think that might make me look shy. Okay. Walk to spin pole. Do something basic. Uuh. Okay fireman it is. *Thunk* (I land hard on the dismount) YES! That looks beginner! Oh, but smile at the two girls in the front row. Who else is here anyway? How many dudes are even back there? One, two, maybe three? I can’t tell. Okay, more floor work. The two girls in front are definitely into this eye contact we’ve got going. Roll over. *Heel clack to match beat* Shit. That was too much. They have to know now. I messed it up. That was too dancerly. Don’t do it again. Just roll around some more. You probably look plenty nervous now. Lazy clock feet. Lazy! Do you even know how to not point your toes on stage anymore? Cuz I don’t think you do.

And just like that my music faded out and it was over.

The DJ came over the mic: And the winner is contestant number two!!!

I did it. In no time I was back in my street clothes, sitting in a sad armchair in the club manager’s office getting talked at by a female manager with beautiful lipstick and a voice that told you exactly how much she cared (not at all). She rattled off rules and prices and reassured me that we could go over all of it at contracting, and when did I want to do that? How soon can I start?

With dates for licensing and contracting in my calendar, I picked up my bag, smiled one last Thank you at the manager and left the club. Back out on the streets it felt like I just shed a disguise. Or put one on. (Months later, I still experience this feeling and I’m still not really sure which is the disguise). All that is that I am finally going to be a stripper and I could not be happier.

I look down at my phone. That whole thing took forty minutes. And a text pops up from the guy who ghosted me:

Hey, sorry if I hurt you by not texting back earlier. Are you at amateur night?

I respond:

Yes, you did hurt me. And it’s already over. I won.

Yes, A Stripper

I am a stripper.

I am hoping that while this might be news to you, my lovely readers, that it won’t necessarily be a surprise. Kind of like coming out to people who are like, “Yea, we know, you’re queer as fuck.” I would hope that this isn’t that great of a shock, but a welcome addition to the rest of the Iphy that you all know. It’s been fantastic for me and I am now ready to share this part of me with the rest of you.

I am a stripper and I’m fucking proud of it.

Momma has stories for y’all. Since I began stripping I have been stockpiling experiences that I have been slowly working up the courage to share. And believe me, share I will, but first, I need to say a few things to clean up some logistics:

Stories are important, but so is my safety and the safety of my sisters. While I will be keeping the essence of my stripping tales pure, I will be obscuring names and other details to protect myself and my coworkers. No. Do not expect me to tell you where you can find me. Not gonna fucking happen.

In addition, this is not an advice column. I have been stripping for four months. Ain’t nobody should be taking advice from me. I am successful, but I am also still learning. If you are a fellow stripper and wanna know where to go for solid mentorship, I can give you names of women who are highly qualified veterans.

Finally, and I hope this would go without saying, but I’ll make it clear anyway: my work as a stripper is an addition to my work as a model and a performer. Stripping does not augment how I handle myself professionally in those other environments. I’m still a professional and if you want to collaborate with me, you best be one too.

I’ll be opening this series of blog posts with my own origin story, How I Became a Stripper, shortly. Get ready for tales from the club brought to you from the perspective of a performer/dramaturg. Stories that are a little bit Iphy and a lot of Stripper culture. I’m stoked for you to join me on this ride.

On Stillness

I have always been a really kinetic person. I’ve been antsy since childhood. My teachers scolded me for doodling in my notebooks instead of paying attention (I did this in order to pay attention. As a kinesthetic learner, I wouldn’t absorb anything if I wasn’t moving). I still pace around my apartment when I need to think something through and, of course, there’s dance and all the other active stuff I do.

But then there’s art modeling.

When I first started modeling and decided I wanted to model for art classes as well as cameras, one of my friends who had been an art model for years told me, “it’s really important that you stay still.” I was a little worried, but seven months later, I’ve found art modeling to be extremely important to my work, humbling as fuck, and a great use of my physical abilities.

First of all, absolute stillness does not exist. We all have to keep breathing, and breathing means moving. This to me is quite a relief. I don’t ever have to focus on ” not moving,” I can focus on breathing. I find art modeling to be a lot like meditation. Sit still, focus on your breathing, see where your thoughts wander off to. Except with modeling you have to keep your eyes open and allow a room full of scribbling people with furrowed brows to draw you. Being present and relaxed helps.

Mindset is also something that I find helpful when Staying Still, especially for long poses. It is amazing how much easier life is when you go into a twenty minute set thinking that twenty minutes is easy and will go by in no time, versus thinking that twenty minutes is forever and this is gonna hurt so bad. What you think, you create, because all you’ve got when you’re art modeling is the focal point you’re staring at and your own goddamn body. I’ve legit talked myself through poses by thinking about how time is a construct so therefore the amount of time that I’m holding this pose doesn’t really matter at all and shouldn’t be the focus of my thoughts. It works.

Posing for hours on end also teaches you a fuckton about your own brain. You’ve got nothing to do but think, and eventually you start noticing where your thoughts tend to go, or how far they’ve gone down a rabbit hole. In an effort to keep my Modeling Mind as meditative as possible (say that six times fast), I envision my thoughts as Charlie Brown Grown Up voices that I note and then take a big, deep breath and then let go of. My body might not be moving, but my mind goes all over the fucking place.

When my thoughts aren’t wandering, they are intent on maintaining the pose. Figure modeling teaches you a lot about your physical limits and your ability to sit with discomfort. Much of my time is spent making micro-adjustments to my posture, where I’m holding my weight, which muscles are engaged versus which are relaxed, or where I am holding or releasing tension. I have learned to be okay with parts of my body falling asleep on me and not being able to move to wake them up. Fun fact: limbs tend to fall asleep at the 15-17 minute mark, which means you’re sitting with numbness for 3-5 minutes. At least at that point, the set is almost done and you know your break will come soon. Body parts get sore, muscles cramp, your scalp itches. All of it has to be okay. You’ll be able to move again soon enough.

All of this discomfort is ultimately worth it at the end of the day. I always walk around and see what each artist has captured at the end of three hours. The work, no matter what level of expertise people are at, is always beautiful, and I’m happy to have helped. It’s kind of funny to think about. I spend the entire session in stillness, spinning in my own head, and the artists are frantically trying to capture what they can in a short amount of time, also getting frustrated, feeling inadequate, being happy with something done well, judging themselves, adjusting. An art studio is a room full of very silent, turbulent people, all hoping to make something beautiful.

I’m glad that I stuck with art modeling. It’s helped me with a lot more than just my modeling career. I’m grateful for stillness in a way that I wasn’t before and that change in perspective is pretty cool.

A Change In Direction (From My Patreon Page)

My Dear Friends,
I have some bittersweet news for you. After a lot of consideration, I will be ceasing my Patreon venture on 12/20. This was a difficult choice to make, but is ultimately a positive move for me as an artist.
When I started this creator page, I thought that with dedication and some patience, this site would become a mainstay of my creative work. While It’s only been a month and a half, I have come to realize that my creative life is moving in a much different direction than anticipated. Right now I have too many commitments and I have actually worked myself to the point of illness and injury. About a week ago I had the hard realization that I would need to perform some triage to get my workload down to a manageable, sustainable, and fruitful state. Unfortunately, after looking things over, Patreon was put on the chopping block.
I am in no way viewing any of this as a failure and I hope you all won’t see it that way either. Launching this page taught me a lot of things and opened the door to other creative work that I didn’t have the courage to do before. Patreon has been a valuable learning experience for me and I’m glad you all have taken this short trip with me. I am also sorry that I was unable to deliver everything that I promised at the beginning.
All of the proceeds that I’ve made so far will be donated to SWOP Seattle and this page will be deleted before any of you are charged for December, so please don’t worry about that. If you have any questions or comments, I would love to hear from you and please don’t think this will be the end of me sharing my work. I fully intend to keep putting my modeling and pole work out there, it just won’t be on this platform.
Thank you so much for your support and I hope you all have Happy Holidays.

Home Studio! 

Today I finished putting together my home studio space and choreographed the first pieces for my Patreon page, which goes live TOMORROW! I am so excited and a little scared to take on this new piece of my artistic endeavors and I’m stoked to be able to share all of it with you. 

I moved into a new place a few months ago and my room is this weird L shaped basement space. It’s awesome for the privacy, but it wasn’t feeling right energetically despite everything that I was trying. When I finally started integrating everything that I needed for a dance space, things got soooo much better. Mounting my pole and putting up art have been super motivational and now my room not only feels like my room but also my workspace. 

If you subscribe to my Patreon, you’ll be seeing a lot of this little space. My next goal is to get some dance floor paneling so that I can bang my heels around. Kinda impossible to do that on carpet and floor work ain’t so comfy either. Slowly but surely, all of the little things that still need to happen to make this space extra awesome will get done. 

Patreon is so important to me because for the longest time I thought that my art would always be something intangible, especially after I found Dramaturgy. Dramaturgy is mostly about process and helping a product that doesn’t belong to any one person, but rather a collective creative group. It’s something that people want, but there’s not really a whole lot of product where Dramaturgy is concerned. Unless you count research packets and lobby installations. What I’m trying to say is  that for the longest time, I didn’t think sites like Patreon could be for me too. Goodness, for a couple years I thought I would never be on stage again. HA! #neversaynever

Now that I’m a pole dancer, model, AND super smartypants dramaturg lady, I will be using my Patreon to share all of my skills, and I really do mean all of them. I’ll be hosting the Naked Book Club. The plan is to read one book a month along with my subscribers, and then to post my thoughts, critiques, epiphanies, and questions about each book, and to engage in conversation with all of you about what we read–all while Naked, of course. 

As time goes on, I’ll be offering more crazy mash ups of my two loves, scholarship and stripping, but I’m in no rush to force any ideas. I’ll let the universe offer them to me. And in the mean time, we can all get a little bit Iphy with some slinky stripteases and pole stuff! 

See y’all tomorrow! 



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