America’s strip clubs are closing at record numbers, and that’s supposed to be good. But maybe it’s not. For all their sleaze, strip clubs are strangely human places—loud, flawed, and honest about what they sell. There’s no pretending, no moral pretense. Desire meets desperation, and everyone leaves a little poorer. But at least it’s real. They’re cathedrals of the secular, serving the same hunger that churches once fed. The need to be seen, to feel something true, to be around others who are also searching.
I just finished writing an article about saving America’s churches. I didn’t expect the next one would be about saving its strip clubs. But both, in their own way, offer confession. One offers forgiveness, the other distraction. One feeds the soul, the other flatters the flesh. Both are gathering places for the lost and restless. For all their grime and heartbreak, strip clubs don’t lie about their purpose. The dancer knows she’s selling an illusion, and the customer knows he’s buying one. Nobody claims virtue. Nobody claims purity. In a time obsessed with posturing and curated images, that blunt honesty is refreshing.
Yet the neon is dimming. The pole’s being replaced by a phone screen. What once required a drive, a drink, and a little courage now takes a few taps. Lust hasn’t vanished—it’s simply been uploaded. The difference is that the old ritual required human contact. There was talk, laughter, embarrassment, even friendship. There was shame, but also touch. Strip clubs are social, even in their sin. They force people into proximity. Men meet other men. They drink, they vent, they share stories they can’t tell elsewhere. The setting might be sordid, but the connection is genuine.
Now, desire lives in isolation. OnlyFans, endless porn sites, and AI companions have taken over the business of intimacy. They promise the same thrill, but without contact or consequence. You don’t have to speak, tip, or risk rejection. Everything’s clean, quiet, and cold. Strip clubs are imperfect, but they depend on presence. You have to show up. You have to look someone in the eye. You have to acknowledge another person’s existence. Digital desire demands nothing and gives nothing back. It’s fantasy without friction.
That friction once kept us human. Strip clubs still run on interaction. There’s a rhythm and routine. The men aren’t always there for lust; often, it’s company. The dancers aren’t always victims; they’re workers with rules, regulars and resilience. These places still function on mutual recognition. Both sides know the score, and in that, there’s dignity.
The economic reality matters too. A single club supports bartenders, bouncers, DJs, cleaners, cooks, and drivers. Many of them work cash-in-hand, scraping by on late nights and long hours. When these clubs close, those jobs vanish. And for many, there’s nowhere else to go. The women who once danced aren’t about to become AI developers or marketing consultants. This was their livelihood, just as plumbing is for plumbers or preaching is for priests. It’s work, and it’s disappearing. In its place comes a farcical form of “empowerment” that isolates rather than employs. The woman who once performed before a crowd now films herself alone, selling pixels to strangers. The man who once spent an evening at the bar now scrolls through a feed in silence. What looks like liberation is just loneliness with better lighting.
And yet, the culture cheers. The same critics who once condemned strip clubs as degrading now celebrate OnlyFans as progress. They call it autonomy, a feminist reinvention of the old trade. But nothing has changed. The degradation is the same—it’s just more convenient. The digital version removes the humanity, the humor, the noise, the terrible music, the feeling of being among others. Strip clubs still pulse with life.
Their decline isn’t just a story about sex. If anything, it's more about disconnection. Churches, diners, bars, and bowling alleys, once vital meeting points, are all fading. The strip club is part of that larger collapse of community. One more space where the lonely used to find each other in person. These places might not have preached virtue, but they offered contact, and contact is what holds a country together.
Liberals may call them outdated. Conservatives may call them immoral. Both may be missing the point. The real danger isn’t the sin but the silence that follows. When even our vices go digital, we lose the messy, unfiltered texture of being human. We stop talking, stop touching, stop trying. What remains is a cold simulation of connection—desire by subscription, companionship by code.
Strip clubs aren’t sacred, but they are stubbornly real. They demand that people be physically present, awkward, and most of all, alive. They’re places of noise and nerves, of leering and longing. They are, in their own primitive way, reminders that want is part of the human experience. Because the real loss isn’t moral but mortal. When the lights go out in both church and club, what dies isn’t faith or lust, but life itself.