Being public enemy number one isn’t exactly a new territory for strippers. But now, they’re in hot water for warning women about the very image they’re typically criticized for embodying. They’ve spent years absorbing judgment for the way they dress and the work they do, so there’s something almost ironic about the latest wave of backlash aimed at them. That’s because this time it’s not about what they’re wearing at all; it’s about what they’re telling other women not to wear.
I believe that in the grand scheme of things, the arguments being presented by strippers aren’t that crazy. They have suggested that maybe Pleasers, the thick platform heels worn on the club floor, or the tight “poster girl” dress shouldn’t be the accepted uniform for a girl’s night out. That’s the whole controversy–and yet it’s been enough to spark accusations of body-shaming, slut-shaming, and even victim-blaming.
To nobody’s surprise, this quickly turned into a conversation about bodily autonomy, but I think it’s more complicated than that, and I think it says a lot about how far certain trends and aesthetics have traveled from where they started. The real question is whether, in our attempt to teach women that their clothes never justify anyone else’s actions, have we gone too far in the opposite direction—by treating any discussion of perception or risk as an attack on bodily autonomy?
For a long time, women’s clothing was used as an excuse for how they were treated — if she was dressed a certain way, she was “asking for it.” The pushback against that idea was necessary. But somewhere along the way, that pushback in my opinion turned into a different claim entirely: that clothing carries no social meaning at all, and any suggestion otherwise is regressive.
We already accept, without controversy, that clothing signals something in almost every other context: a suit reads as “professional,” a cap and gown reads as “graduate,” a white dress reads as “bride.” Nobody argues that those associations are shaming or unfair. They’re just understood. But the second that same logic touches anything tied to women’s sexuality, it suddenly becomes controversial.
Lingerie, sheer fabric, anything historically coded as “provocative” has slowly been rebranded as everyday fashion, and there’s an expectation that it should be read as completely neutral now, no different than a t-shirt. Certain outfits communicate particular messages, and that doesn’t disappear just because society has made those outfits more fashionable or more normalized.
Strip clubs were created around a particular kind of transaction and a particular kind of desire. The people who work there are trained to navigate an environment where sexual attention is expected. I think boundaries have to be established, and patrons may come in with expectations that would be completely inappropriate in ordinary public spaces.
If someone walks into that environment dressed in a way that resembles the uniform of the women working there, they may be perceived differently, even if they have no intention of working, performing, or inviting that attention.
There’s a whole corner of TikTok built around exactly this. Strippers post videos recounting the moment they mistook a patron for a new hire — usually because of an outfit that could’ve walked straight off the club floor. And that’s the point.
In my opinion, social media and the entertainment industry have become so effective at normalizing hypersexualized clothing. I feel like it also convinces women that the less clothes they wear the more empowered they can be while removing context from the conversation.
Shows such as Euphoria, Industry, The Idol, Too Hot to Handle, and countless social media trends have helped turn clothing once strongly associated with nightlife, sex work, or deliberately provocative performance into mainstream fashion. What was once visually coded as “I am performing sexuality” can now be presented as simply “I am going out.”
Strip clubs were created around a particular kind of transaction and a particular kind of desire. The people who work there are trained to navigate an environment where sexual attention is expected. While it may not be fair, it is silly to attempt to ignore the rules of the world. I think boundaries have to be established, and patrons may come in with expectations that would be completely inappropriate in ordinary public spaces.
If someone walks into that environment dressed in a way that resembles the uniform of the women working there, they may be perceived differently—even if they have no intention of working, performing or inviting that attention.
But mainstream acceptance does not erase the history or meaning attached to certain styles. The uncomfortable truth is that predators exist, environments have different social rules, and people interpret visual cues whether we like it or not. A woman can have every right to wear an outfit while that same outfit is still read differently depending on where she wears it.
I believe that it is not victim-blaming, but it’s an acknowledgment of context.
There is nothing wrong with being in touch with your sexuality or demanding bodily autonomy. But in my opinion, you cannot apply polite society rules to environments that are naturally built around the underbelly of darker desires. Clothing does not excuse someone else’s behavior, but I feel that understanding how an outfit can be perceived, and where you are, is 100% a form of self-protection.