Verity Johnson: In my burlesque club, it's not the men who are hands-on

Monday, 19 December 2022

Verity Johnson is an Auckland-based writer and business owner.

OPINION: If you work in entertainment, this current fortnight isn't really the “silly season”.

It’s more like the “competing in an Ironman which is held in a sauna while you’re wearing a Victorian deep sea diving outfit and trying to solve a Rubik's Cube” season.

Namely, it’s sweaty, complicated, exhilarating, exhausting and utterly mad. And, because I work in a burlesque club, we get the absolute cream of it.

**READ MORE:

* Showing up early for dinner is way ruder than being late

* What if Barbie owned a burlesque club? Verity Johnson overhauled her apartment and found out

* What’s it like when your partner gets naked for a job?

* How burlesque dancing helped me accept my body

**

When I tell people what the club is like at Christmas (“imagine the French Revolution but led by marketing execs after three espresso martinis”) they always look at me, aghast.

“God,” they whisper, “but … how do you cope? You’re all half-naked, everyone’s drunk, there’s all these work dos …” They lower their voices to a stage whisper that’s as subtle as a bandsaw: “What about the men in the crowd?!”

Now, if you’ve never been to a burlesque show, you’ve normally got a few misconceptions about what we do. But this is always the biggest one. Everyone always thinks the men in the crowd are pervy as hell. Especially at Christmas, where everyone envisages Caligulaesque corporate types tying us onto sacrificial altars and ripping out our innards.

It always makes me laugh. Firstly because, despite the craziness and the semi-nudity, burlesque shows are deeply middle-class affairs. They’re full of very polite punters who make a point of telling you they know how to behave. And the shows are explosive, but they’re not dangerous. More like cathartic eruptions of joyous, riotous hilarity.

But yes, sometimes crowds can be, ah, handsy. I spent all of last weekend having my bum squeezed like the mangoes at the front of the veggie aisle at Countdown.

But do you know who are those fruit fondlers are? The women.

It’s always the girls. Which is a fascinating example of women excelling in a traditionally male-dominated field. Although men sometimes do it. I’ve had it once, in the last 6 years, from a bloke. He got a prompt slap. But girls will goose me 6 times a night and no, I don’t smack them.

(A crucial caveat is that this rule only applies to mainstream, mixed-gender public events. Male-only events are a very dark, very different beast, and not what I’m talking about here.)

When I tell people this, first they’re shocked, and then they’re appalled that women get like this. Do I get mad about it? How do I handle it? Is it awful?

Well, yes and no.

First off, most performers find it deeply upsetting and offensive, so please don’t do it. Me personally, I find it more annoying than anything else.

Partly because I know it’s just entitlement. Unlike guys, who know they’ll be evicted if they try anything, women have never been told anything about behaving badly. So they think they can get away with everything. And that’s irritating.

But also, I feel kind of sorry for these crazed cats. I know what’s going on here.

This isn’t just a good time. We’re giving permission to women to be free. Girls, as a rule, get raised to be good, nice, responsible and sensible. We get taught to put all our crazy, wild, effervescence in the deep freeze for most of our adult lives.

So when something comes along, be it burlesque or karaoke or just any Christmas party where women gather en masse with free booze, a lot of madness is suddenly melting. Most women are great while defrosting. A few come crashing down on you with the force of a waterfall from a melting glacier. So on balance, it’s an evil I’ll endure.

It’s a messy business, thawing out women’s souls. But I wouldn’t change it for anything.