Features

One happening Saturday, Critic decided to brave a suitably cold winter’s night in order to find out whether Dunedin can justify its urban identity with sufficiently sordid nightlife. Much to everyone’s surprise, it can. We may have no White House or Mermaid, but what we found was more than enough to blow Critic’s inexperienced and innocent mind for at least one night.

 
After warming up with a few drinks and a trip to the money machine for cash (strippers are one of the last stronghold of services holding out against Eftpos), we ventured into the very classy Edwardian building that houses Stilettos, Dunedin’s ‘finest’ (and only) stripclub. The interior was considerably less sophisticated, but not in the way I was hoping. Expectations may have been set too high but something about the un-sexily dimmed florescent lights, the nylon carpet and the non-reflecting mirrors was more reminiscent of Laser Force than Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge.
 
The routine inside Stilettos was a fairly set one. Girl comes out and dances to one song in her underwear. Second song comes on and girl takes off underwear. By the third song, girl wanders round room first past the assigned ‘tipping area’, which is populated by slightly disinterested looking men who slide cash into any underwear she still has. They looked like pros. Feeling inspired, we wanted to partake in a bit of cash sliding ourselves but couldn’t figure out a) whether only ‘stiletto’ dollars were accepted b) how one could get said stiletto dollars and c) where exactly to put the stiletto dollars if there was no underwear in sight. Luckily we’re fast learners. Before the night was out we had ascertained that stiletto dollars were available at the bar (with an exchange rate coincidentally the same as the NZ dollar) but that normal cash was equally welcome, “but no coins, it’s not very comfortable for the ladies.” We never quite worked what to do about the underwear situation, but luckily for one of our hot-blooded young males, his chosen woman had retained her fluro g-string, providing a suitable receptacle for his hard earned stiletto dollars. When queried about his experience, he confirmed, that it was well worth his $2 plus $20 entry fee, and with an expression of incredulous awe, he described the girl in question as “so…soft”.
 
But it wasn’t simply the skin Critic was concerned with, and once the titillation wore off, our contemplation began to take on a more clinical tone. Critic’s esteemed editor maintained a running commentary throughout, consisting of reflections such as “there are so many sequins in here!” and “that girl has a really nice ass.” We were all impressed with the dancing ability on show, some of which was nothing short of artistic endeavour. Whereas before the girls had presented us with the awkward prospect of one naked person in a room of clothed people, as they undulated and gyrated their way around the catwalk and up and down the poles, at times 4 metres in the air, the lack of clothes became a sidepoint. “You’re such a good dancer, I don’t even need to see your vagina,” remarked one of our team as he as he considered ‘Butterfly Girl’ (so named by us due to the tattoos flapping ornately across her back).
 
We were beginning to feel more at home. One of us was offered a job, another a potential date with a dancer, and I was feeling a boost to self-esteem that can only come from naked women repeatedly approaching and ignoring your male neighbours in order to embrace you and whisper suggestive comments in your ear. The one thing no one quite got around to getting was a lap dance. Though several were tempted, the $50 and extra $20 for ‘touching’, was a little out of any of our budgets and our ever conscientious editor muttered something evasive about auditors when asked to borrow the Critic credit card.
 
If fervent researchers couldn’t scrape up the required cash in the name of investigative journalism, who is paying the dancers’ wages? “The recession has hit the hospitality industry hard across the board,” says Pete, the co-owner of Stilettos, adding although the added element of ‘dancing’ sets Stilettos apart from other bars, this can act as a blessing and a curse. “When town is having a good night, people tend not to venture down to us.” Instead the income comes from a mix of regulars, pre-wedding functions, sports teams’ end of season celebration, businessman and, it is anticipated, “the thousands of Poms in town for four weeks” during the Rugby World Cup. Whoever’s paying, it’s enough to ensure that being a stripper “is going to earn you much more than working at a supermarket check-out,” says Pete. Ashley, a former employee of Stilettos, remembers, “on my first weekend I pulled about $1200, and on a more average weekend it'd probably have been around $600 for Friday and Saturday night.” For her, it was worth it for more than just the money, “it was heaps of fun, I’d describe it as getting paid to exercise, wear heels, meet cool people and not worry about a uniform! Not to mention, there's a pretty great power dynamic - a lot of people think that stripping is degrading to women, but at the end of the day we're flirting outrageously with guys who genuinely believe that we're interested, so that they'll either literally throw money at us or pay exorbitantly for a private strip show in a tiny little room with a camera in the corner that prevents any shit actually going down."
 
But there’s a manipulative side to making the career profitable. “There were tricks; I had a fake ‘real’ name, a fake ‘real’ occupation and a fake girlfriend – people are more likely to tip/buy dances if they think that they’re somehow special and know the ‘real’ you. In saying that, there were plenty of cool people there who didn't really require much work. A lot of the people I met were just genuinely good guys who wanted to see some boobs and they were good fun to sit around and have a drink with when off-stage“ (Critic hopes that we were included in this category).
 
Having taken on Stilettos in 2005, when it was known as ‘Cleopatra’s’ and was “pretty run down and gang-affiliated”, Pete and his partner Sylvia are aiming to “take the sleaze out of striptease.” Stilettos has strict policies banning the use of cellphones and cameras and “would be one of the strictest bars on intoxication in town.” The type of employees is equally important. “It’s not for everyone,” says Pete, and Sylvia, a dancer herself, points out the importance of getting a group of women who gel rather than let the competition get out of hand.
 
Ashley found this was the case. “The only bitchy part of the job was song choice - if someone else danced to a particular song, nobody else was allowed to. So basically the new girls had waaay less choice.” Where Ashley ran into bother was not her fellow workers, but the management. “The specific reason I left was to do with a contract. We didn't have [written] contracts when I began. We didn't pay stage fees and we kept all our tips - they took a cut from private/lap dances though. Two days before the biggest weekend of the year (rugby weekend last year), they brought us all in separately and handed us contracts, saying that we couldn't dance again until we signed them. They took away a cut of our tips and introduced stage fees (and penalty fees for everything you can imagine), but much more importantly were very strict as to our obligations and their rights.”
 
Ashley asked for an extra paragraph to be added setting out specific rights for employees, such as time off to be given for exams. “They wouldn't put any of it in writing. I refused to sign it unless they would (clearly the relationship was not a trusting one), so they fired me.” Ashley took Stilettos to the Disputes Tribunal for breach of a (verbal) contract and won. She knows of a number of other ex-employees who left shortly after her and believes they had had similar problems with Stilettos’ management.
 
Blissfully unaware of any such disputes, Critic wandered out of Stilettos a little more sober than upon entry, but not yet ready to finish our survey of Dunedin indecency. The city’s two other adult establishments are conveniently located in the Exchange, a short distance from the one we had just left. Beneath Hilary Calvert’s forbidding gaze, the female contingent of our group waited while we sent two brave men up to enquire at La Maison, House of Pleasure. Proving that it is in fact “Dunedin’s Classiest Establishment”, the Madame informed our men that for them to have a threesome “with four friends watching” they would have to pre-book because “not all the girls are into that kind of stuff.” Disappointed in all talk and no action, they then asked the price of the proposed event. $140: a bargain, considering that if they each paid half, it would cost them the same as a Stilettos lap dance.
 
We gave the boys a break for the last leg of the adventure and climbed the rickety stairs up to Lucky Seven. Upon realizing his new customers were female, the manager called out to the back “don’t worry girls”. We could almost hear the collective sigh of relief. We were given a private tour of Lucky Seven’s long fabled sauna, spa, swimming pool, and waterslide. Use of these facilities costs $10 and $5 if you bring your own towel. “And don’t worry, it’s separate from the other side of business. We get men coming in all the time asking to use the sauna and getting disappointed when they go in and realise there’s no lady inside”. Well you would, wouldn’t you? Exhausted and newly corrupted, Critic decided to call it a night and wandered home past the Octagon through the hordes of zombie-like drunks heading to town. The x-rated sights we’d just seen suddenly began to look classier.