Went to a bachelorette party this past weekend. While the night was by and large exactly what I have come to expect and accept (and enjoy) as the norm for such events (pre-gaming followed a limo ride and bar crawl through various establishments) this one had a twist.

Male stripper. That's right folks, a man who is gainfully employed to travel from abode to humble abode and take off his clothes for highly intoxicated groups of giggling women.

Now...let it be known right here and right now I do not, I repeat, do NOT enjoy male strippers. I find them to be obscene, gross, and a plethora of other disgusting and disturbing adjectives. Often they are sweaty, and smelly, and have long nasty hair (on their heads, not their bodies which, sidebar, I find it fascinating how far our culture's love of hairlessness extends...but more on that in a second) that they love to rub all over drunken unsuspecting female spectators. And, unlike female strippers, male strippers seem to have no bubble of personal space (this is your dance space, this is mine...) and freely enter into the drunken unsuspecting female spectators space. Worse yet, they seem to think that not only do we want them to touch us, but we want to touch them.

Ummm... no.

Let it be known, right here and right now, this was not my first trip to the rodeo. Oh no, dear reader(s), I have seen the male stripper in his full glory: the Revue.

During college, some of my younger sorority sisters decided to *surprise* use older sorority sisters with a trip to see a male stripper revue at a delightfully hick establishment called The Stump. Needless to say, large quantities of Pepe Lopez (Jose Cuervo's white-trash cousin) were ingested just to cope with the heinousness of the situation. I vowed, as I prayed to the porcelain gods much later that night, that never again would I allow a slimy man sporting any sort of banana hammock, be it striped, spotted or solid, to ever touch my person ever again. Ever.

So needless to say, imagine my surprise when I heard the vicious little rumor that the bride-to-be's mother-in-law had procured a stripper for the little shin-dig I was in the process of attending. I nearly dropped my beer, ladies and gents. Nearly. Dropped. My. Beer.

We were instructed to act surprised when a gent in "fireman gear" knocked on the door. Let me just say, it didn't improve from there. The man, who identified himself as "Billy the Kidd" proceeded to crack every "is it hot in here or just me?" joke that he could think of before taking off his jacket, hat and tear-away fireman's pants. He just ripped those suckers right off... but not before "teasing" us by sliding them down and then back up his hips. At one point, dear readers, I thought the man was fully nude under those pants as there was no evidence of any sort of under-roos what so ever.

The rest of the...event... consisted of dear Billy the Kid grinding his hips, ass and any other part of the groin area in the bride-to-be's face. At one point, and I kid you not, she actually said, "could you please back up a little?" And when he wasn't grinding up in her grill, he was busy dirty dancing with the... elder... ladies in the audience. Let me just say, if I were EVER to see my mother getting her freak on with a nasty-ass male stripper, I think I would vomit. So much love and kudos to the bride-to-be for her fortitude and ability to keep her lunch down. Not that my mom (or any other mom) for that matter is disgusting or vile. Quite the opposite. Just... its mom... with a nekked man. Who had a LACERATION between his but cheeks. Seriously, a LACERATION. I am happy to say that I missed a large portion of the cottage-cheesed ass grinding and banana hammock swinging from my vantage point at the basement bar which I (and my like minded friends) beat a hasty retreat to upon the first hint of grinding and swinging.

However, upon (drunken) threat of death I was ordered back outside by the bride-to-be, where I was fortunate enough (insert sarcasm here) to participate in Billy the Kidd's grand finale: The Turning of the Tables.

Dear old Billy handed the bride a wad of dollar bills and instructed her to place them on various parts of her loved ones and friend's bodies. Which she did. Then, with boom box blaring (did I mention that like some perverted Ken doll, Billy the Kidd not only had clothing, but his own accessories?) he travelled from woman to woman, sucking--yes, SUCKING--the bills off of wherever the bride had (drunkenly) placed them. Suffice to say, I moved mine from my cleavage, to my shirt sleeve. It was at this point that I experienced the Billy the Kidd Experience up close and personal. Details are as follows:

Billy the Kidd definitely stuffs his hammock. Either that or he suffered a freakish accident while in the circus and had an elephant shlong sewn on by some dwarf clown.

Billy the Kidd shaves his arms, legs, and chest but not his face. And apparently was suffering from a full body five o'clock shadow that day.

Billy the Kidd has flabby butt cheeks that are as dimpled as a baby's knees.

Billy the Kidd apparently bathes in cheap cologne.

Billy the Kidd might be a farmer in his other life, as evidenced by the tan lines half way down is non-existent bicep.

Billy the Kidd clearly wears socks with his flip flops.

As I recovered from the horror of my experience with a healthy shot of tequila, Billy the Kidd packed up his boom box and left some cards on the pool table just in case we ever required his services ever again. Based on the tanned, bulging and well oiled biceps in the picture on his calling card, I assume that Billy the Kidd is a wiz at Photo Shop.

To be fair, the Billy the Kidd Experience was... educational. I learned that when confronted with male strippers, ones best defense (and offense for that matter) is to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible. Because anything and everything is more fun when you're inebriated.