Sexually Symbolic, Socially Accepted: Cheerleaders, Strippers & the Double Standards of Desire

America's Sweethearts are allowed to be sexy without consequence—they can be desired without being diminished- something the rest of us are forced to navigate in ways that make others comfortable.

Nothing feels more reminiscent of childhood than sick days and binging hours of TV in bed. Not that I had a t.v. in my room-- that was a luxury we couldn't afford. But at my Mom's, no matter how low-income our environment was, there was always cable. And the TV was always on. There was also a 99.9999% chance my Mom would let me stay home if I said I was sick. By fourth grade, the school sent a letter warning I'd be held back if I missed any more days. My natural-born instinct to opt out of society clashed with my Dad's strict "if you're not bleeding or throwing up, you're going to school/work" policy. As a result, I've developed, as an adult, the inability to know with good conscience if I should rest when I'm sick or just push through.

Add to it, when I do think I'm sick, I find myself playing the game of, is it COVID or allergies-- if it's not COVID, am I even sick--what if I'm not ill and it's psychosomatic?

This is to say that last week, I was laid out in bed—sick with something, exhausted from my mental gymnastics. With nothing to do besides drown my sinuses with a Neti pot, I turned on Netflix. I decided to educate myself with a few documentaries I didn't know I needed: Ashley Madison: Sex, Lies and Scandal, The Jerry Springer: Fights, Camera, Action, and lastly, America's Sweethearts: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.

During my lowest point of the week, mopey and feverish, I regretted not being a Cheerleader. Okay, technically, I was one in junior high. Known for my round-offs that couldn't entirely turn into cartwheels and the one the squad referred to as having a 'broken wrist' in the pictures, I decided to set my sights on becoming a Mascot.

But the desire to be 'one of those girls' has always been buried deep inside me.

Aside from my brief existential crisis about missed career opportunities, I was captivated by America's Sweethearts. Let me rephrase: I was fascinated by how society grants these women permission to sway their hips in almost nothing, perform for thousands, and sell calendars—primarily to men—without labeling them in the same way it does, say, OnlyFan's cam girls and strippers.

My brain stopped trying to solve the question, am I sick, or is it allergies? and started asking, wait, are America's Sweethearts sex symbols but socially accepted ones?

Listening to the young women and seeing them off the field is anything but sexy. They are hardworking girls living their dream, juggling jobs and relationships, cherishing their sisterhood, and believing being a Dallas Cheerleader will be the peak of their lives (I don't doubt it!). Oh! And Jesus. A lot of them have found Jesus.

It's not just a 'good girl' persona that the girls exude but seem to embody. That is until you see the look on their faces after they do a hair flip, and suddenly, you're witnessing the wholesome girl next door oozing sex.

Later, I met up with fellow Substack writers to talk about life and writing. I proudly announced that I was working on a piece called Sexually Symbolic. Socially Accepted and explained my documentary deep dive.

One friend, who also watched the Jerry Spring doc, said, "I wonder what psychology is behind the minds of the people who enjoyed watching that show."

Right? I said. It's like the Gladiator days mentality or town square shit. It's dark, not unlike the people who got off on seeing all the names and profiles of the people who were exposed on Ashley Madison's website. People couldn't wait to get on and see who they could expose. Self-righteous and weird. I don't get it.

But I do know this: if you have Jesus, you can be a sex symbol, and no one cares.

I told them about one woman picking up a calendar for her 14 and 16-year-old sons. 'I think they're going to love these, she says, awkwardly laughing and smiling. I'd feel awkward meeting one of America's Sweethearts, too-- especially if what I was implying was, 'My boys are going to love jerking off to your faces. I doubt we'll be able to read your inked autographs before the season ends.'

And honestly, it's a sex-positive move on the Mom's part. Kudos to her. One time I thought about getting my son a subscription to an ethical Porn site. After considering the many outcomes, I found myself slipping into a Freudian paranoia: would I psychologically damage him just by being associated?

Bruh, how did you get this video of a gang-bang from the female gaze?? My Mom.

Later in the week, I was driving down South Congress with my boyfriend when my eyes veered toward the Red Rose strip club. I was struck by how this part of town—once a tough sell for commercial businesses—has become a full-on strip mall of sex commerce.

Back in 2008, I had to convince my commercial landlords that selling sex toys (excuse me, wellness items) was "okay" and that people "like you" want them. Even then, I was forced to keep them in the back as per my lease.

That's where my mind usually goes—until BAM! A memory resurfaces.