Frequently I’m asked by customers if I get turned on while I’m dancing. “Sure, baby, all the time,” accompanied by an eye roll while I’m turned away from him is my common response if he’s a 20 Questions customer. “No, never, I’m always thinking about laundry,” or, stolen from Jo Boobs, “Well, money makes me horny and I’m making money while I’m dancing,” are my smartass answers. Or, on the rare occasion when I really am getting into the dance, the music’s good, I’m feeling hot, and the customer is pleasant and enjoying himself, I will honestly answer, “Yeah, can’t you tell?”

Anyhow, everyone knows it’s our job to focus on turning on the customers, so we don’t really think about our own responses. That would be like the massage therapist focusing on how good massaging your knotted shoulders makes her hands feel; totally besides the point. You, the customer, are to relax and enjoy. You can sit there and stare and lust and think dirty thoughts all you want, and it’s okay, because that’s what we’re there for.

But on my nights out, and I know I’ve mentioned it before, the equivalent experience for me is getting to watch a hot, talented man get on stage in tight pants and completely knock out his audience with highly choreographed moves, a wicked smile, and tons of charisma.

Oh yes . . . . . . I went to see Franz Ferdinand on Friday in Philly. This is the equivalent of the stripclub visit for me. I get to enjoy the rock show, which provides me with visual and aural stimulation. I get aroused by looking at attractive members of the gender of my choice. I enjoy the way they move, the way they look, and the way they sound. It doesn’t hurt that Franz is probably at the top of their game at this very moment, with the rare non-disappointing second album just out, a perfectly honed image, and insanely great stage presence.

And I almost squealed when Alex looked right at me when he was singing "Do You Want To?" I love it when the 17-yr-old in me is touched.

Sadly, try as I might, I can’t get Alex Kapranos to sit on my lap and tell me I’m hot, but the show was enough. Strippers have nothing on rock stars when it comes to sex appeal. And although Mr. Wayward suggests that being in the audience at a concert doesn't require that I suspend my disbelief to believe the band is actually rocking my ass in the same way a customer might want to suspend his and truly believe that I am highly aroused while dancing, I disagree. I am completely believing, in the moment, that the object of my attention is performing for and available to me.

Is there anything hotter than listening to Kapranos moan sexually ambivalent songs like “Michael” or “Do You Want To?” Well, yeah, there is, but it is in my head and not fit to share with the gentle heterosexual men reading. But it works for me (and a great many others) and I still haven’t washed the panties I wore Friday night if anyone wants to tender an offer.