Oh, No O.

“Oh…Oh…Oh…Oh!

Oh, yeah…Oh…Oh! Oh my God! Oh!

Yes! Oh, yes! Ohhhh!

Yes…oh, yes!

Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh! Oh! Oh!

Ohhhhhhhhhh, yes!

Yes! Yesssssss!

Ohhhhhhhhhh…

Yes!”

Three weeks ago – feeling quite brazen, at that moment, in all my feminist bravado – I arranged to enjoy an evening at the performance of a popular male exotic dance revue, The Thunder from Down Under, visiting Simi Valley. Indeed the little PD on my right shoulder was shocked and scandalized they’d be performing in our conservative, three-Wal*mart town. But the devilish diva bending my left ear was doing backflips. For days leading up to the event my friend Janice and I posted about the wild and wanton evening we’d planned as we encouraged other women to join our liberated band of vixen voyeurs.

More than a full hour before the opening curtain we gathered in the parking lot. This itself was unusual because I’m never early for anything. My daughter jokes that PD Standard Time is T+ oh-are-you-there-already? But not tonight, honey.

“Reserved seating or general admission?” The difference in price was less than the cost of a couple of my favorite Starbucks Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccinos. In the millisecond I pondered my options, the club’s owner approached and clarified: “What she means, ladies, is sweat or no sweat?”

Moments later we took our seats at our damn-near-onstage tables, ordered our dinner – nachos smothered in beef and cheese, dripping with guacamole – and a little something with which to wash them down — and loosen our inhibitions.

The music went up as the lights went down. Donning my cloak of invisibility, I sank into my seat as half a dozen spectacular, semi-nude Roman centurions swung their swords as they rhythmically writhed and caressed their glistening bodies onstage. After a few moments they descended into the audience. Suddenly I found my glasses – the better with which to see their uh, pecs, my dear – being smashed into my face as the hands behind my head shoved it into a firm – okay, very firm…and lumpy – silken cushion. All I could do was wrap my arms around my captor, grab and hold on for the grind – excuse me – the ride.

Although the security of my invisibility had been breached, I whispered a quick ‘thank you’ to my guardian angels both at the pleasure of the face-full of sweaty, musky testosterone – as well as the fact my ‘humiliation’ was over at the beginning of the show. Normally, I’m not chosen for this type of thing anyway — this time was a fluke — but now I could truly sit back and relax.

Midway through the show, the emcee announced he wanted a trio of women who enjoyed a challenge to come up on stage. I sat back in my chair and relaxed, as neither his golden surfer locks nor his come-hither eyes ignited my volunteer spirit. From the other end of the room he led two lambs (well, okay, they were as innocent as lambs can be at a male strip show) to the slaughter. Suckers. Then he paced back to center stage and pointed.

“You!”

In total shock and disbelief – and feeling utterly betrayed by my guardian angels – I pointed at myself and mouthed “Me?”

“Yes, you!” Okay, his beckoning eyes didn’t do it, but my resistance dissipated at the Aussie accent that escaped that disarming smile. Good thing we weren’t alone or my resistance might not have been the only thing that melted.

“Come on up here!” Against my better judgment, and in fear of being seen as a party-pooper, I joined the other two contestants.

“Okay. We’re going to have a little competition tonight. I’m going to have the three of you do something. Then we’re going to let the audience vote and decide which of you gave the best performance.”

And the Oscar went to…me!

Who’d have thought fifteen years of fake orgasms would ever pay off?