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Strippers at the Whitney


I took my mum to the Whitney because, if you can believe it, she likes arts and crafts as much as I do:

(She also likes creatively athletic disciplines.)

(She also likes creatively athletic disciplines.)

So up the elevators we went to ponder the great new space. 

There were strippers everywhere. 

This is the stripper version of a turtle going inside her shell when the rich guy in VIP keeps trying to make out with her:

This is the fearless weirdo stripper who spits fire and stares down ungrateful non-tippers into a submission about which they have terrifying wet dreams for weeks:

This is the 23-year-old guy in pristine Air Jordans who, in lieu of buying you a drink, wants to show you his Instagram profile:

This stripper is clearly dancing to 'Wicked Games' by Chris Issak:


This #offdutystripper only wears satin and has no time for your 'here's-43-paltry-reasons-why-you should-date-me' bullshit. She never leaves the house but bribes her favourite strippers to come over to her place (which is like, really far away) but always has the best cheese spreads, Prosecco and prescription pills:

This is the queer #offdutystripper party of January 30, 1987. Shortly after this oil panting was produced they joined hands and conjured to birth my spirit:

IMG_6735 (1).JPG

Art is great when you refuse to interpret it any other way than women conspiring to destroy the patriarchy.