It’s a Thursday night in North Beach and I’m throwing back a shot of warm vodka in a piss-soaked alleyway. 

Across from me, glittering signs from nearby strip joints flicker, daring those with enough money to burn to wander inside. Home to the Condor Club and bygone Lusty Lady, this infamous red light district has long symbolized freedom, sexuality and excess in San Francisco — and Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club, the place where I’m about to have dinner, is no exception.   

Flynt, the porn pioneer “who built his business interests on the hardcore raunch and grotesque parody of Hustler magazine,” opened the club in 2002, shamelessly promoting his X-rated ventures in an audacious gold-plated wheelchair. Though he died in 2021 at the age of 78, his legacy lives on through his strip club franchise, which is proudly emblazoned with that rude, cigar-smoking cartoon beaver.  

Unlike most of his locations throughout the U.S., the Hustler Club in San Francisco promises elevated adult entertainment, along with gourmet-style cuisine: For $32, you can indulge in a New York strip steak dinner, or shell out your last $20 bill for an “All American” breakfast loaded with eggs, bacon and buttermilk pancakes. Because I make poor choices, I volunteered to try their breakfast (and because my employer is cheap, I pregamed outside in the cold first).     

When my guest and I visit on a brisk January evening, the club is nearly empty. Strippers in thong bodysuits and 6-inch Pleaser heels text at the bar, bored. We take a seat at a table facing the stage, where an old man sits in the front row to watch a dancer gyrate to abrasive, pulse-pounding EDM. Before she can finish her routine, a disembodied voice on the sound system advertises intimate “one-on-one experiences” and champagne rooms, all of which appear dark and vacant. 

Like many strip clubs, the atmosphere at Larry Flynt’s is far from erotic: the mirrored walls and ceilings are bejeweled with security cameras that watch us from every corner. Above us, colored lights flash and garish disco balls spin. It feels nauseating, like a funhouse. A man sitting alone nervously jiggles his beer bottle, while another in a drab puffy vest walks inside and paces around the bar, restless.  

Service is slow, but we finally manage to place an order for Larry Flynt’s signature buffalo chicken wings, the All American breakfast, a side of fries and two painfully expensive Coors Lights. After the damage was done, it amounted to a staggering $73, but we were nothing short of entertained. While we wait for our food, we see a dancer pick up a meal delivery from the security guard. All around us the dancers wander, carrying glittery pink boxes full of cash and occasionally chatting us up. Half an hour later, our romantic dinner arrives — and it’s an emotional roller coaster.    

Tragically, the All American breakfast arrived cold. When I took a bite out of a pancake generously dusted with powdered sugar, it was tough and rubbery, almost as though it was left out from the night before. The bacon and sausage, my guest told me, were stiff and rubbery, but still a step up from the offerings at a free continental breakfast. 

But the buffalo chicken wings. Oh, the wings.  

Juicy, tender and generously spiced, the meat pulled right off the bone, pleasantly surprising us both. Served with an ample pile of carrots, celery and a side of ranch, the signature dish was easily the star of the show. 

Frankie Fusco, Hustler Club general manager and industry veteran, knows this.    

“We’ve always had people talk about our wings,” he told me over the phone. Understandably, he wouldn’t say what made them so delicious.

“That’s the secret I can’t give away,” he said.  

Unlike Gold Club, which has an executive chef who attended culinary school, Fusco helped cobble the menu together with his team of line cooks.  Clients don’t come here for the dining experience, he explained — rather, the menu is a marketing tool: a way to prevent hungry tech workers and entrepreneurs from leaving the club and taking their money with them. It provides, as Fusco calls it, “one-stop shopping.”    

But even so, the Hustler Club is struggling. According to the research firm IBISWorld, COVID-19 cudgeled the adult entertainment industry, drastically changing consumer spending habits and leading to declining revenues at strip clubs across the U.S. The multibillion-dollar industry’s market size — or total number of potential clients — has declined 5.1% per year from 2018 to 2023, and data shows that revenue hasn’t returned to pre-pandemic highs. 

Not to mention, strip clubs were barred from receiving funds from the Paycheck Protection Program during the pandemic, missing out on billions of dollars that served as a lifeline for small businesses, Reuters reported. Congress wasn’t trying to stamp out adult entertainment, Circuit Judge David Hamilton told the outlet, “It has simply chosen not to subsidize it.”

To date, cities like San Francisco and New York still haven’t fully recovered, Fusco said. Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays are usually the Hustler Club’s busiest days, but it just isn’t as packed as it used to be. The regulars, like the old guy we saw earlier, are basically keeping the lights on.

“Thank god for them,” he said. “… I don’t think it’s the lack of hospitality. I don’t think it’s the lack of entertainers. I just think it’s the lack of people in San Francisco that want to go out.” 

As a result, the dancers are struggling, too. Some travel from Sacramento or as far south as Santa Cruz, Fusco said, but many of them are putting in their two-week notices because it’s not worth the gas and hotel costs. Oftentimes, they don’t live in the same city where they work, he explained.  

With this in mind, it seems like all the odds are stacked against the live entertainers — but, as the club’s name implies, it’s a hustle, and people need to make money no matter what conditions they’re in.  

That evening, goth dancers were still committed to putting on a show, even in a dark, empty room. A girl onstage in black lingerie started swaying to Deftones’ “Change (In the House of Flies),” but impressively pivoted to twerking when the music abruptly switched to hip-hop. Another dancer who may have been auditioning stripped to a nu metal cover of “Blue Monday,” making direct eye contact with us as we picked at cold french fries and chicken bones. It was wonderful. 

And, sure, while some of the food was more or less what I expected, I was honestly surprised by the quality of the wings. I’m still thinking about them days later — but I can’t help worrying about the future of San Francisco’s nightlife culture and how long these venues will be around for.  

As our conversation came to a close, Fusco told me that most of his employees have worked together for years. I could see it in the way that the receptionists and floor managers laughed behind the front desk, the way that the bartenders said goodbye to the old man, the way that we got lost in conversation with the security guard outside. I got the sense that, like most businesses that make up the cultural fabric of our neighborhoods, the club is almost like a family. I can only hope our government eventually sees it that way, too. 

Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club, 1031 Kearny St., San Francisco. Sunday through Wednesday, 7 p.m.-2 a.m.; Thursday, 7 p.m.-4 a.m.; Friday and Saturday, 7 p.m.-5 a.m.