Migrant men find an unconventional path in erotic dancing that offers the possibility of economic stability — and unique challenges
by Roger Fierro
As tens of thousands of migrants have arrived in Chicago over the past two years, some are finding work as go-go dancers at bars in Chicago’s LGBTQ neighborhood. [Illustration: Gaby FeBland/for City Bureau]
Men dressed solely in underwear pepper an uncrowded, low-lit gay club in Chicago’s Boystown on a chilly weekend night. Pop music thumps loud enough to drown out intimate conversation. Bartenders mix drinks, breaking larger bills into singles for clusters of friends huddled together.
Wearing a seductive gaze and not much else, a dancer moves stoically on a glowing platform. Pale green bills peek out of his tiny briefs. This stage time serves as an ad of sorts; once off the platform, he circles the room, keeping patrons company. His goal is to spark a connection and propose a lap dance. It costs less than what you’d think — about the same as takeout dinner for one, not including tip.
It’s not my first night at the club; I’ve become a fixture among the staff and cast of dancers. The atmosphere is a stark contrast from other stories of work-starved asylum-seekers facing alleged abuse in Home Depot parking lots, barbers cutting hair in neighborhood parks, and families selling goods on busy streets.
Go-go dancing is different, requiring soft skills, charm and physical appeal, but the precarity is the same. Dancers face certain labor, safety and mental health issues — along with occasional, unwelcome groping — but seem to be having fun in spite of the challenges.
Then again, maybe they’re just excellent at creating an illusion for the sake of the fantasy.
I’m not going to tell you the name of the dancers, or even the name of the club. The reason is simple: I wanted an in-depth look at this unconventional path, and I didn’t want to compromise the dancers’ ability to make a living. In a cutthroat job market like go-go dancing, it would be too easy for a club owner to see a dancer’s name in print and cut them immediately.
The dancers requested anonymity to protect their jobs, their pending asylum applications and their own personal safety; so all names in this article have been changed.
At the start of my reporting at the Boystown clubs, I leaned over to Miguel, a Cuban go-go boy who has affectionately started calling me ella, the Spanish feminine pronoun, and ask: “Are there ever Latino nights at this club?”
He gestures to the crowd of about 20 club patrons and eight dancers, five who appear to be Latino. “Look around,” he says playfully. “This is Latino night.” In essence, he’s saying, it’s always Latino night these days.
More than 47,000 asylum seekers, mostly from Venezuela, have been flown or bussed to Chicago from Texas, and thousands of migrants are making Chicago their new home after a long trek from South America. Migrants fleeing from Venezuela are escaping hyperinflation, violence, political and economic instability, starvation and poverty.
Once they arrive in the United States, finding work is often their top priority. Most have no family or friends in the country, let alone a work permit. Some have encountered violence or labor exploitation, risking threats or working without pay in the hopes of scraping out a living.
Despite these hurdles, a few Venezuelan and Colombian migrant men are finding opportunity in bars and clubs, leveraging their eroticized personas to turn go-go dancing into a way to make ends meet.
“We want to be here and do honest work and earn our way,” says Marco, 26, who requested we not use his real name because of his pending asylum application. “I’ve worked hard doing construction and working in restaurants … I know what I’m worth.”
As one of the more popular dancers, he exudes confidence, has a slim build, visible abs and light skin. He got hired after a brief meeting with the bar’s manager — without even having to audition, he says proudly in Spanish.
He has been dancing since he was 18 and still living in Venezuela. He is married to a woman, but his sister’s gay friends told him he could make pretty good money dancing. He continued dancing when he moved with his wife to Colombia. In 2022, he and his wife decided to come to the United States. He flew from Bogotá to Mexico City, took a bus to border city Piedras Negras and crossed into the U.S. through Eagle Pass, Texas.
He spent two days in the hielera, the icebox, a name for immigration detention facilities. Once he was released and made his way to Chicago, his cousin helped him find go-go jobs. He’s applying for asylum with the help of a lawyer, who is charging him $5,500.
Marco makes his job look easy. Calm and quiet, he hangs around me between sets. “I don’t always like to dance, but I like to make money,” he tells me. When I ask him what else he likes about his job, he smiles big and says it’s chimba, a Colombian term meaning “very cool.”
As tens of thousands of migrants have arrived in Chicago over the past two years, some are finding work as go-go dancers at bars in Chicago’s LGBTQ neighborhood. [Illustrations: Gaby FeBland/for City Bureau]
His fellow dancer Brad, 28, decided to try go-go dancing after a rideshare driver confided he did it on the side and made good money. “Even more than money, what I like about it is that it’s an environment where men receive compliments,” he says, “where the male gaze is allowed.” Brad is a white actor and describes himself as a classic Clark Kent type. He has been doing go-go for the past five years and has a dedicated fan base.
A couple years ago, Brad started noticing a trend in the new guys coming onto the scene after the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. Before 2020, there were more white and straight-identifying guys, but after the pandemic, more tended to be Latino, and they make up roughly 40% of dancers now, he says.
At this particular nightclub, about seven dancers are Venezuelan or Colombian. A bar patron in town from Texas said he noticed this same trend in male strip clubs down south, as well.
The shift, in some ways, is tied to cultural tropes of Latino passion, says Héctor Carrillo, a professor of sociology at Northwestern University who studies sexuality, immigration and health. His 2017 book, “Pathways of Desire: The Sexual Migration of Mexican Gay Men,” tells the stories of gay Mexican immigrants in San Diego, before and after their journeys to the United States.
The men Carrillo spoke with saw Latino passion as a source of collective empowerment and solidarity. They “used this perception as a way to build their identities in the U.S. in a way that gave them a sense of pride,” Carrillo says.
Using that lens of empowerment, immigrants can turn the stereotype into an advantage, Carrillo says.
“People learn to recognize the embodied aspects of their sexualities — in terms of their features, their experiences — that they can bring into a sexual space, where that can give them avenues to present themselves as more attractive,” says Carrillo. Being a recent migrant might be a disadvantage in other workplaces, but for a go-go dancer, it can provide an edge.
The flip side of this perception is the oppressive Latin lover stereotype, a problematic representation that oversexualizes Latin American culture. However, in the case of migrant go-go dancers, the archetype can be leveraged as erotic capital in the form of tips.
At the clubs, you can spot the most successful dancers based on how much cash is stuffed in the various elastics of their underwear. While making the rounds, a tall, thin guy wearing a baja hoodie and a thong stays busy. He glides over to me and offers a lap dance. Admittedly, his charms are effective, but I manage to redirect his efforts toward a group of fawning would-be admirers.
As the overdressed dancer walks by, Marco said he makes “good money” twice under his breath. There was a bit of envy there, but mostly respect. Aside from Marco — who says he can make $500 on a good night and up to $1,000 on a “really good night” — some of the other migrant dancers don’t seem to make as much money as the thin, young white guys. One said he had only made $17 “so far” by midnight.
Though it varies by bar, go-go boys typically don’t make an hourly wage and work exclusively for tips. They can make enough to cover a month of rent on a good night, or if things are slow, barely enough for a car ride home.
Exotic dancer labor rights have been in the news nationally. Last fall, dancers in Los Angeles organized, resulting in the first unionized strip club in the country. In Washington state this year, advocates worked to pass the “Stripper Bill of Rights,” which includes safety measures like panic buttons, and mandatory sexual harassment training for all employees.
Out of 75 federal and state court rulings on wage and hour claims involving dancers and strip clubs from 2000 to 2015, all but three ruled in favor of the dancers, according to University of Illinois labor relations professor Michael LeRoy. (None of the cases was in Illinois.)
While the dancers are hired as contractors instead of employees, some work full time or more, says Josh, a pretty Puerto Rican guy with high cheekbones and a petite frame. His observations about the highs and lows of dancing are frank and poignant.
“The majority of this job is establishing a connection with someone and getting them to come back. Not knowing English can be a huge barrier to connecting with clients,” he says, adding that some dancers get creative and use translation apps.
Luis, another Spanish-speaking dancer, concurs.
“It’s harder for me to talk with the clients, so I don't make as much as the guys who speak English do,” Luis says in Spanish. He is cheerful but hesitant to chat, not wanting to cause any problems with his asylum application. He’s from a small Venezuelan city where, although there were gay clubs, being gay was taboo. After a couple of years in Colombia, he came to the United States in summer 2023. He and his brother had to cross the treacherous jungle twice on their journey. They now share an apartment on the Southwest Side.
Luis takes apparent pride in his body. He has been go-go dancing for less than a year and previously worked in hospitality as a “houseman” at a country club on the North Shore. He had never danced before, but he prefers working in the clubs because he can be himself and be openly gay. For him, dancing isn’t just a job, but a place where he could thrive and make community with coworkers and clients alike.
I ask a regular what makes a good dancer. He doesn’t even mention the dancing — it’s about having a nice conversation and making a convincing connection with a customer, he says.
Generous clients tend to be older men who aren’t embarrassed to be there. Others seem intimidated and content to just watch. They require coaxing to go further and seem confused about the rules of engagement. I watch as a middle-aged guy in glasses nervously pulls out two dollars to tuck into a leopard print thong while his braver friend gets a lap dance.
One memorable night, a guy in an oversized, puffy white coat stands behind Marco while the latter dances on the platform, and starts making it rain dollars. The dancer was a bit shocked, then surprised and motivated to put on a better show while being showered with money. The crowd loved it, and tips started flowing more freely.
This scene, fueled by cash and fantasy, captured a go-go club in its best moments. Still, each night, a dancer could go home with next to nothing, a huge blow for those who make their entire living from tips. This is especially true of these migrant men who do not have many other options, yet appear to be making the most of their time on the platform.
A version of this article appeared in the Sept. 5, 2024 edition of the Chicago Reader.
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