"Against a backdrop of star-shaped mylar balloons, studs who've made pretty for The Fast and the Furious, Chippendale's calendars and Sean Jean ads were mauled and groped by the kind of women who keep Danielle Steel novels stacked by their bedside.
First up: the construction worker. Against the skull-numbing sound of a jack hammer, he lip-synced "Bad to the Bone," licked his chops like they were smeared with peanut butter, then tore his wife-beater in two. (How come this never happens where they're putting up that Comcast building?)
As each dancer disrobed, I noticed they all wore American flag G-strings beneath their requisite Village People costumes (the marine, the cop, the, uh, meter maid?). While the jingoistic bojangles theme was a little too Bush-tastic for my taste, I was quite taken by the brute strength of these Adonises. Where I'm used to dating guys who can (and do) borrow my jeans, Risqué offered a shaven smorgasbord of 225-pounders who could bench-press me like I was a teacup.
New rule: I will only date boys who can physically lift me.
Not only was he hot, he was nice. And nice, in our eyes, meant attainable.
Isn't that what fantasy is all about?" ~by Ashlea Halpern Sex Columnist CITY PAPER