A PARODY (BUT ALSO TRUE)

There are still a few aspects of society that don’t get discussed. Thousands of women suffer from a condition that causes them to feel alone, and can lead to some bizarre behavior. However, history and Oprah, have proven that talking about the issue—coming out of the dark—has positive, long-lasting effects. The affliction I want to address today is Post Stripping Stress Disorder. After years of performing naked for cash, women often find a void in their lives after they quit: The rush that stripping gave them. Women who suffer from PSSD often find themselves groping their breasts at the grocery store, or staring longingly at the subway musician and his bucket of ones. This stress can also put undo pressure on their mates, who, in no way can duplicate the hundreds of eager men she danced for on a nightly basis. I have spoken with women who suffer from PSSD, and they tell me that in addition to the money, they miss the dancers. The camaraderie, openness, and like-minded, naughty women. The have tried, and devastatingly failed, to duplicate this type of talk with the soccer moms. No one prepares strippers for this void, and how to fill it. There’s so much pressure to quit the sex biz, that when a dancer finally does find a way out, she’s left empty. Then the shame sets in. Shouldn’t my husband be enough? Am I a horrible person for needing more? I wish my kids would leave the house so I can blast Aerosmith and gyrate on the floor. These women find themselves flirting in situations they never would have while they were dancing. One woman told me of an embarrassing moment when the chair broke in an unfortunate lap dance for her partner. How could she explain that she used to be really good at it? Who would understand her frustration, let alone relate to it? There are no groups or meetings for retired strippers. No other women to share the common stripper dream: the DJ has started your song, but you can’t find your matching heel. These women feel widowed and somehow defective. I’m hoping we can shed some light on this issue so ex-strippers know they are not alone. It’s OK that they want the mailman to look at their cleavage (or shove a hundred dollar bill in it).    

 

 

  

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