No, really. He shamed me. And not in a hot way.

Let's start at the beginning. Cassandra, a friend from college, is getting marrieduuuuggh. I'm a fucking hater. Moving on. This girl is my jam. She's snarky, laughs generously, and will pour you a double shot when you ask for a mixed drink. In short, the kind of chick whose bachelorette party you might actually want to attend. And we attended the shit out of that bachelorette party.

It all began with the classy lunch thing, with her family and friends early on in the day; four courses, champagne, gift opening (I gave her booze because that's the only gift I ever give anyone). We then reconvened at the hotel after we all went home for our afternoon mimosacomas.

As I walked into the hotel room that night, it was the standard bachelorette scene: drunken broads and cartoonish dicks everywhere. Which begs the question — why so many penises at these parties? Why did this tradition start? What is the correlation between marriage and penises, other that you are choosing just the one for the rest of your life? Because that's a pretty weak association. Or is it more related to the "bachelorette" side of things? Because, I've been a bachelorette for a hot minute, and I can tell you that is not what my day-to-day looks like. Maybe I'm doing it wrong. …

The dick theme continued as we cabbed it down to a male strip club on Broadway Street called "Boyz Town" — a name that conjures imagery of a crisis hotline or some youth program at the Y. Let me tell everyone though, the women just come vibin' through that door. Fists pumping, hips swangin', eye-fucking the shit out of whatever juicy brisket happens to be on stage. That's how we came in, and that's how each of the other two parties came in, too. I call that aggrestrogen.

Naturally, the place was full of gay cuties, and most of the strippers were obviously gay too. They kindly butched it right up for us though — which is really all the same moves just a little more front, a little less back.

I went and sat down at the table right next to the stage — like a boss. I bought a drink for my girl who put all her ones on the table and said, "have at it" — like a boss. We watched our dancer gyrate around for a while. He was humping the floor in such a manner that left me only the option of his backside. I took a dollar and nonchalantly tucked it into the waistband of his briefs. LIKE A BOSS.

Right? Wrong.

Ladies: Huge mistake. His head snapped towards me.

"Tip on the side, hands above the waist!"

I was thrown by the sudden eye contact.

"Huh? Oh, sorry, I didn't hea … "

"Tip on the SIDE, hands above the WAIST," he said haughtily as he continued humping the floor.

Alright, number one, I have been to several strip clubs in my day, the normal ones with the naked moms and daughters. I can assure you those patrons are tipping wherever they damn well please. Obviously, no one is allowed to grab the ladies (on stage), and if they give the bouncers the nod, you're out no matter what you did. But there's none of this "tip on the side, hands above the waist" bullshit.

Number two, I'm never one to argue against an individual's personal space and boundaries, but I touched a dollar to the small of his back. I'd like to point out that I get groped more than that every single time I go out downtown. And I usually look like an aging Muppet; so if it's happening to me it's happening to the rest of the ladies.

I know it's terrible of me to want to tell this man to talk (way) less and dance more, but years of being objectified might've made me mildly terrible. I should understand there are rules for a reason. He might hate what he's doing, and as a gay man, probably cringes when annoying drunk women claw at him. And that's awful. But mostly I just couldn't help thinking, "Fuck you, man. These were not the rules in Magic Mike. Channing would never do me like that."

Needless to say my aggrestrogen subsided significantly after being publicly shamed by this bitchy, overworked male stripper. It wasn't quite the fantasy I had in mind, but the drinks were cheap. I spent the rest of the night pursuing amnesia, doing shots with the giddy women and annoyed regulars. I lost my debit card, and somehow persuaded my cab driver to let me pay with a personal check. I don't know why I brought my checkbook with me to the strip club, and my debit card was actually in my bra when I woke up.

So, turns out my fantasies play out a whole lot like my dating life: misplaced affection followed by rejection and a busted up ego.

Cheers to that.