Let’s Review The Food At Strip Clubs, I Thought

Confession.

Before writing this article, the only time I’d ever visited a strip club was on Sunday night with my buddy, Tony Soprano. Until I watched HBO’s The Sopranos, the closest I had ever gotten was nearly 25 years ago. 

I was 19 and broke, working at a bar called Hog City in Fayetteville, Arkansas, late at night. I also served as a dayshift janitor, scrubbing toilets at a cantina whose name I have erased from my memory. Surely, I thought, there must be an easier way to make money than slinging drinks and getting slapped on the ass for free. 

I’d read an ad in the university newspaper about Platinum Gentleman’s Club on College Avenue. They were hiring. I called the phone number listed in the paper with the intent of asking when I could audition. I had years of experience as a ballet dancer, so what the hell? 

The woman who answered the phone in a brusque, husky voice said, “Don’t come here, honey. This isn’t for you.” Then, she hung up on me, and my exotic dancing career was over before it had begun. 

Listen. I’m going to write about what I know. And what I know is food. What would make a hamburger or cheese fries I’d order at, say, a food truck at Guthrie Green on a Friday night any different from what I’d order at a strip club? Food is food. Right?

* * *

Sensations Gentlemen’s Club, 9373 S. 4250 Road, Inola, OK

Let’s begin with a road trip. 

About 30 miles east of downtown Tulsa, outside of sleepy Inola, on a dark stretch of Highway 412, you’ll see a tattered billboard for an Amish bakery and a well-worn sign for the Cowboy Gatherin’ Church: a cowboy on bended knee shining in the moonlight. Keep going and a large building with flashing neon lights and a woman’s silhouette beckons the brave and thirsty traveler. 

It’s Wednesday night at 9 p.m. This is Sensations Gentlemen’s Club.

Sensations stays open until 4 a.m. and doesn’t sell alcohol, which means, legally, the girls (yes, in strip club parlance, that’s the correct terminology) can get fully naked. 

Suddenly, I am frighteningly aware of my stone-cold sober state of mind. 

Remember going to Sonic in high school with friends on a Friday night and ordering a Route 44 Cherry Limeade just so you could pour half of it out and replace it with Popov vodka your best friend’s older sister bought you with a fake ID? Walking into Sensations is similar in spirit, minus the vodka. 

The club entryway gives “let’s hide in my crazy Cousin Johnny’s concrete bunker,” and I’m into the vibe. I pay a $15 cover (cash, of course; cash is king in strip clubs), and I notice a vending machine filled with chips and candy. A tall, pretty redhead with high cheekbones and dewy, translucent skin slides some change into the slot and buys a Hershey’s bar. She’s wearing a powder blue bikini top and a matching G-string. She smiles and says hello. 

The night is young. The DJ announces Sweetie¹, who effortlessly climbs the pole on the center stage. She maneuvers her body into positions I could only imagine doing two decades ago. The bartender, a busty brunette wearing Daisy Dukes and sneakers, leaves her post and throws a few dollars Sweetie’s way. The crowd is mostly other club employees, biding their time before the midnight rush.

The pretty redhead from the vending machine walks up to me. Her name is Crystal. 

We’re sitting at a small table near the center stage. The speakers blast Color Me Badd’s “I Wanna Sex You Up,” and another dancer, Delight, floats on the pole, high heels gleaming as she inverts her body.

“She’s an amazing dancer,” Crystal says. We pull our chairs closer because it’s so hard to hear. 

“So, why doesn’t this club serve alcohol or food?” I ask. 

“It’s because we can get fully naked in the private rooms,” she says. 

Fully nude clubs must follow Oklahoma laws prohibiting food and alcohol in the establishment. Nudity, however, isn’t allowed on the main stage; dancers take customers to private rooms for that particular privilege. Presumably, these restrictions protect the dancers’ safety. Security in clubs, fully nude or not, is intense—cameras everywhere, armed bouncers ready to act if needed.

“What do you eat if you’re working a long shift and get hungry?” I ask. 

“We can bring our own food,” Crystal says. “There’s a Love’s with a Subway about six miles away.”

It hadn’t occurred to me to think about how the women who work in these clubs eat. I wish I had brought snacks to share. A full shift is a long time to wear eight-inch platform heels. 

Sweetie is back on center stage; her stiletto boots make the same pop as a ballerina’s pointe shoes. I order a Coca Cola and sip it through a black straw, letting the bitter sting slide down my throat. The souvenir cup, a school bus yellow with the words “where your dreams become reality” written on it, costs $15. I don’t ask why the cup has the name of a different club, Illusions, on the side. 

Crystal invites me to a private room. I know this is just business, but I am flustered. I decline, because those rooms are expensive. I tip Crystal generously for our conversation, though, and wish her well. 

A Coca Cola isn’t a meal. Still, it’s probably the best money I’ve spent on a soda, and certainly the most memorable. 

* * *

Lady Godiva’s, 1850 S. Sheridan Road, Tulsa, OK

From the outside, Lady Godiva’s blends into its ordinary surroundings: Denver Mattress Company, Prosperity Bank, Braum’s, H&R Block. 

Get a little closer, though, and you’ll see a shiny sign with the silhouettes of two naked women. The red lighting projecting onto the white brick building creates an eerie ambiance. Inside, a small stage and a DJ booth centers the space, and client seating feels cramped, perhaps by design. 

Sitting on one of Lady Godiva’s plush, curvy chairs evokes a 1920s speakeasy sort of glamour—both ominous and forbidden. Private rooms are close to the stage. Dancers walk in and out of the dressing room nearby. 

Lady Godiva’s opens at 11 a.m. so the menu offers a decent selection of comfort foods for the lunch hour—Frito chili pie, chips and salsa, cheese quesadilla, grilled chicken salad, chicken wings and burgers—all at moderate prices ranging from $7.50 to $10.50. 

Cameras and TV monitors are everywhere. Security here is strict.  

I meet the club bouncer, who soon brings me back to the reality I’m inhabiting with his furrowed brows and bolo tie. I pay the $10 cover and sign my name on a guest list. I plan on visiting Lady Godiva’s twice. Tonight, I’m here on a Thursday by 9 p.m. 

Here’s the thing: If you’re a woman visiting a strip club, no one is going to serve you. Instead, you work for your snacks and drink orders. You have to prove you’re down for some fun. Maybe peel off the leather jacket you’re wearing like armor and smile at the dancers. I spend at least 30 minutes waiting for table service. However, if you’re a man of any age and appearance, you can simply exist and you’ll feel like the king of the club. I watch gorgeous women sit on otherwise homely men’s laps within seconds of them sitting down. Hands slip down to stroke bare thighs. I can really learn something here. 

Crystal from Sensations warned me the dancers at Lady Godiva’s would be a little rude, Kardashian wannabes, popular-in-high-school types. She was right. 

I finally find a dancer to take my food order, and, at last, I have company at my table: Brittany and Candy. 

Brittany wears a red halter bikini top and is thin and tall with long legs. She has a ballet dancer’s body: strong and toned. Candy’s blonde hair falls down her back, and her little black dress number has an elaborate keyhole cut on the side. It’s a slow night. Candy tries a new drink from the bar. I don’t catch the details of her cocktail, but it’s something fruity, a Crown Apple Whiskey on ice. I order cheese fries for us to share.

The fries are very salty and arrive with an oozy, orange cheese sauce. They’re decently priced, $7.50. I want to like the fries more than I do. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Maybe handcut fries, the kind you get at a steakhouse with the crinkles, and cheese that isn’t Velveeta.

I ask Brittany and Candy what they enjoy eating here. 

“You have to try the asada tacos on Friday,” Brittany says.

“Oh, yeah. Those are so good. I really like the Frito chili pie,” Candy chimes in.  

Brittany takes a bite of cheese fries. “These are well seasoned,” she says. 

That’s a polite way of putting it. 

The kitchen is on the other side of the club by the bar. I glance inside: it’s a narrow space, hot and busy. Cooks yell “order up” and rush trays of greasy burgers to the bartender. I ask Brittany and Candy how often they get to eat during a shift. 

“We can’t bring in our own food,” Brittany says. “We order from the menu here—or a customer can buy us something.” 

“What if you get thirsty?” I ask.

“That’s what the bar is for,” Brittany says. 

I tell Brittany and Candy that I plan on returning Saturday night. 

“The club will be standing room only,” Candy says. 

* * *

I return on Saturday night around 11:30 p.m. The surly bouncer I met on Thursday does not remember me at all. He takes my cash for the cover and asks, “Are you meeting someone here?”

“No, I’m here on my own,” I say. “I’m writing about the food at your club.”

He doesn’t believe me. 

“Don’t talk to the men,” he says. Two hunky security guards armed with guns watch me closely as I walk to the bar. 

I don’t see how I can avoid talking to the men. The club is filled with them. The bartender has a kind face, and gently suggests I order a pineapple and Malibu rum cocktail to drink, and wings with sauce on the side for dinner. I do so.

I cower in the corner of the bar and inhale my drink next to the lap dance section. At least six lap dances are happening simultaneously, and while this is obviously out in the open, I feel like I’m intruding. There’s one seat free, but it would require talking to men.

“Are you okay?” a man asks me. 

He’s older, perhaps in his early 60s. He wears a blue button-down shirt and exudes the sort of energy a kindly grandpa would project, or maybe a Santa at the mall. I notice he is with a group—another man around the same age and a woman. I am relieved to see another woman tonight who isn’t working. 

“Not really,” I say. “I’m just waiting for a snack. I ordered some wings.”

He points to one of the only free chairs in the packed club: next to him. I take a seat and tell him my name. I blurt out my real name, but I instantly know I need to invent a story. 

Here it is: the bouncer’s caution, warranted. My imagination works quickly, and I find myself engineering a narrative. Strip clubs are a fiction, right? Everyone plays their part in the fantasy. 

“You look scared,” he says and chuckles. “You ordered food?” 

“I’m supposed to meet my friends,” I say. “I’ve never been to a strip club before. We thought it would be funny to throw a divorce party for a good friend of ours. They said the club was on Sheridan. I was too busy at work today and didn’t have time for dinner. I need to eat something!”

“Oh, did they mean Night Trips?” he says. 

I feign surprise. “You mean there’s another club?”

Our conversation meanders. I reveal personal details about my work, life and interests to a total stranger in the middle of the night at a strip club. I’ve never been so relieved for an order of chicken wings to show up. 

The wings are steaming and fresh from the kitchen. Famished, I burn my mouth on them. The breading has a delicate texture, and the chicken, to my relief, is quite tender and moist. I dip a wing in honey bbq sauce and use my cocktail napkin to wipe my hands. A woman appears dressed in an emerald bikini top and matching G-string. 

“Hi, I’m Elizabeth. Would you like to buy me a drink?” 

I politely decline Elizabeth’s offer and counter by inviting her to share my chicken wings. Then I tell Elizabeth my sad and fake story about the divorce party. 

“You’d be surprised how many women stop by here,” she says. “But your friends are probably at Night Trips.”

“You can have the rest,” I say to my neighbor. I thank him for the conversation. I just don’t have it in me to waste food. “I’ve got to find my friends. I’ll go to the other club on Sheridan now. I hope they are still there.” 

Phone to my ear, I pretend to call my friends as I walk to the exit. 

I glance behind me to make sure I’m alone before starting my car and heading over to Night Trips down the street.  

* * *

Night Trips, 3902 S. Sheridan Road, Tulsa, OK

Ladies pay no cover at Night Trips, which leaves more room in the strip club budget. Trust me, you’ll need the cash. 

Like I did at Lady Godiva’s, I visit Night Trips on a weeknight and again late on a Saturday night. Night Trips offers daily happy hour specials (1/2 price chips and queso and $3 domestic beers) and used to be a restaurant. The club has multiple stages, a generous bar, and a lively, spring break-type of atmosphere. The first night I visit, on a Thursday, the club isn’t too busy. The dancers are friendly and seem unphased by a woman showing up solo. A dancer who goes by Sabrina flirts with me. She reminds me of a soccer player I had a crush on many years ago in college, but I decline her company. I am here for the fried mini tacos. 

Listen. I wanted to love the fried mini tacos. Hey, for $9 a customer gets ten fried tacos that look like burnt little fists. But the gastric distress they caused—this could have been the nerves, but it’s hard to tell—and their burnt taste and greasy mouthfeel made them, sadly, insultable. 

The Night Trips menu offers many things you could be hungry for (and which might cause less gastric distress): wings, tots, burgers, grilled chicken salad, fries, a baked potato, plus a full bar and extensive cocktail menu. Food prices range from $4 to $15. The bar and food service happens quickly and in a friendly manner. But I can only spend so much time and money here. Full of fried mini tacos, my stomach rumbling, I leave.

* * *

When I visit again on Saturday at nearly 1 a.m., the Night Trips parking lot is so full that I’m not even sure I’m parked in an actual spot. 

The place is packed. The bouncers kick a few teenagers out as I stand in line. I immediately find a seat near the center stage and decide to get my bearings before I start thinking about food. I order a vodka tonic and scroll on my phone. I soon realize, however, that the kindly Santa type I’d chatted with at Lady Godiva’s earlier that same evening is now standing behind me. 

Obviously, my fictional friends are not at this club. I am suddenly aware of how alone I am. It’s not time to eat, it’s time to act. Again, I pretend to call my friends and pace wildly around the room, yelling into my cell phone. “What do you mean Joe got too drunk? Do you realize it’s 1 o’clock in the morning and I’m at a strip club by myself?” 

I continue to pace and rant and skip the bar line. There are at least 20 men waiting to order drinks at the bar, and I cut in front of them all. I scream into my phone, “How dare you invite me to a strip club, get too drunk to show up, and just leave me alone on a Saturday night!” Nothing gets a woman better bar service than getting stood up at a strip club—even if the people standing her up aren’t real. Everyone joins me in my act. I pay my tab. 

I leave the bar exasperated, hoping Santa has not followed me to my car. 

I make it through the parking lot undisturbed and hunch over my steering wheel. I cry and dry heave. I’ve lost my appetite.

* * *

Reflecting on my misadventure, I realize that the food plays as much of a role in the strip club fantasy as the flashy lights or inviting furniture. These clubs serve tailgating fare—wings, burgers, fried tacos—for a reason. It’s food to eat while you focus on something else. The meat keeps you full; the sport keeps you watching. 

I think of the dancers I met, and how hard these women work to turn a profit. I think of how sore their feet must be from wearing eight-inch heels all night. I find myself caring not so much about the quality of the food I experienced, or the lack thereof. That’s not the point. Instead, I consider how eating a simple meal during a shift—basic nourishment—depends entirely on the generosity of the customer. 

When we take away the shock and sensual pleasure of public semi-nudity and get down to the human aspect of the women working at strip clubs, I can’t help but reference M.F.K. Fisher: 

“First we eat, then we do everything else.” 

We all play our part in the strip club illusion. Somewhere, now, in the back of my mind, a dancer whispers into my ear, “Baby, are you ready for the best night of your life?”

The only answer to her question is: I’m hungry.