Strippers = Workers
Erotic dancer Gizelle Marie takes us inside a growing and long overdue labor movement
Gizelle Marie was on her way home to New York City after working a shift at the Stadium Club, a Washington, D.C. establishment whose website promises “the most talented exotic entertainment in the industry.” It was October 2017, and the 29-year-old dancer was flush with cash.
But as the black car she’d hired whisked her homeward, Marie’s satisfaction turned to frustration. Scrolling through the social media feeds of other strippers, she saw, over and over, their complaints about club practices that prevent dancers from earning the kind of money she’d just made—specifically, the growing ranks of female bartenders who wear revealing clothing, dance provocatively and sometimes literally stand between strippers and their tips. With online followings that can hit six figures, these so-called “startenders” are a reliable draw for customers and an easy distraction from the women working onstage.
In a moment of exasperation, Marie typed up her feelings and posted them to Instagram: “I’m so sick of seeing my fellow dancers in New York complain about deserving what is supposed to be theirs. Me nor any dancer should have to leave the comfort of their own home/city to make a fucking check.”
For the next few days, Marie kept posting about the problem using the hashtag #NYCStripperStrike. By the end of the week, she was trending. Local and national media picked up the story, and Marie gained tens of thousands of followers. Over the next few months, she and other dancers joined larger protests, holding signs with slogans like OUR BODIES, OUR MINDS, OUR POWER; TWERK IS WORK; and STIGMA DRIVES VIOLENCE at the Women’s March on Central Park West and the International Women’s Strike in Washington Square Park.
"There is this treatment of strippers by people who run the joints that we don’t matter and that we are replaceable,” says Jacqueline Frances, a New York–based dancer, comedian and activist. “There is a really profound disrespect for strippers by management—by everyone.”
In a moment of exasperation, Marie typed up her feelings and posted them to Instagram: “I’m so sick of seeing my fellow dancers in New York complain about deserving what is supposed to be theirs. Me nor any dancer should have to leave the comfort of their own home/city to make a fucking check.”
For the next few days, Marie kept posting about the problem using the hashtag #NYCStripperStrike. By the end of the week, she was trending. Local and national media picked up the story, and Marie gained tens of thousands of followers. Over the next few months, she and other dancers joined larger protests, holding signs with slogans like OUR BODIES, OUR MINDS, OUR POWER; TWERK IS WORK; and STIGMA DRIVES VIOLENCE at the Women’s March on Central Park West and the International Women’s Strike in Washington Square Park.
While startenders were her impetus, Marie had other, broader concerns as well. Across the U.S., strippers’ rights are routinely and flagrantly infringed, with violations ranging from wage theft and employee misclassification to racial discrimination and sexual harassment. And according to many of the strippers we spoke with, few people inside or outside the clubs seem to care.
"There is this treatment of strippers by people who run the joints that we don’t matter and that we are replaceable,” says Jacqueline Frances, a New York–based dancer, comedian and activist. “There is a really profound disrespect for strippers by management—by everyone.”
The only thing that makes me not like working at these clubs is having my money taken from me.
Stripping is legal sex work in America, but states and counties have the right to regulate strip clubs—and many do, often quite spiritedly. Municipalities from San Diego to Tampa enforce a so-called six-feet rule, for example, which stipulates that dancers must stay two yards away from patrons. Others impose regulations regarding how much nipple or areola women can reveal, how much underboob or underbutt or—in New York, for instance—what percentage of a club’s square footage can be dedicated to adult entertainment. But even as they legislate dancers’ movements and clothing down to fractions of an inch, lawmakers tend to ignore the fact that those same workers’ rights are being roundly disregarded.
Among the industry’s biggest problems is the corrupt and byzantine way money flows within its ranks. To begin with, strippers are typically classified as independent contractors rather than employees. This means they should be able to come and go as they please, charge whatever they choose to charge and dress as they see fit. Instead, many dancers describe being assigned shifts, told what to charge and held accountable for keeping certain hours. Such regulations should qualify them as employees of the club rather than independent contractors paying for the privilege of working there. But strippers are frequently denied the legal protection afforded W-2 employees, including payroll taxes, health care and workers’ rights protections.
Susan Crumiller, a New York–based attorney who works with #NYCStripperStrike, says that such misclassifications are a way for club owners to save money by cheating dancers and the Internal Revenue Service alike.
“It’s ultimately tax avoidance, and it’s also labor-law avoidance,” she says. “You’re basically falsely claiming that you don’t need to treat them in all the ways we have decided an employer must treat an employee."
Dee adds that the lump sums strippers are often required to hand over to clubs every night—“house fees,” in stripper parlance—aren’t subject to any oversight, meaning clubs can charge dancers as much as they want.
"I have to pay to work,” she says. “It’s like a hairdresser, where you rent out a space. In theory, it sounds great—like I’m paying for their space, and whatever I make, I take home. But the fees are not regulated, and they can be astronomical."
In the New York City clubs where Gizelle Marie has worked, including Starlets NYC and Club Angels NYC in Queens, and Club Lust in Brooklyn, house fees varied by hundreds of dollars, she says. (Management at all three establishments either did not respond to or declined requests for comment.)
"On slower nights it could be $60 to $100,” Marie says. “If it was a big event, it could be $150 to $300.”
Among the industry’s biggest problems is the corrupt and byzantine way money flows within its ranks. To begin with, strippers are typically classified as independent contractors rather than employees. This means they should be able to come and go as they please, charge whatever they choose to charge and dress as they see fit. Instead, many dancers describe being assigned shifts, told what to charge and held accountable for keeping certain hours. Such regulations should qualify them as employees of the club rather than independent contractors paying for the privilege of working there. But strippers are frequently denied the legal protection afforded W-2 employees, including payroll taxes, health care and workers’ rights protections.
“Club owners want the benefits of you being an independent contractor, but they’re treating you like an employee,” says Logan Dee, co-leader of We Are Dancers USA, an organization that advocates for strippers’ rights. “You are getting the crap end of both sticks."
Susan Crumiller, a New York–based attorney who works with #NYCStripperStrike, says that such misclassifications are a way for club owners to save money by cheating dancers and the Internal Revenue Service alike.
“It’s ultimately tax avoidance, and it’s also labor-law avoidance,” she says. “You’re basically falsely claiming that you don’t need to treat them in all the ways we have decided an employer must treat an employee."
Dee adds that the lump sums strippers are often required to hand over to clubs every night—“house fees,” in stripper parlance—aren’t subject to any oversight, meaning clubs can charge dancers as much as they want.
"I have to pay to work,” she says. “It’s like a hairdresser, where you rent out a space. In theory, it sounds great—like I’m paying for their space, and whatever I make, I take home. But the fees are not regulated, and they can be astronomical."
In the New York City clubs where Gizelle Marie has worked, including Starlets NYC and Club Angels NYC in Queens, and Club Lust in Brooklyn, house fees varied by hundreds of dollars, she says. (Management at all three establishments either did not respond to or declined requests for comment.)
"On slower nights it could be $60 to $100,” Marie says. “If it was a big event, it could be $150 to $300.”
In addition to house fees, strippers often hand over a percentage of revenue from lap dances and VIP rooms, as well as a percentage of their stage tips. They’re expected to tip other staffers, including DJs, bartenders, house mothers, security workers and sometimes management, and some clubs charge extra fees for being late, missing shifts or other alleged infractions.
Case in point: Comfort Alabama Carter has worked with just such clubs. The 22-year-old has dewy porcelain skin and sleepy hazel eyes, a tattoo of a scorpion on her left hand and more than a dozen others embellishing the rest of her body. She loves dancing, she says. “The only thing that makes me not like working at these clubs is having my money taken from me.”
At many clubs, Carter explains, management asks for money from dancers with virtually no rhyme or reason. Such payments are calculated at varying rates depending on a tangle of factors: what time women arrive at work, how many lap dances they sell, which manager happens to be working that day, whether it’s a weeknight or a weekend. Some dancers are subjected to a 60-40 split when it comes to the money they make from lap dances—the house takes 40 percent, and the dancer takes 60—but that rate can change on a whim.
Case in point: Comfort Alabama Carter has worked with just such clubs. The 22-year-old has dewy porcelain skin and sleepy hazel eyes, a tattoo of a scorpion on her left hand and more than a dozen others embellishing the rest of her body. She loves dancing, she says. “The only thing that makes me not like working at these clubs is having my money taken from me.”
At many clubs, Carter explains, management asks for money from dancers with virtually no rhyme or reason. Such payments are calculated at varying rates depending on a tangle of factors: what time women arrive at work, how many lap dances they sell, which manager happens to be working that day, whether it’s a weeknight or a weekend. Some dancers are subjected to a 60-40 split when it comes to the money they make from lap dances—the house takes 40 percent, and the dancer takes 60—but that rate can change on a whim.
According to Manuel*, who has worked on and off for 10 years as a strip-club manager and DJ in Los Angeles, the mandate to collect house fees and portions of lap dance fees comes from the top. (“Manuel” and other names marked with an asterisk have been changed.) That means managers, who are more likely to interact with dancers on a daily basis, don’t necessarily have any say over how much they charge, at least up front.
“Clubs have a chain of command,” he says. “Some clubs have everything from a vice president to a president to district and regional managers. It’s always up to the owner or the people up the chain of command.”
Adding to the confusion, says Valerie Stunning, a Las Vegas–based stripper and online activist, is the unspoken rule that dancers who tip bouncers and VIP-room hosts at a higher percentage will be given access to higher-paying customers.
“A lot of the VIP hosts and managers—mostly it happens in the bigger, corporate clubs—orchestrate these rings of girls who are giving them extraordinary amounts of the money they earn in exchange for introductions to the high-paying clients, so the rest of us don’t really ever have access to them,” she says.
"They were all ex–UFC fighters; they were massive,” she says. “They literally stepped toward the center of the entry point to physically block me from entering because I wasn’t one of the girls they worked with."
The experience has led Stunning to make a grim comparison. “It’s my opinion,” she says, “that this kind of behavior is just another form of pimping.”
“Clubs have a chain of command,” he says. “Some clubs have everything from a vice president to a president to district and regional managers. It’s always up to the owner or the people up the chain of command.”
Adding to the confusion, says Valerie Stunning, a Las Vegas–based stripper and online activist, is the unspoken rule that dancers who tip bouncers and VIP-room hosts at a higher percentage will be given access to higher-paying customers.
“A lot of the VIP hosts and managers—mostly it happens in the bigger, corporate clubs—orchestrate these rings of girls who are giving them extraordinary amounts of the money they earn in exchange for introductions to the high-paying clients, so the rest of us don’t really ever have access to them,” she says.
Stunning says she learned this the hard way at one of the first Vegas clubs in which she worked. One night, as she walked across the floor to approach a customer who was sitting by himself in a remote part of the club, two bouncers walked in front of her, stood side-by-side and prevented her from going any farther.
"They were all ex–UFC fighters; they were massive,” she says. “They literally stepped toward the center of the entry point to physically block me from entering because I wasn’t one of the girls they worked with."
The experience has led Stunning to make a grim comparison. “It’s my opinion,” she says, “that this kind of behavior is just another form of pimping.”
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For women of color, things are even worse. Clubs that are considered upscale often hire lighter-skinned and white women almost exclusively, and at clubs in lower-income neighborhoods or predominantly black or Latino areas—referred to by several women we interviewed as “urban” clubs—darker-skinned women must abide by different rules than their lighter-skinned colleagues.
Chanel*, who has worked on #NYCStripperStrike with Marie, says she was a victim of blatant colorism in several locations.
“I wouldn’t be allowed in VIP rooms when certain people would be in there, I would have to pay different house fees than other girls, or I would have to get dressed and get hair and makeup in a different area than other girls,” she says. “I wasn’t able to work on certain nights. I would be basically just overlooked and overshadowed, and I would rarely receive the recognition that was reserved for being a hard worker.”
Chanel*, who has worked on #NYCStripperStrike with Marie, says she was a victim of blatant colorism in several locations.
“I wouldn’t be allowed in VIP rooms when certain people would be in there, I would have to pay different house fees than other girls, or I would have to get dressed and get hair and makeup in a different area than other girls,” she says. “I wasn’t able to work on certain nights. I would be basically just overlooked and overshadowed, and I would rarely receive the recognition that was reserved for being a hard worker.”
Siobhan Brooks is chair of the African-American studies department at California State University at Fullerton and author of Unequal Desires: Race and Erotic Capital in the Stripping Industry. She notes that discrimination against women of color—and particularly darker-skinned women of color—is both rampant and familiar in the industry.
“That is a very common grievance, and it is also very old,” she says. “Darker-skinned black women are restricted from those lucrative positions. They’re usually put on shifts where you won’t make a lot of money, and they have a harder time asking for money. They’re haggled down more; there will be more resistance to giving her what she is worth.”
Because of where so-called urban clubs are located, Brooks says, they become wrapped into the bigger picture of neighborhoods that are underserviced across the board.
“Urban clubs mirror any inner city’s lack of resources,” she says. “You have housing projects located in those areas. You may not have banks; you may have check-cashing places that surround those types of clubs, as well as underfunded schools, dilapidated buildings, over or under-policing.” Results include “less investment in the dancer,” which in turn can attract customers who “feel like they can get away with rape.”
"There’s more of a stigma in the urban clubs that women are less educated and you can take advantage of them,” says Brooks. “In the upscale clubs, you have your Julia Roberts stereotype—that they’re educated and this is a stepping stone.”
“That is a very common grievance, and it is also very old,” she says. “Darker-skinned black women are restricted from those lucrative positions. They’re usually put on shifts where you won’t make a lot of money, and they have a harder time asking for money. They’re haggled down more; there will be more resistance to giving her what she is worth.”
Because of where so-called urban clubs are located, Brooks says, they become wrapped into the bigger picture of neighborhoods that are underserviced across the board.
“Urban clubs mirror any inner city’s lack of resources,” she says. “You have housing projects located in those areas. You may not have banks; you may have check-cashing places that surround those types of clubs, as well as underfunded schools, dilapidated buildings, over or under-policing.” Results include “less investment in the dancer,” which in turn can attract customers who “feel like they can get away with rape.”
And when it comes to women of color getting hired at so-called upscale clubs, discrimination thrives as well. Those businesses may have unspoken quotas regarding how many women of color they hire, or they may bring on only lighter-skinned dancers. All of these factors can ultimately correlate with the way women are treated once they arrive at work.
"There’s more of a stigma in the urban clubs that women are less educated and you can take advantage of them,” says Brooks. “In the upscale clubs, you have your Julia Roberts stereotype—that they’re educated and this is a stepping stone.”
If you get raped at work, what are you going to do—file with human resources?
Although women of color undoubtedly have it harder in this environment, dancers of all races are at heightened risk of sexual harassment and assault. Exact statistics on how frequently exotic dancers experience such violations are difficult to come by, as no governing body tracks complaints or accusations. But women report being groped by customers and managers alike, and even by police.
In those instances, says Dee, strippers have nowhere to turn.
“If you get raped at work, what are you going to do—file with human resources?” she says. “Call the cops? You think the club is going to let those cops in? And even if they do, they’re just going to tell you, ‘What did you think? You’re a stripper. Strippers can’t be raped.’ ”
Onstage at Dames N’ Games, a topless club in a desolate corner of downtown Los Angeles, blue and red spotlights shine onto the stage as a sinewy woman in a pink schoolgirl skirt pretzels herself around a brass pole. The strains of Marilyn Manson’s “This Is Halloween” blare through the speakers, and by the time the song is over, she has peeled off her black bralette and is undulating her hips in front of four men who sit captivated at the tip rail, tossing money.
On the main floor, half a dozen other women circulate, sipping drinks and draping themselves over customers, whispering to one another or stretching their legs against the walls. Among them is a young woman with glossy chestnut hair, dressed in a one-piece bodysuit whose back consists of little more than a string. Sasha* sits down with me at a high bar table, a pint of beer in front of her, and explains that she’s been working here for a year and likes it because it’s “more transparent” than other places she’s worked.
The payout system at Dames N’ Games (part of the Spearmint Rhino empire, one of the largest chains of gentlemen’s clubs in the country), she says, amounts to management taking $3 or $4 out of every $20 she makes on lap dances, depending on whether one or two managers are working that evening. That means $100 VIP-room dances cost her $15 to $20; $300 VIP-room dances cost $45 or $60; and so forth.
In those instances, says Dee, strippers have nowhere to turn.
“If you get raped at work, what are you going to do—file with human resources?” she says. “Call the cops? You think the club is going to let those cops in? And even if they do, they’re just going to tell you, ‘What did you think? You’re a stripper. Strippers can’t be raped.’ ”
Onstage at Dames N’ Games, a topless club in a desolate corner of downtown Los Angeles, blue and red spotlights shine onto the stage as a sinewy woman in a pink schoolgirl skirt pretzels herself around a brass pole. The strains of Marilyn Manson’s “This Is Halloween” blare through the speakers, and by the time the song is over, she has peeled off her black bralette and is undulating her hips in front of four men who sit captivated at the tip rail, tossing money.
On the main floor, half a dozen other women circulate, sipping drinks and draping themselves over customers, whispering to one another or stretching their legs against the walls. Among them is a young woman with glossy chestnut hair, dressed in a one-piece bodysuit whose back consists of little more than a string. Sasha* sits down with me at a high bar table, a pint of beer in front of her, and explains that she’s been working here for a year and likes it because it’s “more transparent” than other places she’s worked.
The payout system at Dames N’ Games (part of the Spearmint Rhino empire, one of the largest chains of gentlemen’s clubs in the country), she says, amounts to management taking $3 or $4 out of every $20 she makes on lap dances, depending on whether one or two managers are working that evening. That means $100 VIP-room dances cost her $15 to $20; $300 VIP-room dances cost $45 or $60; and so forth.
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Sasha works there as an independent contractor, so she runs up against many of the same issues as Carter, Marie and Dee. For the most part, dancers’ attempts to fight the system haven’t gained much traction, even when they file lawsuits like the one brought against Spearmint Rhino in 2012. (Playboy reached out to Spearmint Rhino Consulting Worldwide, Inc., which owns Spearmint Rhino, for comment; a press relations representative referred us to the contact form on the club’s website.) That’s not surprising, says Stunning. Other, similar lawsuits, typically brought by dancers who believe their wages have been illegally garnished, have unfolded throughout the country. But little changes in their wake.
“In eight years of stripping, I’ve received at least five different notices that are like, ‘So-and-so are filing a lawsuit,’ ” she says. “The club settles the suit and makes a few amendments in the paperwork we sign when we get hired, and then things continue.”
A raft of workplace dysfunctions contribute to the problem, some of which workers from more vanilla industries would recognize. Susan Minato, co-president of the labor union Unite Here Local 11, points out that complaining about customers goes against service providers’ very job description.
“In hospitality, the idea is the [service provider] is there to make the guest feel good, to entertain you and to serve you,” she says. “If something goes wrong, complaining about a guest puts them in a very awkward situation.”
“In eight years of stripping, I’ve received at least five different notices that are like, ‘So-and-so are filing a lawsuit,’ ” she says. “The club settles the suit and makes a few amendments in the paperwork we sign when we get hired, and then things continue.”
A raft of workplace dysfunctions contribute to the problem, some of which workers from more vanilla industries would recognize. Susan Minato, co-president of the labor union Unite Here Local 11, points out that complaining about customers goes against service providers’ very job description.
“In hospitality, the idea is the [service provider] is there to make the guest feel good, to entertain you and to serve you,” she says. “If something goes wrong, complaining about a guest puts them in a very awkward situation.”
But Crumiller believes a big reason such legal efforts haven’t resulted in real change is that the culture at large, while it may treat others in the service industry with at least rote courtesy, is decidedly not on the side of strippers.
“Dancers are a very marginalized group,” says Crumiller. “They are very vulnerable, and part of it is because, as a society, we don’t really care about these women.”
Stunning adds that women in this line of work often don’t acknowledge the validity of their jobs even to themselves, internalizing the message that their work has no value.
“A lot of the women who do this job, even if they’re not ashamed of it, are holding out, waiting to go work a ‘real job,’ or whatever,” she says. “They don’t believe anyone is on their side if their rights are being violated.”
This is where Gizelle Marie and her allies come in.
When Marie began organizing #NYCStripperStrike, her work became part of a growing number of endeavors—on social media, in private community meetings and even in courtrooms across the country—spearheaded by strippers who are done being treated as though they have no standing under the law. Today, there are glimmers of hope that their efforts will pay off.
As of August 2018, Marie and another woman working as a stripper in New York City have filed three different complaints with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. The complaints address issues of sexual harassment and discrimination and could lead to lawsuits. In California, a State Supreme Court decision in April 2018 made it more difficult for businesses to classify workers as independent contractors, which some strippers believe could affect their classification in clubs. Many strippers were galvanized by the April 2018 passage of the U.S. House and Senate bills known as FOSTA-SESTA (the Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act and the Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act), which cracked down on what sex workers can and cannot say online—a move many such workers felt ultimately placed them in harm’s way. And then there was Instagram’s sudden decision in May 2018 to censor any posts with the hashtag #stripper or #strippers.
“Dancers are a very marginalized group,” says Crumiller. “They are very vulnerable, and part of it is because, as a society, we don’t really care about these women.”
Stunning adds that women in this line of work often don’t acknowledge the validity of their jobs even to themselves, internalizing the message that their work has no value.
“A lot of the women who do this job, even if they’re not ashamed of it, are holding out, waiting to go work a ‘real job,’ or whatever,” she says. “They don’t believe anyone is on their side if their rights are being violated.”
This is where Gizelle Marie and her allies come in.
When Marie began organizing #NYCStripperStrike, her work became part of a growing number of endeavors—on social media, in private community meetings and even in courtrooms across the country—spearheaded by strippers who are done being treated as though they have no standing under the law. Today, there are glimmers of hope that their efforts will pay off.
As of August 2018, Marie and another woman working as a stripper in New York City have filed three different complaints with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. The complaints address issues of sexual harassment and discrimination and could lead to lawsuits. In California, a State Supreme Court decision in April 2018 made it more difficult for businesses to classify workers as independent contractors, which some strippers believe could affect their classification in clubs. Many strippers were galvanized by the April 2018 passage of the U.S. House and Senate bills known as FOSTA-SESTA (the Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act and the Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act), which cracked down on what sex workers can and cannot say online—a move many such workers felt ultimately placed them in harm’s way. And then there was Instagram’s sudden decision in May 2018 to censor any posts with the hashtag #stripper or #strippers.
To Antonia Crane, a Los Angeles–based writer and stripper, this is a rallying point. Part of the first and only stripper union created in San Francisco in the late 1990s, Crane says the efforts she sees among the stripper community now—along with the recent political events—have created a growing movement unlike anything she’s seen before.
“It’s a really crucial time,” she says. “We need to do a lot, and it’s important that we do it right now.”
A year and a half after her initial Instagram post, Marie is traveling the country to meet other women (and spend time away from an environment in New York City that she felt had become toxic). She has been spreading the word, building bridges and joining forces with other strippers. If she succeeds—if the women providing the entertainment at strip clubs demand justice as a united front—there will be little owners can do to stop them.
After all, says Marie, “without us, there would be no club.”
“It’s a really crucial time,” she says. “We need to do a lot, and it’s important that we do it right now.”
A year and a half after her initial Instagram post, Marie is traveling the country to meet other women (and spend time away from an environment in New York City that she felt had become toxic). She has been spreading the word, building bridges and joining forces with other strippers. If she succeeds—if the women providing the entertainment at strip clubs demand justice as a united front—there will be little owners can do to stop them.
After all, says Marie, “without us, there would be no club.”
