Former Stripper Recalls ‘Empowering Atmosphere’ of Unionized Strip Club
The San Francisco peep show closes today, September 2.
A former stripper remembers the empowering atmosphere,
even amidst a grueling schedule.
What It Was Like to Work at the Lusty Lady, a Unionized Strip Club
By Lily Burana
To locate the ethos of San Francisco’s just-shuttered Lusty Lady peep show, one must look for a sign. Not some mystical “message from the universe” sign, as one might expect in this city of hippie roots, but an actual marquee sign.
On the peep show’s Kearney Street façade, among the enticements for “Live Nudes and Movies” and “Private Booths” curling out in Olde Tyme script, is a telling graphic flourish: Two hands pointing to a banner stating “Free Admission.”
Upon close observation, you realize that the fingers pointing to the banner are middle fingers.
The nation’s only unionized (SEIU since 1997) and dancer-run adult entertainment business closes September 2 after almost forty years in business. Landlord Roger Forbes, a Nevada-based real estate magnate who bought the building in 2001, declined to negotiate with the cooperative when they weren’t able to make the May rent.
The Lusty fighting spirit was vanquished, and as a former Lusty, I find myself unexpectedly sad. It’s not so much the passing of a phase in my life, and in the life of the many friends I made there, but rather, the end of a means to an end in a city that historically always found a way to support its freaks.
My entry to the Lusty Lady began in curiosity.
New to San Francisco in the 1990s and looking for a flexible dancing job that wouldn’t leave me feeling like a casualty of my own envelope-pushing, I stopped in to see the show upon the recommendation of a friend—a Central American labor activist who had worked there before decamping to Nicaragua.
When the opaque window slid up, I was oddly charmed—four nude girls behind the glass were twirling in this tiny mirrored room, like some pervert’s idea of a music box. Some of them had tattoos, one of them had piercings, none of them were tan.
It seemed, as these things go, almost demure—as if Riot Grrls had infiltrated Madonna’s “Open Your Heart” video. Fairly confident I wasn’t destined to run for public office, and therefore fairly insulated from future scandal, I decided to give it a whirl. As I waited to audition in the manager’s office, I inspected the schedule, noting that the dancers’ stage names fell well outside the “Brandy/Candy” norm.
You could call yourself Jinxxx or Quasar or Cruella or Petite Fromage or Amnesia or Lil’ Chaos or Theremin Blue Thunder—no one would mind. For my audition, which was five minutes with the girls on stage dancing in nothing but dirty white high-top Nikes, I spontaneously picked the stage name “Tawdry.”
After I was hired, I bought a terrifying wig of long synthetic auburn curls that made me look as if I were electrocuted on the set of an 80s hair metal video. I found an old white button down and plaid schoolgirl skirt at a Mission thrift shop, and the persona was complete. Over the course of two years, three days a week, sometimes four, I would work a three-and-a-half to six-hour shift.
One of the Lusty’s more humane practices was giving each dancer a ten-minute break for every hour she worked. I’d often punch out on break, change into my street clothes, race down the steep slope of Kearney Street, cross at the intersection Columbus Avenue right in front of City Lights Books, and bomb into Winchell’s Donuts. I’d pay for my wax paper-wrapped snack with a fistful of change, fight my way back up the hill, then drop down into the Lusty’s basement dressing room while wrestling out of my street clothes and into my Catholic schoolgirl uniform with an apple fritter clenched between my teeth.
On the nine, I’d be ready to punch back in on the reliable old Lusty time clock, and set the next dancer free on reprieve. Not wanting to leave a sister hanging, efficiency became my strong suit.
The Lusty had many distinguishing characteristics—a cocky feminist underpinning that couldn’t be found in any other strip club or peep show in the country, a dynamic, punky-queer dancer corps, and a sense of humor about its onanistic mission objective.
On a more pragmatic level, management accepted that dancers had lives beyond their jobs, and that, in fact, dancing wasn’t even the central point around which their lives were organized. I met more than one of the alleged mythical “PhD candidate strippers” working here. They are real, if rare.
For all its positive attributes, the Lusty hardly wanted for shortcomings. For starters, it was—and I say this affectionately—a dump.
The endlessly cheerful support staff made sure that the stage and Private Pleasures booth were tidy, and the
dressing room as neat as could be, but the public areas
resembled a dimly lit Dionysian hellscape in which one
could almost hear the carpet squish.
The business’s feminist philosophy didn’t do much to protect you when, as a dancer, you reached the inevitable burnout of physical and psychological overexposure that comes from TMI being your day job.
And while the hourly wage meant a girl didn’t have to exhaust herself hustling for tips, the pay was quite low by industry standards—typically from the low-teens to low-twenties per hour.
Still, for an enterprising artist, social reformer, or student who was willing to dive into the sex industry but didn’t want to feed her soul to it, the Lusty was a reliable, companionable choice…
…You can continue reading Lily Burana’s full article here.
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Lily Burana has written for The Washington Post, The New York Times, and GQ. She is the author of three books, including Strip City: A Stripper’s Farewell Journey Across America and the novel Try.
(Via Jolene Parton/YouTube and Atlantic)