The Dance floor is Not Your Trauma Therapy
Coming of age at The Stud where dancing is not a crime
I was 19 when I first walked into The Stud on Folsom Street. I was deep into my Eurhythmics phase with spiky, super short bleached hair, glittery eyeshadow, dark-lined eyebrows, a spiky dog collar around my neck, tight, black booty shorts from Dalgeets off the clearance rack (a goth retail store where I briefly worked) and a very boxy blazer with gold charms pinned all over it. Whatever age I seemed, the guys working the door at The Stud didn’t care.
Gay bar dance culture in the 80s and 90s was very touchy-feely. As the crowd got drunker, sooner or later, someone nearby would bend a friend over and several others would gyrate on or near their butt, simulating anal sex. Drag shows ensued, pills were popped, shots were poured, butt cheeks were smacked and bopped, and no one batted a glued eyelash about who was a friend and who was a stranger. Even my own teenage nipples, hidden demurely behind strips of black electrical tape were occasionally tweaked at The Stud by some unsuspecting femme god impersonating Mommie Dearest to Duran Duran’s “Girls on Film.” It was one of my finer moments as a young queer while sneaking into gay bars to be among my flock.
And so my boobs got jostled and my butt was bopped and I engaged in plenty dance floor gyrating—all before I was old enough to drink and none of it hurt and none of it was assault.
Legendarily, boisterous drag, and gender-fucking fun included lots of flirty contact on dance floors galore. This custom was not only a big part of my coming of age as a young queer, but later, as a queer sex worker, who changed wigs as often as my socks while dancing as a Live Nude Girl about town. The Stud, and the folly that happened there, was vital for many other queers too, especially during the Reagan and Bush years where systemic disdain for LGTBQIA+ lives eviscerated our community. Back then, Lesbian bars were also cruisy, messy places with lots of random make-outs and anonymous sex. I was a bouncer at the only lesbian sex club in San Francisco, Exodus, on Market Street, which is now a fucking Whole Foods. As a bouncer, I got the chance to promote safe sex by handing out lube and gloves for the horny masses. Club Exodus was a safe haven for dykes in a world that was very unsafe for us in general, and still is.
Lately, things have gotten weird with people having severe boundaries and not communicating them with the people around them before going to places where the cultural norm is to touch and dance and have contact in a group setting. People having severe boundaries in social situations is not a bad thing, but it is if they don’t talk to their friends about it first and they don’t leave when they are in a situation that feels overwhelming to them, but instead accuse their friends of sexually assaulting them in a public forum. I am referring to a friend of mine who is a popular comic, artist and erotic performer who wrote about going out dancing with three of her friends on her newsletter—and who has a large following. This friend is someone whose art I like and who I respect. Her newsletter stated that her friends touched her while dancing and that one of them slapped her ass and sexually assaulted her. But she is only one person in a flurry of people that have referred to an uncomfortable social scene as assault and it got me thinking.
When people hear “sexual assault” they hear “rape.” Rape is a serious and violent crime which is very different than feeling socially uncomfortable, or being touched on the dance floor by your friends.
The dance floor is not trauma therapy. Stop treating it like it is. Consider getting some help from a licensed therapist so you can tend to your wounds instead of lashing out at your so-called friends who you do not currently trust enough to clearly communicate your boundaries with before you head into an overwhelming social situation you probably need to avoid for a while.
It’s fine to need a break from being around bodies. During times where I experienced extreme stripper burnout, it was crucial for me to carve out silent spaciousness to replenish my energy level and if I didn’t allow myself that gift, I was snipey and guarded.
Casually accusing people of assault is diminishing and belittling to actual victims of violent sexual assault/rape that happens every day and that has caused unfathomable amounts of suffering as well as thousands of dollars in therapy to overcome and heal from (if they ever do). It is in solidarity with actual victims of violent sexual assault and rape that I am posting about this incredibly uncomfortable topic in a way that will not win me any friends. A peculiar twist of phrasing in this area has cast a shadow on the dance floor of my early queer life. I don’t think people go dancing in order to be devious and invasive. I think they go dancing to connect in an isolating, lonesome and hostile world. People dance because play is a kind of protest and joy is contagious.
The loosey goosey use of phrasing also insults and warps the narrative of my own decades-long career of doing sex work. If I accused every customer of sexual assault who touched me in places I’d rather not be touched, at times that I was not in the mood to be groped, then I would have been living on the streets my entire adult life—unable to economically survive.
It’s irresponsible and cruel to expect cultural norms to bend to the will of one entity who refuses to take responsibility for their own wounds and lashes out at others. One example is traveling to places like France where kissing both cheeks is customary between veritable strangers. It would be ridiculous to accuse the kissers of assault because of unwanted smooching.
I’m not suggesting that boundaries are not essential for any healthy relationship or that the progression of cultural language around consent hasn’t been paramount. It is. I am also not implying that nothing shitty or abusive has never happened in a lesbian sex club or at The Stud specifically, but I will say that if no strangers danced with me, touched me or pushed me against the wall at one of those places, I wouldn’t have had any lovers or girlfriends ever, never driven any of them to the hot springs in Northern California or ridden in Dykes on Bikes.
I think people should do some reflecting and begin to use honest and accurate words to describe boundaries and discomfort. Before you condemn someone publicly, ask yourself in your heart if you’re simply prickly about cultural norms or if you truly were victimized by someone who hurt you.
As for me, I could use some dance floor booty bopping right about now. Every day is a new atrocity to behold and another battle to fight, so pockets of joy are like air, like water to me. I want to live in a world where my friends can feel safe hugging me and touching me when we are dancing together, towards a future where we can thrive. If that feels too triggering for you, then stay home and dance in your living room. But dance.