Pop goes my cherry, at the ripe age of 37

First, get your mind out of the gutter: I have three teenage daughters, you can see from my profile, so I lost that cherry ages ago :)

I finally got drunk for the first time the other night, during my first-ever male revue.

Yes, I ended a run of sobriety that lasted 37 years, four months and seven days surrounded by nearly naked men, after more than 19 years of seeing only one man naked.

What can I say? When I make up my mind to do something, I do it right!

Unfortunately, my oldest is disappointed in me for drinking — "Mom, how could you, after all these years?!?" — and believes I "cheated" on her pops by checking out other guys.

Ummm ... Who's the grown-up here, missy?

Irresponsible me

It's been a long summer. We bought a house; my oldest moved out with her boyfriend; my middle one started college; and my baby started high school.

So, when the gals at the office suggested a Girls Night Out at the Airport Lounge strip club in Milwaukee — where they host a male revue every Saturday night in the basement, aka the Cockpit — I jumped on it. (The idea, I mean ;))

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not at all straight-laced. I grew up in da U.P. (the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, for those not native to the area), where drinking is a sport, lifestyle and food alternative. My folks, no matter how poor we were, always had a fridge stocked with beer.

And, at the risk of sounding like a cliche, I have to say it: I have many friends who drink. I've spent a lot of time in bars, good, bad and ugly. I'm a top pick when it comes to selecting a designated driver.

The hubby and I have also been to more heavy metal and hard rock concerts than the average joe: We tried counting one night, and we got up to about 100. As you can imagine, I am no stranger to lewd and/or drunken behavior.

While I may sometimes act the part, I have never been drunk, stoned, high or otherwise inebriated myself. Oops! Addendum: Until this past weekend.

And, somehow, I managed to miss out on all the bachelorette parties involving sweaty, beefy, nearly naked men. How, given what a fan I am of the opposite sex, I'm not sure ...

No ding-dongs sighted

My oldest couldn't bring herself to say the word "penis" — or any of its common nicknames — in front of me and her dad, so she opted for "ding-dong." (Yes, she is straight-laced. When you have somewhat wild parents spawned by insane relatives, you have to rebel by going clean ;))

No, I didn't see any.

I did see butt cheeks, though. And six-pack abs. And thighs. And delts. And pecs.

Up really, really close. In live and living color. (Yes, I'd go back — in a heartbeat!!!)

And, I have to say, it was a pretty pleasant "first" experience.

The crowd was small — maybe three or four dozen women, by the end of the night — and the room intimate. The men danced on a slightly elevated stage that was shaped, as one of my coworkers pointed out, like a pair of balls. (For my daughter's sake, I won't clarify what kind of balls ;)) Two circles, really, each with a stripper pole in the center.

A bar ran round the two circles, so we were sitting about a foot away from the stage. And the men.

It's not a place to go if you're seriously shy. The guys are more than willing to jump over the bar to sit in your lap or stand over you while gyrating — in some cases, uninvited.

But I can honestly say I wasn't uncomfortable.

It helped that my girlfriend Ann bought me four Bailey's Irish Creams ...

But I was having fun even before I started drinking. Everyone was laughing at what was clearly a stage show. The actors engaged the audience, yes, but there was no real intimacy. No eye contact. No personal conversation. No groping — by the guys, anyway ;)

And Ann, a veteran of the strip-club scene, was a blast. She'd never been to a male revue, either, despite her numerous to strip clubs with her guy friends. Let's just say that she smoked many a cigarette by evening's end ...

(Yes, watching my coworkers was a blast, as well. However, I don't have their permission to blog about them, so I'm going to stick to Ann and me :))

Our only disappointment was the fact that we had a woman waiting on us. Where was our sweaty, beefy, nearly naked male waiter?

Boys, feel free to apply for the job ;)

No thinking allowed

Here's the part where I get serious, so stop reading if you're not interested.

In all honesty, I probably won't go back anytime soon. Here's the problem with being sober: You observe, and you think.

At least one of those strippers, Ann pointed out, was young enough to be dating my daughter. Ewww! Thank you, Ann, for pointing out that I'm a dirty old woman. (I already knew it, of course ;))

Not that big a deal, the feminist in me argues. And I agree.

But another used his Marine uniform as his costume. Yes, I checked: It was a real Marine uniform, which he wore while in service not so long ago. I started to think about why he was on that stage, and ... well, that's a buzz kill.

Ann reminded me that a lot of strippers choose their jobs, freely and willingly. She knows women (and now men) who enjoy the exhibitionism, the control, the attention ...

But what about those who don't enjoy it? Who see it as a means to an end: a decent paycheck earned with few job skills. Who are driven to it by demons from past — or present — lives?

Exploitation is exploitation, whether the exploited is male or female, the exploiter male or ... me.

That's where the Bailey's helped. I stopped thinking and started giggling about half way through the show. Phew!

But, I have to admit: Just as some strippers like the control they feel on stage, I dislike the lack of control I felt while sloshed.

Certainly, I couldn't have gotten home on my own. I was too drunk to drive, and I spent all my money in singles, so a taxi was out of the question. (Ann called her boyfriend to pick us up, and we could have called my hubby; no worries. But that's not the point ... ) I couldn't even buckle my seat belt once I was in the car, for Pete's sake! (I swear it was broken :))

I used to worry I would misbehave if drunk. I didn't. I was too giggly to be turned on by the show — sorry, guys! — and too enamored by Ann to wander off on my own. And, frankly, I didn't go to the show looking to get ding-dong. I went to hang out with the gals, not cheat on my babies' daddy.

This all makes me wonder about folks who use being drunk as an excuse for bad behavior. I still knew right from wrong... and, even with my inhibitions lowered and temptation waving its ding-dong a foot from my face, I did right.

Sorta right.

Or horribly, horribly wrong, if you ask my oldest ;)