Pretty much everything about this situation is fucking ridiculous. (It's true, a liberal upbringing, which all Canadians get, makes a person more ignorant.) But, in my opinion, the most obnoxious thing is the way this group of women is downplaying the complexity of feminine desire as a means of making the equivalent seem all the more deplorable in their menfolk.

Do they really think they're helping themselves in any greater sense by pandering to the idea that female sexual expression and the services geared towards it are trivial and non-threatening, while male sexual expression and its analogous rituals are authentic and therefore require constant policing?

Now, admittedly, this is the genius behind an operation like Chippendales - the understanding that this kind of denial is crucial for many women to indulge. But even if the maid of honour's intention is truly innocent fun (whatever that means in a roomful of naked men), it doesn't stop the exchange from having sexist, condescending overtones. And yet that doesn't bother her. What a surprise.

As you yourself point out, even in their most sanitized states, these places can be outrageous. If one of the points of argument is that female strippers have looser boundaries than male ones, rest assured, this is a weak case. I don't know a lot of straight male strippers, but every one I do know (along with a couple of the queers) has fucked a fiancée and a bridesmaid or two. It seems an informal right of passage in their profession and one that is effortlessly facilitated by the calculated blamelessness that's already being spouted by your bridal party - groupthink that's only five frozen daiquiris away from being, "We didn't meeeaaaaan to. We just came in here for a girls' night out but the next thing we knew, Tammy was blowing Gunner in the limo! We couldn't help it!"

Here's another piece of news that might be displeasing to your two-faced abolitionists: there are ways of dealing with unreasonable spousal boundaries without leaving Las Vegas hotel rooms. Have you seen the colourful business cards littering the parking lots of the casinos, with ladies in bikinis offering companionship? They belong to prostitutes who, while your shitfaced bride-to-be is getting teabagged on a smoke-filled catwalk, will be more than happy to come up and blow every single one of your hubbies (or spank them with a rolled-up Maxim magazine if they so desire) and none of you will be the wiser. This is a comparably cost-effective solution too, as there are no champagne-room fees and overpriced drinks to worry about.

Bottom line? Don't get married if you can't handle the occasional controversy and, if you do, don't get a self-deceptive control freak who is obviously no longer putting out to organize your bachelorette.

Listen, Damien, don't get all down on Toronto's sexual persona just because you think my column sucks. I can tell you for certain that if you think sex in this city is repressed, cold and boring, the fault is entirely your own. Just about every day of the week there's something saucy going on here where people of all orientations can get down and if you'd been reading correctly, you'd know that, because most of them get regular coverage right here. And obviously you have never set foot in Come As You Are because there is not one person in there who isn't 100 per cent humpable. Sheesh. Losebag.