EDA members have met with provincial and federal bureaucrats to chat
about labour laws, but tonight they're here to discuss more mundane matters. Members offer updates about the group's incorporation (it's supposed to happen this summer), problems with the newsletter (The Naked Truth) and an upcoming fundraiser. A poster for the fundraiser -- with a blurry picture of a harem girl under the line "Live Nude Girls Unite!" -- is lying on the wooden boardroom table. The fundraiser is supposed to combine old-fashioned burlesque with a talent show but the EDA members can't agree on an admission price.

The EDA, which was founded in 1993 but is still in an embryonic phase, has no cash. Mary Taylor, a stripper for 21 years who now runs workshops that teach women how to peel for profit or just for fun, says that the EDA needs to set a high price. Chantelle Oliver, a former stripper and current University of Toronto student with a major in women's studies and American studies, favors a sliding scale for admission. A pay-what-you-can system is "less classist," says Oliver, who is putting together a film on the strip biz that contains interviews with EDA members and social workers. The argument about door fees is settled, and Michael launches into a spiel about insurance.

"Once you've got a better structure to the EDA, you can get much better insurance rates as a group," he explains. He also promises to offer personal financial planning to any interested EDA members. "It's very important," he says -- and Taylor backs him up. An exuberant, neatly coiffured brunette, Taylor is the vet of the bunch, offering wisecracks and sage observations of the stripping trade. At her prime in the '80s, Taylor says she pulled in $1,300 to $1,600 a week doing feature dances under the name Ciara Love. The money disappeared quickly, into a big house in Port Perry and a fast-paced lifestyle.

Taylor left the business in January, 1997, taking a job in an import/export office. "I put up with more shit and abuse as an executive assistant than I did as a stripper," she recalls. As awful as the job was, it did allow her to enter a Self-Employment Assistance retraining program. SEA is only open to people collecting welfare or employment insurance. Strippers don't get EI, since they're not considered "employees." This also means they can't receive basic benefits, such as a minimum wage or worker's compensation. Working briefly as a secretary meant Taylor could earn EI, enter a retraining course and fashion herself a new career as a stripping instructor, on video and in the flesh.

Taylor's tale comes up repeatedly at a lunchtime meeting of the EDA brain trust held a week after the meet at the financial firm. "I have no medical coverage," complains Roxanne, who would rather not use her real name. "If I fall down an elevator shaft on my way to the stage and break my leg, I'm out of luck."

A petite blonde with a penchant for cutting remarks, Roxanne is holding forth in a chair at Remy's, an upscale Yorkville eatery. Sitting around the rooftop table are Oliver, with newly dyed blonde and green hair, and Taylor, who's dressed conservatively. A fourth EDA member, June Morrow, wears jeans and a T-shirt and looks like a college student -- which makes sense, as Morrow has a diploma in business administration from Algonquin College in Ottawa.

Roxanne complains about clubs that don't provide new lockers for dancers while Oliver talks about dirty bathrooms, filthy change rooms and lack of privacy: "One club I know, the DJ booth was part of the change room."

While club cleanliness and the attitude of management varies enormously, the nature of the job is pretty much the same. In most clubs, women either work "on-schedule" or "off-schedule." "If you're on-schedule, you're contracted by the bar to do certain shifts, a certain number of stage shows," explains Morrow. "Scheduled" dancers get about $50 base pay from the bar, says Morrow, with the rest of the earnings coming from table dances. Non-scheduled strippers aren't paid anything from the bar and have to hustle for all their cash. Lap dancing, which involves full
contact with clients, is technically illegal but goes on anyway. Morrow has been charged twice for lap dancing, both times paying a small fine in court without receiving a record.

Morrow works about 24 hours a week; on-schedule she can pull in $800, off-schedule, about $600.

Clubs have ways to claw back these earnings, however. Dancers also have to pay for their own shoes, clothes and even G-strings. Footwear alone can set them back $100 a month. And many bars charge strippers "DJ fees," a racket that inspired Taylor's first labour action. In the early '90s, she led a posse of 13 women who marched "in G-strings, bras and little coats" to the office at Tony's East, a Scarborough bar, in reaction to management decision to raise DJ fees from $10 to $20. The walkout worked and fees were lowered, giving Taylor her first taste of activism.

While the EDA is not quite prepared to repeat these kinds of tactics, the group has been busy. At a February meeting in Brampton, EDA reps chatted with Human Resources Development Canada officials about immigration and the importation of foreign strippers. Two months later, they spoke to provincial Ministry of Labour reps about their status as non-employees.

This summer, Oliver will be working with the Peel Health Board, offering outreach in strip clubs, doling out EDA info while a nurse gives free immunization shots against Hepatitis B. The latter, which can be spread by dried blood, is a concern in the clubs, where shared combs, tweezers and razors are the norm, says Oliver.

The biggest problem facing the EDA is how to organize a largely disorganized workplace. First off, exotic dancers are reluctant to use their real names, much less join a workers' association. "A lot of women don't tell their families or kids" that they strip, says Oliver. Joining the EDA is akin to "an outing," she says.

Then, there's the typical personality of those attracted to stripping. "Dancers are a totally different breed of people," says Roberto Infante, owner of the Exotica Cabaret, which employs "30-plus" dancers. "They tend to go from one club to another."

Dancers tend to be "independent" and "move around a lot, their addresses keep changing," Morrow agrees. With this in mind, Morrow doesn't think unionizing is such a great idea.

Infante thinks "99 per cent of girls" wouldn't want employee status because that would mean payroll deductions for pensions and other benefits. As employees, dancers would lose the ability to set their own hours and move from job to job. Morrow concedes these freedoms would be difficult to give up.

According to the Metro Licensing Commission, there were 2,251 licensed exotic dancers in Toronto as of Feburary, 1999. These dancers work at 44 licensed adult entertainment parlours across the city. The EDA, which describes itself as a leaderless collective, has at best a couple dozen members. The small membership is one reason the EDA is content for now to "facilitate a forum" in Roxanne's words, rather than launch protests.

"In a sexually healthy culture, our pleasure palaces would be pleasurable places," says Roxanne. "If the dancers are not being pleasured, because they're leading hectic, unhappy lives, they will not give pleasure to the customers."

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