Ambar Ramirez Carmen Macri
Words by Carmen Macri and Ambar Ramirez
The night started off harmless enough — at Pete’s employee holiday party, a few drinks, the usual plans to end up at our regular spot. But somehow, we stumbled into an entirely different universe: the Officer’s Club. Neither of us had ever been to a strip club before. Everything we thought we knew came from secondhand stories and shiny, over-the-top movie scenes. Yet there we were, a wad of ones in hand, following a crew of seasoned regulars through the door. It didn’t take long to realize we were the only customers — but hey, it was a Monday night after all.
Our nameless line leader slipped through the velvet curtain and led us into a haze of flashing disco lights and slow-thumping bass. The air was thick with perfume, cigarette smoke and the low hum of late-night chaos. Without missing a beat, he slapped his AMEX into our hand, told us to grab a round of chilled, top-shelf tequila shots for the crew, and disappeared toward the ATM to stock up for whatever the night had in store.
Cash in hand, we strolled up to the stage and claimed the front row seats — the only seats — and settled in under the low, smoky haze. Full disclosure: We don’t remember much from that night. But here’s what we do recall — the second we sat down, the DJ, tucked somewhere deep in the shadows behind a battered soundboard, dropped a heavy bassline and girls in a kaleidoscope of thongs and glittered bras took the poles like seasoned pros.
After that, everything turned into a tequila-soaked blur (and we’ll spare you the finer details — including Carmen’s private dance that may or may not have involved a feather boa). All we know is before we could even blink, our once-thick stack of ones had vanished — and that was just on the first rotation.
Now, we’re not exactly the types to blow through cash without a second thought, so running out of our graciously loaned singles that fast caught us off guard. Was it the tequila talking? The high of doing something deliciously reckless? Do bored, lonely men usually find themselves in the same spiral or — as women — were we just a little more eager to hype up anyone bold enough to bare it all under the flicker of neon lights?
We eventually got a refill of cash and tequila and left that night with a new tale to tell our friends. The next morning we woke up with questions. Not the typical type of blacked out questions we usually have on a Saturday morning (in this case, a Tuesday morning): Who were we with? What did we say? Whose credit card is stuck to my face? Rather, we were left wondering what it actually takes to be a dancer.
So, esteemed journalists that we are, we went straight to the source. Tracking down a dancer who would be willing to shed some light on her life under the neon light. For safety purposes, her name and club will be left redacted. Instead, we will use her performer name: Cleo, short for Cleopatra.
“I think there’s a lot of glamorization and glorification about it. I think you see the movies and there’s just, I want people to know there’s good nights and there’s bad nights,” Cleo shared. “The good nights are good, don’t get me wrong. You get your rent paid in one night and it’s nice, but there are some nights where it’s really slow, and like any other job, it gets boring.”
Cleo first hit the stage back in 2019, after watching a few of her friends dive into the industry and start raking in serious cash. It didn’t take long for her to decide she wanted in on the action — and the fun.
“I don’t want to do it past like 25,” Cleo said. “I want to go to fashion school and be a designer. I’m just kind of stacking for that.”
Every dancer finds themselves on the dollar-dusted dancefloor for different reasons. Sometimes it’s to pay for school, keep the lights on or take care of family. Other times, it’s less about necessity and more about owning their power. Being a dancer isn’t always a last resort or a fallback plan — for some, it’s Plan A from the start.
“As a survivor of sexual abuse, I think it definitely helped me get my power back when it felt like it wasn’t there for a bit. It made me a lot more confident than I used to be, and I have no problem voicing my opinions and my boundaries now,” Cleo explained. “But, that’s not to say there aren’t some rough nights. I have a big personality, and I’ve always been a performer and a dancer. I think just getting comfortable talking to everyone took me a minute.”
One of the biggest myths about strip clubs lives behind the velvet curtains — the idea that the dressing rooms are all jealousy and catfights, like some cheap movie script. But talk to the women who actually live it, and you’ll hear a different story. For most dancers, the dressing room isn’t a battlefield; it’s a safe haven. It’s where real friendships are built and where a genuine support system takes root. The women watch out for one another — sharing advice, swapping safety tips, lending an ear on the hard nights. It’s not just about survival; it’s about community. Instead of standing alone, you’ve got a room full of women who know exactly what it takes to thrive — and who want to see you do just that.
“I think that there’s a common misconception that we’re catty and bitchy and mean to each other, but there’s a lot of camaraderie that happens with it. We all help each other. I mean, of course, there’s always going to be some drama when you have that many personalities in a room, but there’s a lot of hopefulness and hustling,” Cleo expressed. “We help each other hustle, and it’s a lot nicer than it seems. I have made a couple of pretty serious friends that I would call my best friends. It definitely feels like a space of like-minded individuals, which is nice. It’s nice to be around other people who are very independent.”
There’s a reason prostitution is illegal in most states — and a reason strip clubs keep their red neon “open” signs buzzing through the night. And it’s probably not the reason you’d expect. How these places run changes depending on where you are. In bigger cities, dancers are booked and scheduled like clockwork, clocking in and out like any other nine-to-fiver. But in smaller, rough-around-the-edges cities like Jacksonville, it’s a different game. Here, if you want to dance, you pay up first. As Cleo put it, most dancers front a fee to the club, the same way you’d rent out a space to throw a party. It’s a setup that draws a hard line between stripping and prostitution — and throws a little extra protection into the mix.
“We pay to show up to work. It’s cheaper the earlier you show up, but we pay a certain amount out of every dance we do,” Cleo explained. “Maybe it’s like saving their asses a little bit, so it’s not prostitution because you’re paying them kind of. So there’s give and take.”
It’s a lot like how hairstylists rent a booth at a salon. This setup gives dancers a little more freedom. Instead of being locked into one club, they can take their skills on the road, renting themselves out for a weekend wherever the money — or the adventure — calls. Cleo even mentioned that a lot of the girls live life on the road, in vans or on boats, never staying in one place for too long.
But it’s not all glitz and glamour. It takes a certain kind of person to walk into a room full of strangers, night after night, and offer themselves up on a silver platter. And no matter how tough you are, after a while, it starts to leave a mark. That’s why most dancers slip into a persona — a different name, a different skin — the second they step through those doors. It’s a kind of armor, a way to separate who they are inside the club from who they are outside of it. Because in this world, survival sometimes means becoming someone else entirely. Especially as a woman surrounded by bloodthirsty wolves — or in this case, lonely men looking for a surface-level connection with a pretty girl covered in dollar bills.
“I think my confidence carries over both offstage and onstage. I think I bite my tongue a lot more at work than I do outside of work. I’m pretty loud and in your face outside of work. But, you know, for the sake of money, you tend to placate quite a bit. Although it does help when I’m nervous or anxious about something, I can just kind of channel who I am at work, and it feels like not such a big deal anymore. So that’s one benefit of it,” Cleo described. “I think there’s definitely some nights where it does carry over into my regular life, whether I want it to or not, where I just don’t want to be touched or spoken to, you know? I just don’t need more male energy, and it’s just too much. I know that’s unfair, but it is what it is. You do lose a little bit of faith in men, I’m not gonna lie. You get a lot of bachelors that do questionable things the night before the wedding, and it’s a lot. They aren’t all bad people. There are plenty of decent people who are just lonely, who come in and just want some company.”
Like everything in life, this business has its highs and lows, good and bad, give and take. There are lonely men looking for company and there are bachelors going out for what they think is their final taste of freedom. And there are Monday night crowds like ours, looking for new experiences to cross off their bucket list.
“It’s very volatile. There’s high highs and low lows,” Cleo said. “Save. Quick money goes quick. A veteran told me that when I first started.”
Follow FOLIO!