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Filtering by Tag: sex positivity

I'm November's Slut of the Month on SLUTIST!


I could not be more stoked about this interview with the brilliant witch-goddess Kristen Korvette. If you're not already familiar with Slutist, you need to be. 

Our first introduction to Jacq The Stripper was through her stark, captivating drawings depicting nightly strip club scenes where dancers dispense wisdom in six-inch heels. “Money rules the world,” reads one memorable installment posted on Instagram. “But you know what rules money? Pussy.” This quote is attributed to “Selena, 29, Kazakhstan,” and shows a curvy brunette with a hard mouth sporting a blue bodycon. Another recent favorite? “I used to love Halloween, until I realized I could dress like a slut all the time and get paid for it.” This one is straight from Jacq’s mouth, hanging off the pole in fishnet thigh highs as she drops another witticism in our eager laps.

After delving deeper into this writer/artist/comedian/stripper’s slutty oeuvre, we discovered and soon devoured her new book, The Beaver Show. As in her drawings, salty one liners abound, but Jacq The Stripper (real name Jacqueline Frances) goes far deeper in her story of sex work and survival. This funny, feminist memoir resists the “sad sex worker” trope, yet fearlessly describes the harsh realities of navigating the particular brand of misogyny that thrives in strip clubs (and the world over). With a flair for self-analysis and self-deprecation that makes her an irresistible protagonist, Jacq transports her readers from dance floors in Sydney and Melbourne to Santa Fe, New York City and the backwoods of Alberta. This slut positive polymath’s book is both relatable and radical — an important and consistently entertaining read.

You can buy The Beaver Show for the price of a lap dance, and, if you’re so inclined, help Jacq take her show on the road to share her sex positive story.

It really feels like you didn’t push a political agenda with this book, and yet I loved how you nailed this super anti-patriarchy mic drop at the end. Some narratives about sex work or stripping are all “I’m gonna prove to you why this is feminist and empowering,” but you’re like “these are some horrible things, these are some good things” just like any other fucking job. You did it a service by not having an agenda. Is that a correct read?

That’s just who I was when I was 23. I didn’t have a brand of feminism then. I just graduated from university, and I was naive to think I was going to be an ad exec within the year. But I graduated in May 2009. There was nothing out there. I had a job for three months in advertising and I hated it. So I started traveling, then became a stripper, and once I realized how fun and lucrative it was, saw no reason to do anything else. It took me a year to come out of the stripper closet, to tell my family, my friends that that’s was what I was doing, because it took me a year to even start to understand what it meant to be a sex worker in the grand scheme of slut-shamey patriarchy.

Read the full interview here. 

I am: feeling myself

By Day: drawing in bed

By Night: dry-humping for dollars

My Vices: blue cheese and attention

My Virtues: I’m pathologically optimistic

The Present: … please pledge my Kickstarter!


Favorite Flavor: rogue river blue or a perfectly stinky stilton

Favorite Feeling: making people laugh

Favorite Fabric: stretch crushed velvet, preferably in the form of a custom-made onesie

Substance is: My mum always says “be interested rather than interesting.” She is a righteous queen.

Style is: not giving a fuck about what’s in style

Slut is: power



I was laying in bed the other night, minding other people's business on Instagram when I received a text from my wife:

"Talia wants to know if you have a special trick for making your vagina not sweat."

Vagina sweat is real and I confess to having let it make me feel profoundly anxious in my early ripper days. But I've been at this game for over five years and I've got ample insight and solutions for your juicy clams.


Lots of women deodorize. Particularly between the thighs. Chafing happens to everyone and a recent remedy introduced to me be a total babe of a colleague is a silicone-based product made by Monistat. Rub that shit on your inner gams and chase after any unpaid debt without starting a fire in your loins. 

A lot of strippers also douse their entire being in gallons of Victoria's Secret Body Spray, focusing mainly on the pelvic area. (Victoria's Secret Body Spray - along with tampons and Mary Kay blush from 1988 - are ubiquitous offerings by the house mom in most strip club dressing rooms. Since we are obliged to pay a nightly fee to use or not to use them, most girls marinate in the stuff).  I personally find this practice repulsive. Because Victoria's Secret doesn't know shit about pheromones and, as a sentient being, I like pheromones. 

Recall the vagina - like the eye - is a self-cleaning organ and is doing what it's supposed to be doing. This sometimes means perspire.

Which brings me to my favourite thing in the world: fresh underwear. I have been known to go through four to five pairs in any given day. It's like giving your butt a mid-day hug of softness and love when you've still got mad chores ahead of you. Cotton fuckin' freshies, girl. Take a cue from all of us strippers when I tell you to just carry around a few extra thongs, briefs, or freshies of any nature in your purse.  Because I know you don't skip around with a fucking clutch. No one does that. It's the biggest myth of the early aughts.

How you think you roll:

What you actually pack for your average Tuesday:

When I worked at a full-nude clubs back in Australia, baby-wipes were routinely used to keep things as fresh as double-bagged bread before stepping on stage. 

A game men try to play at strip clubs is the blow n' waft. When a stripper is on stage and paying attention to another client, a shitty spectator blows on her. He inhales deeply as the air that blows back in his face oozes with the dancer's scent. I hate this game. We all do, which is why it usually ends with the guy being 'accidentally' kicked in the face. But if I'm fearful of being charged with assault, I take a deep, hot, belchy breath and blow right back at them. 

But then this hot little dirty blonde I once knew would would take main stage, and - for a tip - play the dopest strip-club game I have ever seen in my life:


She would rub a finger or two against her vulva and let the horny gawkers smell her fingers.


And she always looked like she was having SO. MUCH. FUCKING. FUN. 

What I'm saying is pussy smells awesome. Don't hinder what's destined for greatness.