Well, now. That's...unfortunate.

It began with a text message from one of the lesbian cohort. Given that it was nearing 10 p.m., I figured it was my boyfriend, but no. That's okay.

After a little coaxing, my lesbian cohort buddy finally convinced me to just go out for a couple of drinks. Since they were really only a few blocks away, it made sense to just walk that direction and see the whole crew.

I walked in the front door, spotting the entirety of the lesbian gaggle against the bar, where one of them was tending bar. Okay, that sounds like fun.

"YOU HAVE TO GET AN ALMOND JOY." (Clearly, she had been drinking.)

I quickly realized amidst the pounding techno beats and low lights there was something I didn't miss about being out at a bar. Well that, and the smoke.

Bellying up, our bartender friend began pouring a shot for me. And really, who can say no if the shot's just poured for you, right there?

My text-fiend buddy had introduced me to the bar a couple of years ago, since it was so close to my place, and unfortunately, the clientele had not changed much. While I appreciate maturity in a man, even I have limits...nobody that could legitimately be my grandfather. Outside of the geriatric gays, there were a very small handful of younger guys. Not one of them all that attractive, unfortunately. If I had made the effort to go out, I want to at least look at pretty boys...especially since we were at a predominantly gay bar.

Can't do anything about it, but looking is not a crime. (I'd see the irony of this thought later.)

After another drink and a bit more conversation, I noticed the sign taped to the mirror over the bar. Apparently, there is a weekly ritual of a DJ (that explains the techno beats) and boy dancers. Okay. So far, the single pole is empty. If I play it right, I can leave before that happens.

No such luck. About that time, some guy jumped up on the stage and grabbed hold of the pole. Damn.

Now, I don't have a great body--I will never be confused with the latest cover model of GQ, but I also have awareness of this fact. I would not dance on a pole in public. Perhaps if I had one at home, but never in public...well, unless there was lots of money and I didn't have to take off anything.

The guy was gyrating and stepping lightly to the beat. And then the shirt came off. Again, I don't have a great body, but I am aware of this fact. Apparently, he was not fully aware. Skinnier than me, yes. But no definition. And peeling off his shirt revealed a couple of tattoos and a scar I could not identify.

Well, now. That's...unfortunate. For all of us.

Not being a fan of tattoos, anyway, I am not one that's going to just eyeball them for hours. But these were oddly placed. Some tattoos on a stomach make one wonder where they lead. These stopped just shy of that curiousity-driven spot.

Then the shorts came off.

The only man I've seen in any underwear in the last several months has been my boyfriend. I actually kind of prefer keeping it that way. This guy's flat ass and less than admirable package left my mouth agape...not in anticipation of something tasty.

I left as soon as I saw an ass crack. I looked back to notice much of the lesbian crew behind me.

The lessons of the night:

If you are a guy shaking your flat ass in public, keep it covered. Otherwise, you're encouraging lesbians to go home instead of stimulating the economy through liquor.

If you think looking is not a crime, God will get you. Really. It won't be pretty.