When I emerged from the performance room at the Northern Quest Casino last Friday night, I felt a little spent.

My throat was raw from screaming. My ears throbbed from taking in shrieking falsettos. My toes were crushed from hopping around in heels.

And yet, like the surrounding mob of women, I was ecstatic to relive it all.

"Are you kidding?" a 40-something woman declared of why the night was worth the ticket price, the wait for drinks, the crowds. "Naked men."

Come on. Don't act like you're not curious about last week's performance by the touring Las Vegas Chippendales, who provided a little excitement for us sweet, rural gals.

I'll admit it up front. Before that night, I was a male-strip-show virgin.

But I didn't worry about standing out when I entered the shadowed concert venue, a blaring Techno song shaking the walls.

To say it was crammed with women just doesn't cut it.

It was an explosion of estrogen. The sold-out show had women of every size grinning and quaffing alcohol, from giggling 20-somethings to snowy-haired matrons.

It was like being at a bachelorette party where no one was getting married and everyone was thrilled to death about it.

A voice boomed over the speakers. The men were about to start! Please, no photography.

A request that would be rampantly disregarded.

Suddenly there they were, lining the stage in their golden-tanned, burly glory.

A handful of white-teethed studs, muscles bulging under their skimpy attire.

Chiseled doesn't go far enough. Beefy. Defined. Hulk-like. Brawny. Like CGI masterpieces wriggling and grinding for the audience's well-paid delight.

Hurray.

The throngs of women strained their vocal chords as the dancers scampered around on stage, club music blaring, T-shirts ripping off with wild abandon.

This continued for the next hour and a half.

Pants and G-strings fell to the floor to pop music favorites, certain anatomy deftly covered with pillows, fedoras, well-timed lighting techniques.

I had some favorite numbers. Like the '80s tribute, where a few guys yanked off bright, pastel attire as a beautiful man belted "I said a hip hop, the hippie the hippie to the hip hip hop."

Then "Firestarter" pierced through the room. Beefy men worthy of my favorite calendar sashayed out of firefighter outfits and swung out their fire hoses (real ones, readers, calm down).

There was even a nod to our honorable veterans! All those hunks strutted out in dress-white uniforms, smiles flashing as Enrique Iglesias' "Hero" hummed over the speakers.

Why were the girls screaming for this? I wondered. The guys were just walking and saluting.

The weren't even taking their clothes off - oh, wait. There went the gloves. And the belts. With somber dignity, off came the jackets. Ooh, biceps.

The piece de resistance: American flag boxer shorts. The audience screamed their patriotism.

Through it all, the dancing in the show was ... Adequate.

As adequate as it had to be, I suppose, when the choreography entails grinding on a bed post or a blushing girl from the audience.

One woman confessed to me afterward that, "I've seen better. In Portland. Not Chippendales, just guys performing."

Which makes me really want to visit Portland.

But I'll give it to the Chippendales that they were determined to keep everyone smiling.

They often dashed through the audience, where they welcomed strangers' fondling and danced with old and young women alike.

A woman standing next to me, about my mom's age, was invited on stage to fake an orgasm.

"I'm so embarrassed," she gushed when she returned, but she couldn't contain her grin.

The show was clearly enjoyed. Most girls in the audience danced by their seats and tipped back their drinks, content to take in the perfect specimens wiggling on stage.

Makes me wonder why we don't have a version of Stateline Showgirls with male dancers. Why do male strip shows have to be a special event? Men don't have a monopoly on sleaze.

Oh well.

At least the ladies could give a standing ovation to the studs who sauntered out in jeans and cowboy hats.

They kicked off their duds and flexed to the best song of the night: "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy."

Not to be outdone, a Dallas-native Chippendale purred into the mic, "Speaking for myself, ladies, things really are bigger in Texas."

Oh, yes. We all left smiling.