Picket lines make me cry. Every single time. Something rises up in my heart and in my throat and in my belly, tight and fierce, and burns my eyes with the injustice of the world and why’s it got to be so hard for people to just get by and I get so proud of them for fighting against the powers that be, for fighting for what they need and what they deserve, and at the same time I get so upset at the world for creating a situation where folks have to fight so damn hard just to make it, just to make it through.

It started when I was looking for parking in North Beach tonight. The picket line was out, loud and proud in front of The Lusty Lady. The Lusty Lady is a peep show. It’s the only unionized peep-show or strip club in the country. The Lusty Ladies work on an hourly wage, have little in the way of health pay or job security, no benefits, no overtime pay, are in a situation where the longer they work there (and the higher is their astonishingly low—especially given the fact that they’re naked—salary), the fewer shifts they are scheduled for (with some Ladies receiving as few as two shifts a week, due to seniority), and have seen three dollars worth of pay cuts and what little paltry health pay they do receive taken away from them due to claims (which the management refuses to substantiate by opening the accounting records so that the Ladies may review the numbers) of revenue loss. Any or all of this alleged loss of revenue is taken out on the employees.

So the Ladies have taken to the street. They’re picketing and chanting and passing out informational flyers to the surprised and confused and amused passersby, in an effort to educate the public about the situation and to pressure the management into negotiating with the honest intention of improving working conditions. And I’ve come out tonight, driven across the bay to raise my voice with them, SEIU Local 790. Still, my car passes before the line, just as I’m trying to find parking, I get so choked up that tears are racing each other to my jaw line. I can barely see for all the crying.

So I park and I make my way up to the throng of people. I grab a sign and a pink tee-shirt that says BAD GIRLS LIKE GOOD CONTRACTS! I put the tee-shirt on over my other shirt and join the line of people marching and chanting. There are all kinds of people in this line. There are off-duty Lusties in plainclothes (many wearing wigs and big sun-glasses even though it’s ten o’clock at night, some wearing masks, or scarves over their hair), there are Lusties in extravagant eye-catching costumes, and a few who have just come from work and are wearing very little. There are SEIU union organizers, male and female, Black, White, and Asian, primarily middle aged, and there are all kinds of other people participating. Men (maybe patrons, maybe members of other unions, maybe supporters) and women (maybe former Lusties, maybe other sex workers or sex worker advocates, maybe friends) of all ages. I swear there were white haired old ladies carrying signs that said: 2 4 6 8! Pay us more to stimulate!

We shouted until our throats were hoarse. We passed out flowers and bright red informational flyers to the passers by. We marched parade-style up and around Broadway, where the main drag of strip clubs are located. Local news teams videotaped us all and reporters interviewed Lusties about working conditions and about contract negotiations and tactics. About a dozen fire trucks came by just to show us their solidarity with us all and they swirled their lights and blared their horns in support of us as we sung union songs and chanted things like: 2-4-6-8! Pay Us More To Gyrate! * What Do We Want? A Contract! When Do We Want It? Now! * Bad Girls Like Good Contracts * Darryl Davis, You Can’t Hide! We Can See Your Greedy Side! * Lusties Need a Living Wage * They Give Us Cutbacks! What Do We Do? Get Dressed, Fight Back! * There Is No Lust Without The Ladies! * 3-5-7-9! Pay Us For Our Sick Time! * Dirty Girls Don’t Come Dirt Cheap! * Pay Cuts? What Are They Thinking? Can’t Buy Food. Our Butts Are Shrinking.

One of the grandmotherly, white haired old ladies (as far as I could tell, the oldest woman, there), proudly holding a sign with us, couldn’t make out the first part of one of the chantings. Wondering about her—what had brought her here to support some crazy radicals like us—what wild things had she done in her life?—I leaned forward toward her and said slowly and clearly, “Our Muffs Are Miffed!” She grinned and thanked me, taking up the chant.

When I was actually in the line, actually a part of this tremendous positive moving and shaking force, I didn’t feel weepy, anymore. I felt fierce. It didn’t seem like such a vulnerable position to be in. I felt supported on all side by these extraordinary women who I had come out to support. It felt like an extraordinary sistership. And it didn’t matter whether one was a dancer or not, or whether one was a woman or not. If you were there you were a sister. It was an extraordinary feeling. Tonight was also the first time I’ve ever participated in a picket line. I don’t know what I had expected, but I don’t think I had expected to feel so elated by it and so energized and so moved. It really feels like something to see huge, burly manly men and older black women who could very well be my grandmother standing in solidarity with a bunch of sex workers, and screaming (these big men and these little old women): 2-4-6-8! Pay Us More to Stimulate!

When it was all over for the night (around midnight), I left feeling proud and alive and hopeful. I hope the informational pickets were successful. It seemed impossible that they wouldn’t succeed. I hope that the Lusty Ladies are able to achieve more fair working conditions for themselves. They’re really extraordinary. They really deserve it. It’s a really important thing, what they’re doing. Working hard to make a living. Working hard to make a statement that it’s not okay to dick people around. Working to keep fighting for what they believe in and for what they need and deserve. Working hard to put a human face on sex-workers. Working. Working. Working hard.