The Business of Exploiting Instinct
*A short ethnographic study at Club Super Sexe
This is it. Blinding, yellow and red bulbs bundled together to create the sign “Club Super Sexe,” framed by the cartoon images of sexy, female superheroes. It is a place I have passed countless times on Saint Catherine’s, often walking by quickly, with disapproving thoughts running through my mind as I caught glimpses of the hyper sexualized photos of strippers being advertised on the door in my peripheral vision. Never in a million years would I think to go, but when presented with the opportunity, curiosity killed the cat and I challenged myself to the brink of discomfort.
The clock strikes 11:15 PM. I hand my ID to the bouncer, he opens the door and the hustle and bustle of downtown Montreal, my identity, and all other concerns seem to be left outside as the door closes behind me. I begin my trek up three levels of stairs, with a cold, metal bannister guiding me to the top. I can hear the muffled hip-hop music and the voice of an MC grow increasingly loud with every step. Pepper spray, check. Conservative dress, check. I can feel my heart beat gain strength as adrenaline releases into my bloodstream.
The golden yellow stairwell spits me out into a dimly lit coat check area with three ATM machines pushed up to the wall. Three, large bouncers in black suits stand huddled together immersed in their cellphones. I hand the woman behind the coat check area an $8 entrance fee, and she hands me change disinterestedly.
I decide to sit alone at one of the countless shiny black, round tables. All the chairs are 1980’s styled, maroon. They match perfectly with the endless ocean of carpet beneath my feet. The paint on the wall is also merlot colored, pealing in some areas. Plastic, white chains close off all of the booths throughout the room, with the exception of one. Five erotic dancers, with their uncovered legs intertwining, lounge on the faux leather and burgundy cushions, waiting for the MC to announce their turn.
The dimly lit room revolves around the round stage, just as our planets do to the sun. Housing the erotic dancers, the pulsating disco lights, hit their bare, vulnerable skin in unison with the melodies that are pushed into the background. I watch as the audience becomes hypnotized.
The demographic in the bar is what I expected. Of the thirty-three customers, the majority are young, Caucasian businessmen mixed with aged men, all periodically clapping for the performers. There are two couples present, one middle-aged, the other quite young [mid-twenties]. Sitting close to the stage I spot the only other unaccompanied female other than myself. Everyone is grouped on the same side of the stage. There is one outlier. An elderly Asian man, with glasses and a sweater, sits alone until he gets up and follows a dancer into next room. The dancers walk throughout the room in neon colored lingerie, complemented perfectly by the black lights. They socialize with the clientele.
The elevation of the stage creates a distance between the audience and the performer, giving a paradoxical feeling of disconnection and numbness as if watching yet another hyper-sexualized woman on TV. All the while a false sense of intimacy is created between the dancer and audience as her exposed, bare body moves rhythmically to the music. I think of how “real-life” nudity marks one of the most intimate encounters of trust human beings can have with one another. I ponder how the openness of the woman’s body via nudity renders the woman “defenseless” and “weak”, thus creating a false sense of power for the audience.
I order a beer and the very cheerful bartender with two pigtails dressed in white reminds me to tip her. I re-focus my attention to the dancer on stage, Alexia. Like the other dancers, she makes no eye contact with the audience. It is as if she is in a state of trance. I begin to notice the explicit duality that exists between the performers based on race. All of the black dancers have hip-hop music playing as they perform, while the white dancers have trance and top 40 hits. While they are all uniquely dressed, it seems that tattoos and the transparent plastic platform heals remain the common thread between all of the women.
I turn my attention to activity at the table on my right. A bouncer, and Alexia, covering her breasts, approach a group of men sitting by me. The men were taking photos on their camera phone. The MC announces, “Absolutely no pictures.” Alexia seems distraught. It makes me contemplate the difference between pornography and stripping, things I thought were synonymous with one another, but apparently are not to a stripper.
The burgundy, synthetic poly blend carpet guides me to the bathroom, as well as the flickering ‘Coors Light” fixture on the wall in the hallway. Once I enter the restroom, I am greeted by a completely different energy. I realize the washroom doubles as the women’s dressing room. Light blue metal lockers cover the back wall, exposed bulbs frame the mirrors, and the dancers change peacefully.
On the wall there is a tampon and baby wipes dispenser. Beside those a pay phone. The walls are painted a grey color, while the floor is covered with outdated caramel colored tiles. The bathroom stalls are covered in scratches. From the inside of the stall I hear one of the women say, “lots of people here for a Thursday night!”
Leaving the cocoon of the stall, many of the women are chattering at ease. I go to wash my hands and one of the women tells me not use the first sink. We exchange smiles after I thank her. In the reflection of the mirror as I wash my hands, uncomfortably fluctuating between hot and cold water, I notice one woman with her face buried in her hands, looking sad, maybe distressed. The MC calls something out over the speakers, she gathers herself together. As I dry my hands she looks at me and we exchange eye contact, she leaves the room.
I am overwhelmed by the subtle, yet powerful act of eye contact, something the women do not privilege the audience with. It was as if we communicated on another level. It was an eye contact of strength, reassurance, or even alliance.
In the public space of the bathroom, I discover an environment, that in the weirdest of senses feels cozy and familiar. I see the women as individuals not objects, and they recognize my presence too. I feel a sense of connection with them on the grounds of womanhood.
Hidden away on St. Catherine’s on this rainy night I have discovered a haven for humans in the most basic of senses. On the third floor with a simple $8 fee, spectators can pay for time travel to the past, devoid of modern societal rules and expectations. I have found a place satiating primordial instincts that are suppressed and ignored. There is no ignoring the animalistic expression in the eyes of the hungry audience. No one’s identity in the outside world matters in here. There is no judgment, as almost no one flinched at my own presence. The people running it remain separated and in control, not allowing themselves to become drunk from desire, or even developing a shield as a result of over-stimulation. This clarity allows them to capitalize on the others, or maybe even protect themselves.
A little more than an hour has passed; I gather my things, leave a tip, and leave.
