I suppose there is something that can be said for restraint and discipline. Some people, given an inch, will abuse the privilege and take a mile. Perhaps this is the best argument of the straight-laced for authority. Some people will say other people don't know how to deal with a little freedom. I'm given a significant amount of license with the content of this column and I know exactly what to do with it: I head for the strip clubs.

While the clubs I had in mind are not focused on restraint, discipline, abuse and authority, my aim was nevertheless to experience some of the variety found in Denver's ordinance-heavy nightspots. Establishments with double entendres on their marquees as flexible as the employees.

The original idea was to visit three strip clubs: a high-end straight strip club (where Bronco linemen go to play), a lowball straight strip club (where retired Bronco linemen without sound financial planning become doormen) and a gay strip club. I wanted to hit the gay strip club because for me it would be a challenge, which all good stories have (and which is lacking in any joke about burly men who dogpile in shimmery tights). Initially, I had planned to go stag, alone, Swaggart, throughout this T&A buffet. Then my editor had an inspired idea, like putting chairs on the set of the Jerry Springer show.

"I know someone who would be perfect to do this story with you," my editor said. "She is kind of into this sort of thing."

She. She is kind of into this sort of thing. If I were an idle, corn-fed, native son of Nebraska-- emphatically, I am not-- but if I were, this would be like finding an unattended case of gold Krylon on the loading dock and nailing a seven-ten split on the same day. Though probably not in that order. Hitting the titty bar with a woman is not only fun, it's absolution. Imagine Jenny Craig giving you a jar of mayonnaise, or finding a leopard strolling about in an exotic leopard skin jacket; suddenly the guilt is gone. The supposedly aggrieved party has suddenly sprung for validation beer and pizza.

We'll call her by an assumed name, "Delores," which is sort of silly, only because if her father read this piece with her given name it wouldn't be silly. Did you know Dolores used to be a stripper? A metropolitan swath does now but Daddy doesn't, which is sort of typical. Ignorance keeps family functions functioning.

But ignorance does nothing for my column, which trucks in truth like an overloaded semi-trailer of live chickens that topples across the freeway during rush hour. And the truth is that walking into a strip club with a girl gets you the sort of attention usually lavished upon a Shaq or a sheik. Okay, my column also smuggles hefty bricks of exaggeration underneath the poultry/truth analogies, but bear with me goddammit. Those dirty looks you know you get from strippers behind your back? The kind of gazes that say, "Welcome to my wage slavery, how may I barely tolerate your existence?" With a female at your side, the dancers will catch your eye and give you the sort of dirty look you hope for when you're shelling out for a $5 Coors.

Dolores said this ice breaking effect is because other girls are non-threatening. We were sitting at a table between two stages at PT's Gold Club at the time, and though there were ample distractions on either side, I was listening. I said that female customers may simply be a welcome change of pace. In retrospect, I concede that Dolores was probably right on this point. However, remember I was trying to think and talk with stripper ass in the face, which is much like attempting to drive a car while talking on a cell phone and drinking coffee with stripper ass in the face.

Not that most guys can return a dancer's come-hither look even if they get one. At a nudie bar, eye contact is treated like the bathroom door handles: sparingly. "The guys who come just once in a while try with every ounce of strength to look those girls in the eye," Dolores said. "The guys that are there all the time are like, 'Yup, there're some tits in my face. Screw her face, I don't care. What else is she going to rub on me? '"

I tried to respond, but I cleared my throat instead.

"More grunting?" she asked. Throughout the evening, I had grunted and sighed when my wit gave out, which was often. I couldn't concentrate when some girl started concentrating on me. Dolores found this amusing.

"All the blood has gone out of my brain," I said.

"Seriously, I'm amazed you can form a complete sentence."

Porno movie dialogue isn't weak. It's just realistic.

Why haven't militant feminists embraced the strip club? Here is an institution that renders men nothing more than shuffling simps (one p only, please) who subsidize the college tuitions and Camaro payments of hard working young women. If the concern is Objectification of Women (which never took off as a gentlemen's club name), women can always return the favor by hitting a male strip club.

We tried and failed to do that. Club Stud, a gay establishment on Broadway, was the only strip club of men, for men (and a few intrepid women) in Denver. It's out of business now. Apparently, this cow-town is cutting back on the beef. While the cut-rate all-nude emporiums still remained, my past experience with such places has been harrowing. Oftentimes, the only tip you want to give those poor girls is to get a clinical diagnosis of the problem.

So Dolores and I sought clarity in martinis at one of the Blue/Purple/Citrus/Ice Martini bars where nobody knows your name but everybody can list their hair gel ingredients. It's all pretty simple; while guys dig the visual and girls focus on "the verbs" and personality, everybody loves stripper chicks in platform shoes.

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