Keep your lovely lady lumps to yourself.

My good friend Terry had his last day at work yesterday. To celebrate his moving on “to bigger and better things” he wanted to go out with some of the boys from work. Fair enough, dealer’s choice as they say. He decided he wanted to go to one of the city’s more infamous entertainment venues – The Landing Strip.

Never having been to a female strip club before I was intrigued indeed. The first thing I noticed was the difference between a female strip joint and a male one. The men were all sitting around chatting, pouring beer down their gullet, stuffing their faces with chicken wings (that is not what I pictured when guys said they got ‘sticky fingers’ at a strip bar, but glad that is what it turned out to be – yuck) and occasionally looking at the stage show. The polar opposite of that is a visit to Chippendales where the female audience goes ape when the strippers hit the stage. And when the tea bagging begins you better be packing earplugs.

I didn’t plan on staying long. Honest. But did you know they have giveaways in those places? And I don’t mean a bottle of “Genital Herpes” au du parfum either – I hate that commercial. I’m sure if you wanted that, they could accommodate, but that’s not what I meant.

Try as I might I could not whip the audience into a frenzy for the pole dancers. Our group of 11 got somewhat rowdy with each pitcher of beer but I was the only one to lose my voice. I hate it when a good performance goes unrewarded.

The only thing that raised interest that evening (that I saw anyway, who knows what was being raised in the private booths) was when ‘Miranda’ walked on stage in a Labatt’s Blue T-shirt. ‘Dave’ the announcer said that whoever gave Miranda their underwear first got the t-shirt. Well a boy can’t have too many beer shirts can he? Then again, maybe he can. In fact, I think there should be a limit of say, one per person. Per lifetime. Anyway, t-shirt or not, I love a challenge and a chance to be an exhibitionist. So does my co-worker Dan. By the time I had one cowboy boot off he was naked from the waist down. (P.S., congratulations to Dan’s wife!). Not a quitter am I, so I finished and tossed my jockeys (the brand, not the cut) on stage. Exhilaration soon turned to horror when I found out that second prize was a lap dance! How about a turn on the brass pole instead?

Before I knew what was happening I had a woman (we did not exchange names) standing in front of me with a large bouncer next to her. I politely asked if she would dance for Terry as he would get more enjoyment out of it. Apparently, lap dances are like airline tickets - neither refundable nor transferable.

“No touching”she said coyly. “Ditto” I replied. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that and proceeded to ‘entertain’ me. No offence dear, if you by some chance read this (six degrees of separation and all that), I would have had more pleasure from a rousing version of “let me entertain you” sung by Liza (with a ‘Z’, not Lisa with an ‘S’). Nice effort though. Great thighs.

My biggest concern as she did her bump and grind was that she was going to leave a stain or skid mark on my pants. I was glad when it was over and that my suede pants were left unharmed. All in all a harmless experience and a good lesson learned – don’t give your undergarments to strangers.