2017 photo by Rebecca Richards
It’s my first day as a stripper. I haven’t remembered to bring a costume. In fact, I haven’t thought of what to wear at all because I’ve been so preoccupied with what I wasn’t going to wear. I’m upstairs in the change room of this bar, the Zanzibar. It’s the first strip bar I saw in Toronto while out on a date with some guy who turned out to be an escaped convict. I look at all these girls and think; they’re all so confident with their bodies. Their hands don’t fly up to cover their nipples when someone comes into the room. They cough and spit and smoke and laugh without ever thinking about what that looks like while they’re naked. I notice they’re not at all like that downstairs where every move seems calculated for best effect.