As I lay naked and panting on a theatre floor, the small and mighty crowd erupts in applause and cheers – I’m back, baby.
It’s been a full decade since I first entered the sex work industry, as a twenty-three year old stripper, before moving into escorting, sugaring, and then to full-service brothel work as a twenty-seven year old.
And now, four years after coming out as nonbinary in 2020 – which was the fashion of the time – accessing gender-affirming care, and directing other comedians, it’s finally time to make my return to comedy. Hopefully, someone remembers me.
While also trying to finish a belated writing project, and document the chaotic process on TikTok, I try to piece together a solo comedy show. It’s gotta have all the Neptune Henriksen signatures: fast-paced, off-the-walls physicality, and sexy.
And this time, the ‘sexy’ is built in. Because that’s the topic.
My body, my sex appeal, my gender – what else would I know the most about?
The title came first, as it often does: Being A Woman For Money. I’m exploring my time as a stripper, life model, and brothel worker. The jobs I had while thinking I was a woman, but we all make silly assumptions, it’s part of growing up.
The poster followed: an image of me, looking over my shoulder, naked, snapped with a self-timer in my apartment, while wearing fluffy socks (model’s own). Should be sexy enough, and it doesn’t give away the big reveal: no tits.
Then the writing came, crawling over broken glass, coughing up blood, but giving a weary thumbs up. How can I condense over a decade of my life, along with my Gender Journey™️, and sprinkle in the autistic honesty, while keeping the runtime under fifty-five minutes?
Most independent festival shows are generally sixty minutes, with more than one show in most venues, most nights, and obviously, I have to start and finish with a dance, or I might as well not bother. Come to a Neptune Henriksen show and they don’t shake arse? You better ask for your money back!
The title came first, as it often does:
Being A Woman For Money.
And the questions still remain: how do I pack a decade, gender, and autism, into a sixty-minute slot? These are things every comedian must ask themself before putting together a new show. I checked with every one of them.
Once I’d decided on expanding the rule of three to the entire show, the structure clicked into place, and anything else had to go. I was killing my darlings swifter, and more brutally, than George R. R. Martin. May my old bit on ‘fatherless behaviour’ rest in peace. We hardly knew ye.
The rule of three goes like this: three jobs in three sections; with three narrations, three ‘funny stories’, and three absurd asides. All woven throughout the dense theory, to keep it pacey and light.
I’ve been aware from the first time I stepped on stage to do stand up as a nineteen-year-old, that if I can make people laugh, I can make them listen. And I don’t take that opportunity for granted.
Plus, getting people in the door with a sexy grab, is a fantastic chance to dispel some myths and misconceptions. Having the audience let their guard down with laughter, lubricates that chance. And I personally would always recommend ample lubrication – and condoms.
Sure, the story of a brothel client musing about ‘burning in hell’, about thirty seconds after busting a nut inside me (with a condom on), is a little break from the section’s infodump about sex work laws, regarding condom use and regular testing, along with brothel-specific rules, such as putting a fresh sheet on the bed, and swirling some mouthwash for each new client. But it’s also a sneaky bit of information, in and of itself. A moment to share with the audience that brothel work is truly just a job in the service industry. And so, clients will say absurd things to brothel workers, just as customers ask ridiculous questions of retail workers. We’re not so different, 2018 me and 2011 me.
I’ve been aware from the first time I stepped on stage to do stand up as a nineteen-year-old, that if I can make people laugh, I can make them listen.
Something about bodies and sex makes many people forget about sex work being a service industry job. The shame that so many of us are taught in the colonised world, teaches us to fear our own bodies, autonomy, and pleasure. To view not only one’s body, but others’ bodies, as something to be perfected, not a home in which we will live out our lives.
These teachings were oddly most evident when I was life modelling, and in this section of the show, I share the ‘funny story’ of realising this. During a portrait class, which is fully clothed, one of the artists informed me they prefer the portrait classes, because the life model classes when the model is naked, cause them to compare their body to the model’s body.
On stage, I play up this realisation, retreating with a turtle-like physicality, into the stage curtains, as I awkwardly muse about this reality for so many. That people will live their entire lives never truly enjoying all their body has to offer. Denying their joy, pleasure, and desires, simply because they don’t see their body as their vessel.
It took me time to undo these teachings, to see my body as my home, and sex as something I can simply do with it, the same as performing on stage, or dancing in the strip club. Though I would say full service work is more like improvised crowd work at a comedy show, while stripping is more like performing scripted stand up. With a brothel booking, in my experience, being far more about listening and making offers, compared to stripping’s fantasy fourth wall theatre.
And my improv could be completely true, or somewhat embellished, but if I’m either making money, making myself happy, or connecting with others, what’s the big deal, really?
I’ve made peace with the fact that not everyone will feel the same way, and there’s not much that can be said to convince someone to change, if they aren’t open to it. But maybe, with a punchline, and a flourish, and a colourful costume, I can plant a seed. And that seed, in some weeks, or months, or even years, could grow into something much bigger than any one person, and any one show, could ever offer: a path forward.
We’re always moving forward, there’s no stopping it. Some folks will try to slow us down, but we’ll get there. And in the meantime, I’m going to act a fool, with some messages sprinkled in, and a bright pink shirt.
It took me time to undo these teachings,
to see my body as my home, and sex
as something I can simply do with it
I did have a few people remember me, for what it’s worth.
A comedian friend I knew from way back in 2014, an audience member who remembered me from 2016 and brought four friends along, and a poet and fellow sex worker with whom I belted ‘Unwritten’ by Natasha Beddingfield as they drove me home post-show. All of whom had seen me naked, in previous shows, before I did a double yeeting of the teetings – that’s ‘top surgery’ for anyone not obsessed with internet memes.
And I’m not even famous, or notable. I’m a disability pensioner, writer of prose and stage, sex worker, and maker of queer art. I don’t have an agent, and never have. My works have always been self-funded, and they’ve almost never made a profit, let alone made the money back that I spent to go on tour. But it’s possible: to make art, to tell our own stories, and to look good doing it.
So, I get up from the stage floor, cover my naked body with a poster for the show, proclaim this is a great time to take a photo, and share a post about the show, now my yeeted teets are covered – no spoilers.
Then I thank the venue, the festival, my technical operator, and most importantly, the audience.
“…because without you, it’s just a rehearsal.”
It gets a small laugh, and I continue:
“…never forget that you make the show. Your energy, your laughter, your applause – it makes the show, and you made this show a wonderful one tonight.”
A different response. Sighs, small claps, smiles. It’s true. Every night it’s true. I don’t have to script the end, because every show is beautiful.
I’m back, baby. But I never truly left.
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