My First Transstrip Cabaret! At Kiso DTLA-8.17.25

By: B323

     Still high off the T-girl sweat shed in the Nuwa1997 fashion show, my instagram was now a database of hot models, dancers, sex workers, designers, and active artists gathering information for me on what was happening next and where a girl like me might fit in. Though still financially limited it was a starting point. The 710 had taken on the smell of a car burning off to the side of it on my way downtown. Alii, one of the previous night's models, shared a flyer for the TransStrip Cabaret pole event she was hosting at a bar in the Historic Core, between downtown and little Tokyo, not far from the Pershing square station. While I have many friends who were strippers and pole cats, I had never been to a strip show or pole performance. The “free before 11” on the flyer had also sold me; without income, if I wanted to make friends and build community within the LA nightlife I needed to strategically show up, but most importantly show up.

     Fired up, I prepared a short list of questions as I put on my face in case I worked up the courage to attempt an interview during the night. I lucked out on a spot directly in front of Kiso LA. Faux greenery and pink lighting, tile floors, and some sort of hard top counter decorate the bar. The faux greenery is a turn off to me, having become common in both queer and straight spaces, it’s a cheap lazy way for a bar owner to feign taste. Other than that, a decent space. The back bar consists of lovely seemingly antique cabinetry. Multiple platforms were scattered throughout Kiso for the dolls to shake and seduce on. Kiso has not one but two consecutive back rooms with poles set up and large booths for spectators' pleasure and a DJs booth on the very back wall.

      I sat at the corner of the bar after ordering a Modelo making stickers. One tall beauty dropped something by my feet and joked about how she looooooooves to drop things. I hoped it was okay in response to which she replied "it's just a vape".

“Just a vape….so it's valuable."

     She called me hot and went about her business stepping up on one of the platforms to dance as I blushed. The $9 pint of Modelo refreshed me and I planned to smoke one of the leftover J’s I had rolled for yesterday's show, after my beer, as is my custom. For the moment the bar is slow, the crowd meanders in as the ladies loosen up. Outside I watched as a small car attempted to park in front of mine three times while I got stoned. It'd back up as close as it could then pull 15ft forward then repeat. Eventually two well dressed men, comically large in comparison to the vehicle, stepped out. The driver lingered walking between the cars almost as if to make sure it was known he hadn’t hit it, though I doubt that was the intent at all and I don’t know how that would actually prove anything.

     After reentering the bar Alii announced that the show was about to begin, I got singles with my remaining cash and made my way to the back room finding a cozy spot in the corner of the booth. The AC was blasting and the room was cold. The ceiling in the back room goes up approximately two stories, the pole extends to the top and is raised on a circular platform about 3ft high with another square platform on its side functioning as a step . A couple sat next to me, the one closest to me introduced himself, Matteo or Marko (I can't recall), an incredibly handsome thing in all white. He called me beautiful and asked if I was performing. I responded casually that I wasn't but I was flattered he thought so. I gave little more enthusiasm to the rest of the conversation, the memory of whatever was said was lost to the memory of him putting his hand on my thigh and grasping during our exchange waiting for the start of the show. Alii masterfully prepared us,  explaining the rules and pulling more energy from the crowd than I knew was in it.The first couple performers barely touched the pole doing almost everything out on the floor, up close and personal with the audience. I refrained from taking any notes, pictures or anything of the sort during performances, not because it wasn't allowed but because I just wasn't comfortable with it. To me it’s important to keep in mind these women are taking the time to be vulnerable with their bodies for our entertainment and money. Dollars, attention, energy,  to me it's the responsibility of each audience member to give all they can so these women can do the same. Several of the performers I saw the previous night at the fashion show. I remember our third performer well, Farrah. Farrah broke the lack of pole action with a fabulous display of grace and athleticism, Farrah seemed to walk in circles through the air. The prior performers very well may have held off to give the show some gravitas but in my opinion her work outshined several of the performers after too, not to discount any of these women's skills.

       Maintream notions of art and sex work partition off what is and isn't considered craft. Despite this being my first official pole strip show I can honestly say in over decades of working live performance art I've seen women dance with more of their soul than most bands ever put into their punk rock break up anthems. An ex-pole cat friend of mine only once danced for me after a night out. We had gone back to her place with a bunch of people, coincidentally some were coworkers at a club I worked at. She was with one of them on and off and at some point she desired to dance. Later on that pole in her room I would smash her tv applying enough centrifugal force to  shift the pole loose. On that night though I saw loss, heartbreak, a struggling parent, an abusive boyfriend, an assault, inability to cope, financial insecurity; when she finished everyone said nice things, but my coworkers quickly returned to trying to speak over each other and the lines up their noses. She and I sat on the floor hugging for a while, trying not to cry. While no performance had moved me at this show like that, several performers showed the calibre of craft that it takes to tell such a story with the body.

      At one point Martin’s sharp jaw told my ear about how he at one time paid $200 dollars for a lap dance for his partner. Maybe the intent was to impress my ear, to insinuate that he had money and that if my ear were his partner, it too could have a $200 lap dance. His hand again trespassed, but I didn't punish it or even give warning like I wanted to. I know here of all places I would’ve been supported but I didn’t want a scene midshow. Something told me even just quietly asking him not to touch me would have brought on an overly dramatic reaction. He didn’t seem stupid, just manipulative. Sooner or later he would see that he wasn’t going to get anything from me. Meanwhile,  Mavericks partner was a standup audience participant giving the ladies money, participating in dances without interfering or over stepping. I tried interacting that way but found I wasn't comfortable doing so. It was easier for me to just enjoy watching the performance and give my money to the dollar doggy after the dances. I didn't want to be seen, I didn't want to touch or be touched, of course there was a part of me that wanted to be voraciously fucked, absolutely, but that part of me however was now an island, only accessible by ferry. It used to be that I would find myself teleported there randomly throughout a day, now thanks to almost two months of low dose HRT that island takes some rowing to get to. I still wake up on its shore some mornings and have to paddle back to the mainland as I start my day, but overall I’m more comfortable in my skin this way. To me it’s an improvement. I was there to take in the displays of physicality presented to me. Acrobatic feats a flight high dropped my jaw, and subtle stories were told in movement and musculature. Sensuality, poise rather than pose set performers apart and sent the audience into fantasy. The surface level screamed SEX SEX SEX but across the liminal, lines on a face, eyes moment to moment darted or meandered desire, tension, hunger, hurt, ecstasy, conflict; Eros and Psyche moved a goodly girl to play out the past in our presence.  

      By the time we got to the last “strip roulette” section I was out of money. There were a lot of girls and only so many dollars. Farrah came over. It was nice to have someone seek my company, to ask permission if they could sit by me. We talked for a moment, she welcomed me to LA and asked if I was interested in a lapdance. With nothing left to pay with I declined, she appreciated me showing up and giving what I could, and left for another room. Maybe all the interested looks and sweet words were financially motivated, still they made me feel good, and it was nice to feel good; especially when what’s constantly making me feel bad is that in a world in  which most people are trying to take, I don’t have more. That I’m not more. But I was, I am, enough for me. I always have been. Everything else is just extra. It’s rare anyone sees under a dance. I didn’t try to interview anyone, I was out of cash and overall out of steam, I gave Farrah my last joint before I left. I was high enough.

Love10fold,

B323