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I stand at the front doors of Anchorage's historic Fourth Avenue Theater, where a troupe of touring Chippendales — the world's most famous male strippers — is slated to perform tonight. Of course, I'm only here as a journalist, not a spectator. Ha! Ha! Not that there's anything wrong with being a... uh... spectator.

Founded in 1978, the Chippendales Male Revue took the world by storm. The organization is past its controversial heyday, but still delights female audiences across the globe with majestic and exhilarating live performances. And by "majestic and exhilarating live performances," I mean: "gigantic wangs shaking all over the fuckin' place."

Numerous women also stand outside the theater, all smoking cigarettes to relieve the anxiety of waiting for the Big Show. Or maybe they are simply addicted to nicotine. I approach two such carcinogen-inhaling dames, a twenty-four-year-old named Jennifer and her sixty-nine-year-old mother, Linda.

"What brings you out to this momentous event?" I ask.

"We're gonna see hot, naked men!" Jennifer explains.

"Why would you rather see the Chippendales show than local male strippers?"

"They're the original and, in my mind, the most professional group," Linda says, obviously an expert, the dirty old whore.

"How much were the tickets?"

"Thirty-five dollars," Jennifer says. "But those were the V.I.P. tickets."

"So that's closer to the action?"

"It's close enough."

("Close enough to have the dancers' cumsacks smacking against your face?" I don't ask.)

"Do you plan on giving them one-dollar bills?" I inquire.

"Look what my dad gave me!" Jennifer withdraws a huge wad of money.

"Your father must love you very much."

I enter the Fourth Avenue Theater lobby and introduce myself to one of the Chippendales whose name is Rick. I ask my questions while a couple hundred lonely housewives swoon over him.

"Tonight is kind of extraordinary," Rick says, "because we're going to have six dancers, and normally we have five... it's going to be all you can eat for under a buck; it's the Chippendales smorgasbord."   (Rick is apparently under the savagely ignorant assumption I would like to "eat" him.)

"And how would you describe your occupation?" I ask.

"Definitely not as a stripper. That's not how I would describe it. We put a lot of work into it. We've got about twenty-seven choreographed routines. We don't just take our clothes off; we have to put on a show."

"How many women do you usually have show up to your shows?" I ask.

"It varies, man... when we were in California a month ago, we had 1,400 women at the show. A couple days later, there were seventeen girls."

"Do you feel the least bit uncomfortable taking your clothes off and shaking your booty in front of screaming and fanatical women?"

"No," Rick says. "We love crowds like that!"

Rick introduces me to Vigil, the Chippendales' intrepid "dance captain."

"So," I say to Vigil, "you're at Thanksgiving dinner with your sweet old parents, sitting around the table, eating turkey, whatever, and your mom asks, 'What are you doing for a living these days, honey?' What do you tell her?"

"I'm in a male revue, I'm a performer," Vigil says. "We're not stripper boys who just take off their clothes and collect money. We have a two and a half hour show with a lot of dancing, a lot of choreography. We have dance practice everyday, and there's a lot to it." And Vigil is extra special: "I'm the first and only guy in Chippendales who's under six feet; it is a requirement more or less that the dancers be over six feet."

"The Chippendales used to be quite the controversial bunch. Do you still create any havoc with the Religious Right, or was that just in the days of yore?"

"Oh, without a doubt it's still there. We were protested on TV in San Antonio, Texas for having a 'dirty show,' 'it's disgusting' and blah blah blah. It's ridiculous."   (Let the grown men shake their scrotums around in peace, you despicable Jesus Freaks!)

"Your first time dancing... what did it feel like?" I ask.

"All the other guys were strippers before they were dancers," Vigil says, "but I never did anything like that. Getting up on-stage for the first time was a shocker. I'd never even been in front of a crowd before. ... When you're up there, you're comforted by the women screaming and screaming; it is a great feeling. You cannot get that feeling anywhere else, and it is a rush. It's an experience, the feeling of fame. It's a rush."

Vigil has to leave because the show is starting. Will I actually watch this? I'm not looking forward to... uh... looking forward, but I'm a journalist. No reporter ever wanted to go to war, but a story is more important than petty comfort. This isn't about seeing the Chippendales perform; it's about accuracy and integrity. This is my calling... this is my purpose.

"First we must go over the rules," Vigil says onstage. "Rule number one: do not cover your lap with your hands. If you do, we know what you're doing. Rule number two: you cannot touch the dancers. You cannot touch, grab, probe, feel or fondle the dancers. It's not that bad, ladies... we just don't want you getting pregnant here on stage."

Boos and hisses from the Peanut Gallery.

"Thirdly," Vigil continues, "while you may not touch the dancers... the Dancers May Touch You!"

The audience produces a horrifyingly gleeful sonic reaction. Vigil is joined by the other Chippendales, who remove their jumpsuits piece by piece. Needless to say, the enraptured audience members scream and shriek and make other such noises with unbelievable passion, their eyes and panties filling with liquid.

The lights go dim for a moment, and then flash back on to reveal one of the male dancers (get ready for a wonderful mental picture) straddling a chair whilst wearing a black bikini thong. Yeah, I've had enough of this revolting display.

"How are you enjoying the show?" I ask a woman as I leave the theater.

"It's fun," Mindy says.

Quite possibly, more untrue words have never been spoken.