What it’s really like being a burlesque dancer

It helped me expose myself, but not in the way you’d think

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“Oh, so, basically, you’re a stripper?”

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve heard this after I tell people I choreograph burlesque. After performing in over seven burlesque dances in the past few years, I can assure you that burlesque is about much more than looking sexy onstage.


Three years ago, my friend Lucy and I sat on the floor of her freshman dorm room while we had a staring contest with the Facebook invite for our school’s burlesque auditions.

With my wide swimmer’s shoulders and far-from-perfect abs, I was never eager wiggle into a bikini, let alone parade around in my bra and underwear in front of hundreds of people. But the pictures on the troupe’s page were breathtaking— men and women with teasing smiles, leaning silhouettes against a lipstick red backdrop — poised before a roaring crowd. Women wore everything from bras to boas to button downs.

And the most noticeable thing any of the dancers wore was their confidence.

My first thought was, “It looks like a great challenge, but I’ll join next semester during swim season– when my body is in better shape.” It was soon as I heard these words aloud that I realized I needed Burlesque.

Truthfully, despite hearing otherwise, I couldn’t shake the stereotype that Burlesque was all about sex, and that made me really hesitant to join. I was afraid that I would put myself in a position to be objectified by men, or that people would think I was a slut. But when I looked around during auditions, I was pleasantly surprised.

First, I noticed there were both men and women in burlesque. So my fear of degradation was somewhat assuaged. How could burlesque be back-tracking equality if it engaged men and women as equals in the same choreography, rather than tiresome ‘woman-submissive-to-man’ pairings?

I saw people I never dreamed I would see in a burlesque troupe— dancers short and tall, slender and curvy, and those representing many ethnicities and gender identities. The sheer size of the troupe—over 300 strong—was a powerful tribute to the work that needed to be done with body positivity and image affirmation on my campus.

When I first joined, I felt clumsy and awkward. I hid in the back of the formations and wore a red corset and spandex shorts for the first show. Despite my insecurities, I felt my cherry lips still tingling with excitement after the lights cut out. The roar of the crowd shook the stage. I was shepherded into a jumping, hugging mass of hairspray and perfume in the hallway backstage. We buzzed with some unspoken pride and understanding—we had finished the last mile in our body positivity 10k. The challenge to push myself only increased from there—why not shoot for a marathon next time?

By my third show, I executed a handstand in my bra onstage and fell from a guy’s shoulders into his arms within the same dance.

The body positivity I sought was one of immediacy. Feeling good in my body right now, not after eating healthy for a week. When I finally found it, my whole life changed. My mantra became, “if I can dance in my underwear in front of strangers, I can do this.” I stopped caring if people judged me when I introduced myself at parties. I deleted the calorie counting app from my phone because I was finally at peace with how I looked.

In the dances I now co-choreograph with Lucy, we strive to build community by hosting group bonding sessions and encouraging our dancers to compliment their own bodies. The burlesque community’s journey to conquering its insecurities is far more valuable than the few minutes we spend onstage.

I’m not the only woman who has come to love her body through burlesque. Miranda Siler, a junior at Tufts University, came to burlesque with a strict ballet background. She said: “From a very young age I was taught to constantly be checking my body. There was so much pressure to look a certain way and to have a certain body type.”

After watching many classmates develop eating disorders, Miranda decided there was a lot she wished was different about ballet, so she decided not to continue in college. She originally joined burlesque as a low-commitment way to keep dancing, but she is now a member of the executive board.

She added burlesque is “a supportive community who loves me for who I am, both inside and out. Even after gaining ten pounds freshman year, I still had never felt more confident in myself or my body.”

Morning Glory, a professional burlesque dancer in Boston who has done solo performances in over 10 different shows in the past year, agrees with Siler wholeheartedly. She said: “For me, burlesque allows me to put all of myself, both physically and emotionally, on stage.

“To have that applauded and supported by both the audience and other performers is the most empowering and confidence-boosting feeling imaginable.”

The beauty of burlesque is that there isn’t a “type” of person who is drawn to it. For example, it can be a vector for women to transmit their opinions about feminism and sexuality to the world. Burlesque, with its characteristic theatrics, is the perfect medium for satire. The first dance I choreographed was a Gringotts Bank-themed dance that satirized extravagance and lavish lifestyles. Throughout the dance, the choreography slowly became less posh until at the end, the dancers shed their boas and tossed fistfuls of fake money into the air.

For many women, burlesque is a safe space to explore and celebrate their sexual identities. The troupe I dance for has historically featured “QGD,” or “Queer Girl Dance,” in its shows, which features all female-identifiers and choreography that is tailored more specifically to queer sexualities.

Morning Glory competed as a solo burlesque performer in Royally Talented, a series in Cambridge that also showcased queer artists, such as drag queens. She later danced in a variety show called The Sextacular Show that featured LGBTQ performances as well.

Burlesque is about all kinds of exposure. We put everything from our self-doubt, our bodies, our emotions, and our sexualities beneath a dozen glowing lights and invite the world to see them because we are not ashamed of who we are.

So while burlesque may very well just be about stripping for some women, (and so what if it is?) it is unfair to fit burlesque performers into one box. You can dismiss the performers as “slutty,” but, ideally, you can kick your stereotypes to the curb and find some more creative adjectives.

I suggest confident, beautiful, strong, or brave.