What Really Happens in the VIP Room of a Strip Club Married men crying in the arms of a dancer is more common than you think. Erin Taylor Erin Taylor Sep

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What Really Happens in the VIP Room of a S*********
Married men crying in the arms of a dancer is more common than you think.
Erin Taylor
Erin Taylor
Sep 9, 2020 · 7 min read
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Photo by Louis Hansel @shotsoflouis on Unsplash

If you’re looking for a N*** story about the champagne room of a s*********, I must let you know up front, this story is not it.

When I started off as a twenty-something stripper many years ago, I too imagined the X** things that happened in every private room of a gentlemen’s club. And sure, I encountered these scenarios over the years — of course, I did — but what happened more often in the VIP rooms was a glimpse into the human heart. And I’d like to share some of those stories here.

Strip clubs are designed for seduction. The flashing lights, the nearly deafening music, the beautiful women, the bottles of champagne. If you’re open to a good time surrounded by alcohol and nearly naked (or sometimes naked) ladies, the s********* is a promising place to be.

But the agenda of a s********* is not a hidden one; the massive buildings with no windows and winding staircases are attractive and flashy — designed to make you forget what time it is, how much money you’ve spent so far, or where you should be instead.

And the women who work there will do just that — they’ll entertain you into nirvana. If you want us to dance, we’ll dance. If you want us to talk, we’ll talk (as long as you’re paying). If you want us to come home with you, we’ll play along and nod suggestively as if we will, even though you know, and we know, it will never happen. And if you want us to listen while you cry, even hold your hand, we’ll do that. It’s just part of the job.

I started stripping after university to give myself a break before settling down in the 9–5 business world. At this point in my life, I was supposed to be working, but I got naked instead so I could make my own schedule and see the world. It was and always will be a glorious memory in my past. But it wasn’t all fun and games.
Many customers were rude, inconsiderate, pushy, and gross.

A lot of them didn’t give a damn about consent, and in strip clubs, consent is still necessary. If a girl asks you to stop touching her breast or her hair, you better listen or you risk an accident of a spilled drink on your lap or better yet, an ejection from the club by a 250-pound security guard.

The customers that were there for a good time were my favorite. They were willing to spend money, get drunk, and overall, just have a blast. These were the ones that kept me going night after night. But the ones that were the most depressing to be around were the heartbroken men.
What really happens in the VIP room at a s*********?

On my first night in the champagne room, I really didn’t know what to expect. I knew I would dance in a private room for my customer, but I hoped I wouldn’t be dancing for the entire hour — I’d be exhausted if that were the case.

(For anyone unfamiliar, a champagne room is a curtained off or closed-door private room where the customer pays a flat fee per hour. The customer is also usually required to purchase a bottle of champagne or wine to use the room. Sometimes it’s just cocktails. Either way, it’s privacy and alcohol for you and the customer, although cameras are always on and your VIP server will come in from time to time to check-in.)

Thankfully, as soon as we got our drinks that night, my customer *John asked me to sit down so we could talk.

“Ahh, a talker. Score,” I thought. “I won’t have to dance the entire time.”
Yes, he was a talker, but I’d soon find out he was a broken soul.

I didn’t know what to do with this fifty-year-old man who ended up crying in my lap. He sobbed for most of our hour together about his lesbian wife cheating on him with her best friend in their bed while he was away on business. I wanted to console him, but honestly, I didn’t know what to say. I was 22 years old. No one had warned me about this depressing side of the s*********. And I’d discover over the years that this was something that happened often.

With time, I learned and tried to be as kind and healing to these wounded men as I could.

Imagine the most naked, unethical, and drunken therapist, with long hair extensions and fake eyelashes — that was me.
Over the next three years, I held the hands of many broken men.

I met an older man who was struggling with his s******** and could not leave his wife of 30+ years. After he became a regular of mine, I wondered why he wasn’t going to see a licensed professional clinician. Or going to a gay club for dances. I asked him about it once I’d gotten comfortable enough with him.

He explained to me there were a solace and familiarity holding a nearly naked woman. It scared him to bring such an irreversible shift into his life, and he wanted to keep things as normal as possible for as long as he could. Strip clubs and naked women for him were normal, so he kept coming until one day, I never heard from him again.
I also held the hands of couples who weren’t right for each other.

There was a couple who came in every Saturday night to get “couple-dances” from me and then left in a raging fight. It never failed.

I couldn’t just tell them that insecure women and strip clubs do not mix — you never call an insecure woman insecure — so they kept coming back to the club and asking for me. It was excruciating, but they tipped me well, so I played my part in their game.

At one point, they stopped paying me to dance and instead paid me to listen to their awkward disagreements and plans for threesomes and then ask me to give my educated opinion.

Again, a professional therapist would’ve been more helpful for these two (and probably cheaper), but they insisted on my company. So, I stuck around.

They texted me months after I saw them that they were getting a divorce and wouldn’t be coming in again. It was awkward — even more so when the man in the relationship returned to see me without his wife, begging me to date him outside of the club.

It’s no secret that many people have strong negative opinions of strip clubs and, by association, strippers. These places are not for everyone and there’s nothing wrong with accepting that you wouldn’t be comfortable seeing naked women prance around making thousands of dollars a night–or watching your significant other getting rubbed on by an attractive woman wearing almost nothing. It’s not for everyone, and it says nothing bad about you or your relationship if you don’t enjoy adult entertainment.

But I write this story to provide a glimpse into the human side of the club.

Strippers are not there to steal your men. We’re working, paying our bills, feeding our families, and just trying to make the best of our situation. Many of us are there because we want to be. Some of us are not there by choice.

Most of the time, we’re there to be a pretty companion and listen. We pretend to be interested in conversations about the latest episode of Big Bang Theory. We listen to married men cry about their failing marriage and offer advice. We listen to men who can’t get it up in the bedroom and are looking for V*****. And we listen with an open mind because it’s part of the job.

While the movies and rap videos paint strip clubs in a certain light, darkened by hard drugs, home wreckers, sinful women and cheating men, there is more than meets the eye.

The women (and men) who work there, and the men who frequent them, are human. They have families; they have marital problems, money troubles, work issues.

They like to be entertained by flashing lights, gorgeous women, and piles of money, but besides that, they seek a connection with another human to distract them from everything else in their life. That’s why they are there.

And no matter who you are, what you look like, how old you are, or how you found yourself at this place, the s********* welcomes anyone with a pocket full of cash. And if you’re willing to play into the fantasy, then we are too. We’re looking for that distraction, just as you are. Only we’re getting paid while we search.

New Confession

My ex wanted freedom.”

But what he really wanted was freedom without consequence, exploration without discomfort, and openness without emotional accountability.

He talked about growth, about curiosity, about not wanting to feel “limited.” But what he actually meant became clearer over time: he wanted expansion that didn’t challenge his emotional stability, and change that didn’t require him to confront himself.

He wanted to rewrite the structure of the relationship without having to rewrite anything inside himself.

At first, it sounded like confidence. Like vision. Like someone trying to evolve beyond traditional boundaries. But confidence is only real when it survives contact with discomfort. And the moment discomfort appeared, what he had wasn’t confidence—it was preference.

He wanted things to go a certain way, and anything that didn’t align with that started to feel like resistance.

That was the first fracture.

The conversations he dismissed as unnecessary tension were actually checkpoints. The discomfort he labeled as overthinking was actually information. And the warnings he heard as opposition were actually attempts to show him what he was walking toward.

Not because anyone could see the future—but because behavior reveals trajectory long before consequences arrive.

People don’t suddenly collapse into chaos. They move toward it gradually, through small justifications that feel reasonable at the time.

And that’s what made it hard to notice in real time. Nothing looked extreme on its own. Each moment could be explained. Each decision could be defended. Each boundary pushed could be rationalized.

But together, they formed a pattern.

And patterns don’t need prediction. They only need continuation.

At some point, what he called openness stopped being a conversation and started becoming an expectation. And what should have required careful emotional honesty became something closer to entitlement to explore without fully absorbing the emotional cost.

That’s where things started to change.

Because relationships don’t only break from betrayal or conflict. They also break from imbalance—when one person is trying to preserve emotional structure while the other is testing how far it can stretch.

He thought he was expanding possibilities. But what he was actually testing was durability.

And emotional systems don’t strengthen under pressure when the pressure is applied without awareness. They fracture quietly first, long before anything becomes obvious.

That’s why the early warnings matter. Not because they’re dramatic, but because they’re subtle. A pause in tone. A shift in energy. A conversation that no longer feels fully safe to have. A repetition of concerns that start to feel like they aren’t landing anymore.

Those aren’t small things. They are the beginning of distance forming in real time.

But distance is easy to ignore when the goal is still in front of you.

So he pushed forward.

He kept believing that if the idea made sense logically, then it should work emotionally. As if understanding something intellectually guarantees stability in practice.

It doesn’t.

Because emotional reality doesn’t negotiate with logic. It responds to impact.

And eventually, impact arrived.

What he called freedom didn’t feel like freedom when it was real.

It felt like uncertainty he couldn’t regulate. It felt like comparison he didn’t anticipate. It felt like consequences he didn’t emotionally prepare for.

And the thing he believed he was gaining started to feel like something he couldn’t fully control anymore.

But by then, the structure had already changed.

Not in one moment. In many.

In conversations that didn’t repair what they should have. In warnings that didn’t land the way they were meant to. In trust that didn’t return to its original shape after it was stretched too far.

Because trust doesn’t snap all at once.

It thins.

It weakens in places no one looks closely enough at until it finally gives out under ordinary weight.

And when it does, it rarely feels dramatic to the person who saw it coming. It feels final.

Not angry. Not reactive.

Just done.

By the time he fully understood what had happened, it wasn’t a sudden loss—it was the result of everything that had already been decided through repeated patterns that never corrected themselves.

And that’s the part people miss when they think relationships fall apart in big moments.

They don’t.

They fall apart in the accumulation of ignored ones.

Some doors don’t break open.

They close.

And they stay closed—not as punishment, not as revenge, but because clarity eventually replaces tolerance.

And once clarity takes hold, there’s nothing left to argue with.

Only the realization that it wasn’t one decision that ended it.

It was every earlier one that seemed small enough to overlook at the time.

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