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Filtering by Tag: Anarchist Strippers

STRIPCABIN: a vacation from patriarchy


Last weekend I had the privilege and pleasure of flying to Atlanta to meet anarcho-feminist cult icon Lux ATL. She picked me up at the airport, we hoovered some Bojangles, and hit the road to the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee to strip in fellowship betwixt two hot tubs and 30 dope-ass cunts.


I didn't know what to expect. I told my wife it was a stripper retreat, but I quickly learned it was much more than that.  Given the complete fucking shittiness of the past week, I was nervous to be thrust into a group of strangers to act happy (that is what I do for a living) when I was actually feeling grim as fuck, routinely collapsing into puddles of tears as I ran errands in preparation for this adventure (For the first time in my life I had to go to a sporting goods store to buy kneepads. I was actually quite stoked to need kneepads for something).

Lux told me, "I wanted to create a space that's like the club, but you know, just the good parts." Turns out this is kind of easy: just take out the men! 

NOTE: my misandry is at an all-time high and if this bums you out, pull your head out of your privileged ass, wake the fuck up, and donate 26 cents on every dollar you earn to Planned Parenthood, ACLU, Stand with Standing Rock, or SWOP (just to name a few). 

Besides willfully submitting to ten consecutive coffee enemas in Thailand a few years ago, I'd never been on a retreat before. SHIT HAVE I EVER BEEN MISSING OUT.  Stripcabin was a much needed opportunity to chill the fuck out, talk some serious shit with some brilliant (and I mean brilliant) women, and skinny dip as frequently as possible. I also buffed up on some angry stripper heel-clacking moves, took a workshop with Michelle Mynx on eyefucking (*incredible*) and made an attempt to learn Beyonce's 7/11 in my click-clacks with the loving guidance of Dani Love

In no particular order, here is some of the wonderful shit that went down:

Fig. 1: Porchin'

Wake-n-bakers outnumbered coffee drinkers

Fig. 2: The Kickoff Party 

Stripping for women is great because they don't try to finger your asshole unless you ask them to! 

Fig. 3: Dope-Ass Cunts Who Like Money

Lux ATL, Dani Love, and my thirsty ass


Lux teaches us some killer angry stripper choreography that I now dutifully practice every night at the club. 

Fig. 5: Kelley 

Kelley is a magnificent pole freak. She performs some legendary coke pantomiming and if you pledge enough money to causes that work to protect all the marginalized people who got painfully fucked over in this election, maybe one day she'll perform it for you. 

Fig. 6: Since Stripcabiners know a thing or two about foreplay, the pussy was obviously eaten first.  

Fig. 7: It was a truly life-changing weekend, so I had to finish it off in style with my signature move:

Getting stoned before packing the car.


You guys: Lux ATL is a force of nature. If you're not familiar with her sermons, podcast, and general badassery, catch the fuck up. Bojangles is also really fucking dope. 


I will sure as shit be returning to Stripcabin, and if any of the aforementioned activities interest you, you can apply to be part of Stripcabin 2017 and perhaps even Stripcastle (if you're in the UK) and probably in several other corners of the globe because Lux ATL's world takeover is imminent. 

The Stripcraft Spellbook drops today, and I'm not sure there's a more sound investment I could endorse. 





My initial plan coming here was to either hustle or joke (need they be mutually exclusive? Aren't they the same? Isn't stripping just clowning and isn't comedy just an awkward cry for attention from strangers?) every night. 

Photo by Natali Hernandez at Sweat Records

Photo by Natali Hernandez at Sweat Records

But of course that all changed because I don't live in a vacuum. Sometimes my shit-eating grin needs a moment of respite in resting bitchface. 

The first leg of the tour (Toronto! Barrie! Montreal!) was easier because I was rolling SO DEEP in the unconditional love and support of my friends and family (My cousins came out to listen to me riff about my vagina for 45 minutes. My family is brimming with well-adjusted radness). Coming to Miami has been different. I don’t know anyone here. 

When a stripper feels lonely SHE GOES TO WORK. I went to work for 3.5 consecutive shifts then promptly crashed into a puddle of tears and one dollar bills. I was tuckered the fuck out, man. I’ve been at this game nearly six years and still I plan these trips, thinking, “I’ll work six days in a row, yep, totally doable.” 


Not doable at all. Not for me. 

I love the fuck out of my leisure time, but I was resolved to do some sort of work. I like to work. Work means a lot of different things to me now. It used to just mean showing the fuck up and flashing my gash. Now it’s kind of the same only my gash is my soul through a lens of LOLZ , cartoons and a memoir that I published… maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s called The Beaver Show

None of the booksellers in Miami had returned any of my “Hi-I’m-Jacq-I-wrote-a-book-It’s-called-The-Beaver-Show-it’s-slutty-funny-and-feminist-memoir-do-you-want-it?” emails, which is shitty. But if there’s anything stripping has taught me, it’s getting used to being completely ignored when you smile, hand outstretched, introducing yourself. (There’s a guy who circulates around all the New York strip clubs who, if he doesn’t want to talk to you, closes his eyes when you walk up to him. You can ask him his name, how the Jets are doing, if he just farted… and he will make no acknowledgement of your existence. Once you ‘get the message’ and walk away, he opens his eyes again. It’s kind of like ignoring a text message, only it’s real fucking life and incredibly rude.) Stripping makes us resilient. Rejection still sucks, but it doesn’t break me. 

Instead, I decided to do what my formerly-militant-vegan wife calls 'direct action.'


First I went to Shepherd Artisan Coffee… I had been there the day before and noticed they had a lending library in the back. I scribbled a love note on the first page and wedged it between Best Movies of the 90’s and some pink plastic champagne flutes. 

Then I moseyed up to Tropico Youth Hostel and planted my tale among some discarded novels and pizza coupons. Youth hostels always have the best book swaps with all sorts of weird scribblings in the margins. Knowing my book is one step closer to being in a shoestring traveller’s hands makes my heart flutter. 

Tropico Hostel has a lending library! 

Tropico Hostel has a lending library! 

I felt like a Santa Ninja… you know, the self-published kind with great tits.

I waltzed into Urban Outfitters and plopped a copy of The Beaver Show next to a book with Bill Murray on the cover. I’d like to think that a fan of his could possibly be a fan of mine. Because we are nothing alike but perhaps in some small way he seems to be the only old man in the universe who isn’t a shameless pervert and I just appreciate him for that so much, you know? Like, Bill, even if you ARE a pervert, thanks for keeping it for your consenting lady pals and not wagging your tongue at passersby. You’re the best. (We can talk about how bad my misandry is getting in another post… I’ll give you a hint and it rhymes with probe hizniss)

Urban Outfitters on Lincoln Rd

Urban Outfitters on Lincoln Rd

Books and Books is an independent bookstore with a great collection of stories and good vibes and so naturally I placed my eye-catching title at adult-eye level among the other “Indie Next Picks.” 

My moves were stealth but also carried out with a love and generosity I haven’t felt since handing out fresh pairs of underwear at Burning Man (it’s a thing I do). IT FELT SO RAD. 

I dipped into a trendy hotel, got day drunk off one Corona, and slipped The Beaver Show next to The Secret Life of Bill Clinton because it seemed appropriate. I feel like Bill Clinton loves a good beaver show. 

I took myself on a date to Wynwood, ate ceviche and slipped a book into Booklegger’s Tiny Library: 

Bookleggers in Wynwood 

Bookleggers in Wynwood 

I felt like a drug dealer at a drop but you know I’m just a writer spreading the gospel of happy sluts and you know what I’m totally cool with getting off on this perfectly legal activity. 




There are a few other copies of The Beaver Show milling about Miami now…  They are yours to take, to devour, and hopefully share with a friend. HAPPY BEAVER HUNTING, FRIENDS!