Why male strip clubs are a win for feminism

Iwish I’d discovered male strip clubs sooner. I wasted years in sticky regular clubs, choking on overpriced jagerbombs and dodging creeps, before I found them. And subsequently realised they’re the best night out . . . well, ever.

I still remember the first night I went. I was pressed into the club as tight as the chick next to me’s boobs in her pleather bustier. It was so densely packed that at one point a bead of sweat rolled down my nose and plopped on to her cleavage, where it twinkled under the lights like a stray diamond.

The air was thick with euphoria, dry ice, lust, perfumed bodies and the kind of reckless ecstasy you only find at 2am.

It was insanity. Glorious, intoxicating, escapist insanity.

Of course, I’ve had a few arguments along the way with the odd new friend about my favourite night out.

It happened this week when I was telling a new friend I wanted to go to an upcoming show. She looked at me aghast and said, ‘‘But aren’t you a feminist though?!’’

Well, obviously. I don’t write feminist articles for the fun of the pleasant banter in the comments section.

But far from going to a male strip club being a non-feminist gesture, I actually hold up that first visit as one of the most feminist nights of my life.

I mean, firstly it’s the strongest hit I’ve ever had of that vulnerable, honest magic that you get when women come together.

I’ve seen small measures of it at women’s meetups, where an inexplicable openness descends and your conversations turn from flexible working hours into heartfelt confessions about divorces, love and shame . . .

Now take that mystical vulnerability and multiply it by a hens’ night and five frozen margaritas. I can’t remember a place I’ve had more hugs, kisses, and soul-warming moments with utter strangers.

You leave feeling elated as though you’ve talked, really talked, with someone for the first time in forever.

But it’s not only the beautiful moments of communion with utter randoms that’s so liberating.

This strange, giddy lightness is also the absence of fear. You’re not going to get hit on, or shouted at, or punched for rejecting someone. You’re just here to have fun.

Man, I can’t remember the last time I felt that when I went out. Normally, for young women, going out to a bar means being in a constant state of semi-alertness: has my drink been spiked, is my friend OK, and can I escape the creep trying to dry-hump my leg?

And maybe it’s that absence of fear that bleeds into the most feminist part of it all.

You go there expecting it to be about looking at some damn fine abs. It’s really not.

It’s actually about you. The women. (Literally, ‘‘we’re here to make you feel like royalty’’, said one to me once.)

You’re given a space free from fear and judgment where you’re encouraged to embrace your sexuality. It’s just about you, and what you like.

We don’t have to worry about being called sluts, hoes, and prudes because no-one is paying attention to you. We’re all too busy having our own internal revelations.

This strange, giddy lightness is also the absence of fear. You’re not going to get hit on, or shouted at, or punched for rejecting someone. You’re just here to have fun.

Pretty much everyone I’ve ever taken along, from my bestie to my bathroom confidantes, says it’s the first real time they get the time and space to be sexy, feel sexy, and think about what really is sexy. Where else do we get encouraged to own our sexuality proudly and publicly? Christ, I’ve been slut-shamed by passers-by on the street for wearing ripped jeans.

Plus, for my generation, who grew up on violent, angry porn, it’s a mind-blowing introduction to the idea that sex could be fun. The strippers know it’s all a bit of a joke – it’s hard not to when you’re clapping along to YMCA wrapped in a purple feather boa.

But that was the first time I’d ever thought about sex in a way that wasn’t passionless, aggressive and kinda painful.

So all in all, it’s just a heady combination of liberation, freedom and the drunken ecstasy of 100 glittery cowgirls on a hens’ night. I’m claiming it as a win for feminism.