Strippers Fought For Their Right To Take It Off In Columbus

A stripper's story Dancer takes it off in a quest for a life beyond the clubs. Monday, 3:32 AM Lisa Dunn begins a floor dance at Kahoots Gentlemen's Club. Dunn says dancing gives her independence and has enabled her to make a life for herself. She and other strip-club dancers fought legislation they say would have put them out of work. Dunn takes notes in a chemistry class at Columbus State Community College. She wants to become a nurse for “job security.” Lisa Dunn knows what strangers think. It's why the giggly brunette who adores her cats doesn't introduce herself to neighbors around the suburban house she so proudly owns. It's why the nursing student avoids telling her college classmates where she goes after chemistry lab. It's why the young woman known as a tireless worker fears someday interviewing for a different job. People judge. “It's not that I want to hide it,” she said. “A lot of time, (it) just attracts unnecessary attention.” Dunn is, after all, an adult entertainer. She twirls her fit, 22-year-old body around gold poles, her breasts enhanced and exposed, so that men will slide dollar bills into the thin, white thong stretched across her slender, tan hips. She takes the hands of golfers and businessmen and walks them to a private room, where she dances in a barely-there bikini through a song, maybe two, before taking $30 for three minutes' work and moving to the gentleman in the next booth. This is how a girl from Springfield raised by a single mother who struggled to keep the family phone in service supports herself — at least for now. “Because I've been dancing so long,” she said, “I don't know what it's like to not have my needs met.” Dunn and other strip-club dancers — often used to hiding what they do from people outside club doors — have made recent headlines for teaming to fight legislation they say would have put them out of jobs. As originally proposed, the measure would have created a 6-foot “no-touch” bubble around dancers — effectively shutting down strip clubs, some maintained. The legislation that eventually passed prevents dancers from touching patrons — or patrons from touching them — while the dancers are nude or seminude. Even the watered-down version, expected to take effect by mid-August, still concerns club owners and dancers, who doubt its constitutionality. Although they have many questions about the new restrictions, the most important one is this: Will they scare off patrons? Dunn, a nursing student and homeowner, might not be a typical dancer. And her workplace, the upscale Kahoots on the Northwest Side, might not be a typical strip club. But the young woman who hesitates to meet her neighbors opened her door — at This Author's request — to offer a glimpse of her life as a way of explaining why she's determined to work through this law. On a Wednesday afternoon in a small, sterile classroom at the Westerville branch of Columbus State Community College, the chemistry professor is talking about acids and bases in a high school-level course. What he's about to say won't be on next week's exam, he tells his students. Sitting in the front row of seats, though, Dunn — functioning on three hours of sleep and a cup of coffee — listens and scribbles, listens and scribbles. She moved out of her mother's place at 18, wanting to build a life of her own. By dancing on weekends, Dunn soon discovered, she could earn enough to rent an apartment while finishing high school. She made decent money at other jobs she'd tried — telemarketing, car sales, marketing for a title agency — but nothing provided like this. At 19, she started performing at Kahoots. At 20, she built a three-bedroom house. By 21, she had acquired a furnished home, a reliable car and a nagging feeling of something like boredom or, perhaps, emptiness. Six months of Latin dancing classes didn't fill the void, so she decided to give school another try. “I felt like I needed structure,” Dunn said. “And school kind of gives me structure.” Some people choose nursing so they can help others, she realizes. “I,” Dunn said, “want job security.” Class lets out at 2:24 p.m., more than 90 minutes early. Dunn walks to her car, tagged with a license plate that includes the word karma. What goes around comes around, she says. She enjoys driving behind vehicles with thought-provoking plates. “It just makes you think about what you're doing with your life. It's always good to believe in something.” Dunn doesn't attend church services but calls herself a spiritual person. She's into The Secret, a popular book that encourages people to visualize what they want in life. To that end, a “vision board” hangs beside the bed in her Columbus home. On one piece of paper, she has written the amount she hopes to pay off on her home this year — and each time she makes a payment, she scrawls the figure and recalculates. Another sheet includes a handwritten list of classes she wants to take each year through end of year. On the right are a photo of herself at her optimum fitness level, and a calendar with a weight goal listed on certain dates. On a nightstand near her pillow sit two books: Stress Free for Good and The Woman's Comfort Book. “Sometimes, you get distracted by the little things,” she said. “And you forget what the big picture is.” Dunn doesn't paint herself as an angel. She's a pragmatic straight-shooter with street smarts and a hardened demeanor — probably the result of too many nights in seedy clubs where management cared more about a buck than the girl earning it. She sees herself as a young woman who wants more, yet knows well that dancing can help her afford things beyond larger breasts and a life her parents couldn't. She bought her younger sister braces to straighten her teeth, she said. And when she finished paying off her car, she sold it to her sister at a bargain price. She has given her older sister cash toward mission trips, she said, prompting her to whip out a mission newsletter and incense brought back from faraway lands. “I kind of have a theory,” Dunn said. “I save the family; she saves the rest of the world.” With a yellow halter dress and perfectly applied makeup, Dunn walks into Kahoots at 4:28 p.m., slips her dinner into a kitchen refrigerator and zips into the locker room. She sifts through a pile of lingerie before choosing a red bikini to wear over light thong underwear, and a red dress to slip over that. She slides on platform heels and squirts herself with perfume. “I like your hair,” she tells another dancer. “Damn, girl: you look hot,” the young woman replies. Rarely does Dunn chat long in the locker room. Time is money, and she's all business. In an environment where on-the-job drinking is not uncommon, she indulges only in an occasional glass of champagne in the VIP room, she said. She swore off dating patrons a few years ago and has never done “outside business.” She won't have sex for money, she said. Dunn has learned to size up men, make them comfortable, win their favor. She knows what questions spark good conversation and weathers rejection with a smile. Under little light, with music pumping, she is in her element, walking booth to booth and leading men to private rooms, where she dances under the watchful eye of security cameras and occasional visits from bouncers. “The key in this business is self-motivation,” she said. “People think all you have to do is take your clothes off. People have to like you.” By 6:15 p.m., Dunn stands in the club kitchen in her red bikini, gobbling a salad but avoiding the croutons. The D.J. eventually pops in. “Lisa,” he says, “you're onstage.” She shovels in the last few bites and, by 6:33, is topless with a man tucking cash under her thong. In a few months, the finger that brushed her thigh while sliding the money her way will be engaging in a misdemeanor act. Joe Vaillancourt, general manager of Kahoots, wonders who will enforce the new law. He wonders whether dancers will be too scared to dance. He wonders whether customers will be too scared to visit. He hopes his entertainers will take Dunn's lead. Her take is as practical as the vinyl flooring she bought at Family Dollar and installed herself in her basement: We're entertainers; let's find a way to entertain. A bikini top, she has convinced herself, will just have to do when she's within touching range. “A piece of cloth is not going to put me out of business,” she said. “I am entertaining. I make you laugh. I have a lot more to offer than my nipples.” About 8:30 p.m., Dunn shows what might be her first unguarded emotion all day. Business is slow, so she's standing near the bar, away from the stage, talking about Vaillancourt as a father figure. He's smart with money, she says, and she trusts his advice. When she wanted to buy a house, she went to him. As she tries to explain that he believed in her, something catches in her throat. “Nobody thinks you can do anything,” she manages to say without crying, “because you're a stripper.” Discharged from the Marine Corps at a time when being a veteran wasn't so popular, Vaillancourt thinks that, in a small way, he understands his dancers. His job, he said, is to help them avoid as many emotional bumps and bruises as possible during the “small window” of time they have to make money dancing. “I'm not a woman,” he said, “but taking your clothes off in front of somebody to make money — I think you really do pay a high price for that.” He admires Dunn's strength and ability to set goals. “You never know if you're going to go home with $500 or $5,” he said. “If you can survive this, it gives you a lot of confidence.” By 9:02 p.m., Dunn has disappeared back into the room with topless dancers, dimmed lights and curious men. That is where she makes her money. This is how she is making her life. “Nobody thinks you can do anything because you're a stripper.” For additional health information, visit OhioHealth Author [view link] Thanks for a great article that shows the positive side of the biz. Email [view link] Web [view link] Twitter [view link] Blog [view link]