Therefore my expectations for Upstairs at Club Risqué, Philadelphia's newest male revue, were bottom-feeder low. I was prepared for South Jersey bridesmaids getting randy over some greasy hunk's half-mast Coney Islander. What I wasn't prepared for was actually wanting said Coney Islander myself. Men of Risqué, I salute you.

Upon entrance, a shirtless Thor, who smelled faintly of armpits and peppermint, led my friend and me upstairs and offered to take our coats. We were given VIP seating at the apron of the stage, where a line of hairsprayed women puffed on cigarettes, ate mini eggrolls and smoothed the corners of dollar bills. They had the glassy-eyed stare of regulars in this roomful of brides-to-be.

Massage guys with doughnut-shiny skin made the rounds pre-show, kneading shoulders and talking sweetly into the backs of necks. They descended upon us like vultures, nuzzling our crotches and pinning us against nearby poles for mock-humping sessions.

"Now ladies, before we get started, I need to go over some rules," bellowed host Larry E., of HBO's Real Sex 31 fame. "The rules are … there are no rules! You can grab it, touch it, lick it or suck it! Anything goes!"

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.

By midnight, we had manhandled nearly every john in the house—or so we thought. But it turned out Larry E. had saved the best for last: the 13.5-inch Mighty Tank. Even the male dancers stood in awe of his manly magnificence.

Larry E., noting our dropped jaws, insisted we give it a squeeze. You know, to prove it was real.

Oh, it was real alright. Real like a small missile or a baguette, and so big it was forced to sit sideways instead of dangling normally between his legs. Tank flashed us a pearly smile before moving his man meat down the drooling assembly line, and we nearly melted into our underwear.

Not only was he hot, he was nice. And nice, in our eyes, meant attainable.

Isn't that what fantasy is all about?

Questions? Comments? Wanna place an order for a dream man-wich? E-mail ashlea.halpern@citypaper.net. No phone calls.