The Heels That Built This House: The rise of pole fitness and the strippers who built it

“Pole fit wouldn’t exist without stripping.” 

These words come from Vixen, a sex worker activist, former stripper and performance artist.

In 2017, pole dancing was officially recognised as a sport by the Global Association of International Sports Federations after an 11-year battle. Once taboo, the practice was now being championed by fitness gurus and gyms under a rebranded name: ‘pole fitness’.  

While pole dancing continues spinning into the mainstream, behind the trendy sport lies a history of stigma, survival and strip clubs.  

For Vixen, watching the sanitisation of pole for profit has been painful, calling it “appropriation”. She says, “They get to gain from that, while the people who originally founded it get further ostracised, alienated and demonised." 

Vixen, a former stripper and sex work activist. Photo / Lee Judi

Pole fitness emerged in the last 20th century, when a Canadian strip club opened the first dedicated pole studio for its dancers in the 1980s. The style blended elements from dance traditions rooted in Black communities — twerking, belly dancing, burlesque and more.  

In the 1990s, Canadian stripper Fawnia Mondey brought pole fitness to wider audiences by launching the first pole class for non-strippers. She later produced seven instructional DVDs, repackaging the art form for mainstream consumption.  

As popularity grew, however, the pole fitness community began distancing itself from its sex work roots. In 2014, the hashtag #NotAStripper trended on social media — a public attempt by pole enthusiasts to dissociate themselves from the professions that birthed the movement.  

They claimed their version was classier. An already marginalised group, sex workers, faced further exclusion. 

Vixen says, “I remember seeing it and being like WTF!”  

“Like, what the lion, the witch, and the audacity of this bitch. How dare these people try to separate themselves from something they’re there because of us from.” 

“Babe, you’re just paying to do what we get paid to do.” 

However, Vixen sees beauty in pole’s contradictions: “I think it’s so beautiful there is this art form, this dance style that is uniquely formed from a place of survival, but also empowerment. By reclaiming something that patriarchy demonises and making it a way to support yourself financially.” 

Pole fitness teacher Pepper competes in the sport, saying many competitions acknowledge that it comes from the sex worker environment. While she’s still learning about the stripping community, she likes that there is a lot of open conversation about it.  

“I don’t mind being associated with sex workers or strippers, but I don't want people to think it’s the exact same thing. I couldn’t spend hours on a pole like they do. It’s different.” 

Pepper wishes people would understand how hard it can actually be. “I think everyone should try it. But sex workers and strippers — give them credit. This thing is hard.” 

As a lifelong dancer, she found her perfect workout in pole. Nearly two years in, she now teaches beginner classes. “I’ve gained a lot of confidence through doing pole,” she says, “I'm way more comfortable with my body. It’s given me a place where I can feel comfortable in who I am, wearing what I like, and not having any judgement for it.”   

In Aotearoa, groups like Fired Up Stilettos (FUS) and Strip the Stigma (STS) fight for sex workers’ rights and push to dismantle the stigma surrounding the industry. Sabeen, a founder of these groups, has stripped for nearly a decade and competed in pole for seven years.  

Vixen, Skylar Leigh, and Margot Embargot. Photo / Lee Judi

Spending time on both sides, Sabeen says there’s a disconnect between the pole fitness and sex work communities. She explains, “In the pole world, you’re looking at technique, tricks, and fitness. I’m physically safe and unthreatened.”  

However, “When I’m in a strip club, I’m trying to seduce someone into paying for my time, while also operating under the threat of potential safety concerns.” 

The harm comes when pole fitness is seen as more legitimate than stripping.  

“That [pole fitness] is skilful, that’s art, that’s performance. What we do is seen as dirty and less than.” 

Sabeen is clear: “If you get into pole, you need to be willing to engage in the conversation. If you’re not, that’s totally understandable, but maybe reconsider if pole is the sport for you.”  

From the pole fitness to the stripping world, both agree that it can be empowering.  

For Wellington-based stripper Koi, pole started as a way to rebuild her relationship with her body after an eating disorder. She had begun stripping and wanted to feel more in control of her sexuality. Now, she sees her body as powerful.  

Koi says, “I’ve been able to look at myself and be like, 'wow, I can’t believe my body is able to do all of these amazing things on the pole. I’ve gained so much strength'.” 

Koi welcomes the growing popularity of pole, saying it helps combat assumptions that the sport is just overtly sexual. “There are so many ways you can pole dance. It’s a great way to gain strength and a good form of fitness.” 

Pole dancing is transformative and deeply freeing — but its roots should be remembered. This is a sport born from survival, built by a community that still fights to be taken seriously. 

So, whether you're at a strip club or a dance studio, come with respect, awareness, and acknowledgement for the heels that built the house you now dance in.