On a late Thursday evening in early November, women are lined up outside a local bar. The women in line are not the overly manicured type or very young. Professional, confident, hip without pretension and most of all, sexy. And strangely, men are no where to be seen.

Inside, there are a small group of men sharing a bottle of scotch, dressed in various costumes, and bantering about the chrome pole being erected in the middle of the small stage. The tests on the pole begin and the crew of men, from firemen to guys in suits, pretty boys to rockers, all seeming a bit ragged and unpolished, enthusiastically, albeit clumsily attempt moves like the open leg slide down. And then the doors open.

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