Though English is a common language among multiple countries, including the US, the UK, New Zealand, and Australia, there are some subtle varieties in the language which can lead to confusion when having a conflict of dialect. These conflicts are usually not of professional language use, but slang. Unfortunately, slang is the most commonly used form of English in daily life – and daily life doesn’t always allow one to explore these linguistic differences in a pleasant manner.
Most of the variations are basic differences, incapable of causing embarrassment. “Tea” in the US refers to a hot beverage made of leaves picked predominately in Sri Lanka and India; in the UK, it’s a snack or early dinner, with no predilection towards a liquid. In the US, the term “jelly” describes a semi-solid substance spread upon bread and occasionally accompanied by peanut butter; in Australia, it describes a feeling of envy.
None of these linguistic differences are likely to create more than a moment of confusion. It would be hard to imagine a time when either would create mortification.
Unlike other words. Like “rubber”. A term used to suggest an eraser in the UK, but a condom in the US. Or “jimmies” – a term used to describe ice cream sprinkles in the northeast coast of the US, but to describe… well, let’s just say “condoms” are referred to as “jimmy hats” in some southern states.
Or double fisting. A term which holds a strongly different meaning in Oceania than in the US. A linguistic different I discovered while working in a strip club.
The act of holding a drink in each hand is a practice known as “double fisting” in America – the implication being that there is one drink for each fist. This phrase is not known in Oceania. Though the phrase “double fisting” does have a meaning attributed to it, it’s a meaning that would only be addressed in the crudest of company – or found online in adult-only sites. Though always intrigued by linguistic differences, I must admit a strip club is not the ideal place to learn of such a strong distinction.
A strip club is also not the place most people would expect to find me. In high school, I was voted “Most Mysterious” and “Most Studious”. If there was a category for “Most Likely to Become a Prude,” I likely would have won it.
My adult life hadn’t varied much from high school, with only one strong exception – I chose to travel. After earning a BA in psychology from one of the top universities in the US, I decided to explore more than just the corners of academic. Instead, I travelled to Japan, China, Korea, Singapore… and, then, Oceania. Specifically, New Zealand.
In Asia, I was an English teacher. In Oceania, I was a working holiday visa holder.
A working holiday visa is well-known in New Zealand, entitling its holders to travel the country for a year, earning income to offset the cost of the travels. The catch? No employment was allowed to last for more than three months. After all, the purpose was to travel, not work.
Most working holiday visa holders found employment in one of two fields – fruit-picking or hospitality, such as waitressing. Having wanted to kick off my working holiday with an adventure, I dared myself to do something far beyond my typical courage level. I dared myself to work in a strip club.
I’d gone sky diving. Twice. Scuba diving. Countless times. Kayaking. Rock climbing. I had learned to be adventurous while traveling. To seize the opportunity. Even if my personality had still remained.
Working in a strip club petrified me more than all of the above combined.
Oh, I had the credentials. Young, female, not repulsive. I had even taken some pole dancing classes when I lived in Singapore, having found an affinity to hanging upside down.
But…work in a strip club? Middle class, prudish, educated me? Never.
Which was exactly why it’d be an adventure. A memorable adventure, to include in my mental memoirs. A rebuttal to privately consider offering if anyone ever tried to suggest I was too placid. A tale to tell the future grandkids about the one time I decided to kick up my heels. A chance to look into another culture, for culture doesn’t exist merely in the far-flung corners of the globe but also in our backyards, in the places we don’t wish to look.
All things I told myself to get myself through the door. All true things, but which offered little consultation as I played with the nearly-scratched off beads of my bum-showing outfit, purchased as a lark when backpacking in Hong Kong. Working in a strip club might be an adventure, but it was certainly harrowing.
It wasn’t the stage, as I had suspected. Most people would imagine the most difficult aspect of being in a strip club as the ambiance – the sense of being in an overly sexualised, perhaps anti-female environment. To my surprise, the sense was more of glorifying females than opposing them, with far more aspects than just their bodies being appreciated.
The difficult part was the interactions.
Few times in life do you walk up to a stranger to initiate an interaction. Usually, you have a reason to begin a discussion with an unknown. Perhaps the person requested your presence at work. Perhaps he’s a friend-of-a-friend. Perhaps you’re both walking down the street and he looks like he knows the directions for the place you’re looking for. Perhaps you’re in a restaurant and you’re commiserating/laughing with each other about the poor service.
There are plenty of times you interact with an unknown, but each one has a circumstance which would suggest a certain level of civility.
Not so in a strip club.
The men who attend might be mild-mannered by day. Most were still mild-mannered by night. But some had a firmly negative opinion of the people who worked in the establishment they attended, which they had no qualms sharing. Others had a mostly positive outlook, but had a tendency to attribute more negative meanings to what was said than intended. And, in a strip club, no one ever gives the benefit of a doubt.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t even gotten to that level in the interaction – the level of dealing with negative interpretations. My biggest problem was far simpler – initiating the interactions. How does one initiate an interaction with a complete stranger?
I had no clue.
Eying the room, it was difficult to say who to approach. Many customers were in groups or with a female. It might be easier to interrupt a solo person.
Like the man standing a few feet from me, quietly sipping his beer while holding a mixed drink in the other hand.
But, I asked myself, what can I say?
Perhaps I have mentioned that in American culture, holding a drink in each hand is called double fisting.
“Hey,” I said, attempting for casual as the colouring on my bead became almost entirely scratched off. I forced myself to drop the bead and clear my throat. Where was I? “You like double fisting, eh?”
He jumped as if startled. “I, uh, I…what?”
“Double fisting,” I repeated, “You like it, right?”
“I like… what?” he asked, a cross between dumbfounded and disbelieving.
“Double fisting,” I responded again, this time a bit slower. He still looked confused, so I pointed to his hands and then cupped both of mine, as if holding a beverage. I uplifted each a few inches to mime drinking. Even if he didn’t get the idea of drinking from my gesture, I was assured he’d at least understand the notion of two fists. “You like double-fisting, right?”
He began to appear almost angry. “What do you mean by that?”
“I merely mean that you like double-fisting.”
“But, why are you asking me?”
Okay, this was getting odd. “Because you’re double fisting.”
“I’M WHAT?!”
The rise in volume had increased my feelings from “awkward” to “on display”. A few glances had been thrown our way. Though the words were still muted by the music, an observation of our body language would suggest he was feeling put upon, as if I had offered something indecent.
“You like DOUBLE FISTING!” I answered, increasing my volume so that any nearby bystanders would understand the innocent nature of the conversation. His expression looked even more alarmed at my new decibel level. “DOU-BLE FIST-ING”. As each increasingly alarmed expression passed his face, I repeated myself louder, enunciating more. “DOU-BLE FIST-ING.” I had no clue what this guy thought I had said, but clearly it wasn’t good.
“WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME ABOUT THAT? I’m just minding a drink.”
“Dude, I’m not asking you anything bad! I was only mentioning that you’re enjoying double fisting. You know, DOU-BLE FISTING.” Once again, I made a gesture of each fist enclosing a beverage and raising it up a few inches to mime a drink. Two fists, double fisting. Surely he should’ve gotten it by now.
I also repeated the phrase loudly and clearly each time I said it, so as to avoid any onlookers from misinterpreting the interaction. I was still concerned a perspective audience might go off of his body language and assume I was acting inappropriately when I was only talking about double fisting.
I was about to open my mouth to enunciate the phrase again when, fortunately, a dancer from the US happened to wander by.
“DOU-BLE –“ I began again, when she cut me off. Forcefully knocking my hands down to my side, she began to speak.
And that’s how I learned that in New Zealand, the only definition for double fisting is the porn definition. The gentleman listened to the explanation with suspicion. At the end, he waved us away, the doubt never leaving his face.
In a strip club, you’ve never given the benefit of the doubt. Even when talking about something as innocent as double fisting.
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