Like it or not, strip clubs are part of the nightlife scene. For awhile, City's talked about possible ways to cover the clubs without sounding sleazy - and especially without silly blubbering about girls and breasts. I convinced my editor that, as a female (and one who doesn't have a problem with stripping), I could do it, be objective, and maybe even offer some analysis.

So this is the first in an occasional series that involves pretty much a straight report of what you might find when you enter the doors of some of Rochester's windowless establishments. I mean, you're either going to these places anyway, or you're curious. On the other hand, if you could care less, please skip this column, and accept our apologies.

Strip Stop No. 1: The Klassy Cat (3800 W Henrietta Rd, 359-8639, klassy-cat.com)

Under the guise of delivering Peaches her best stripper/exotic dancer award from City Newspaper's Best of Rochester 2007 contest (and the Klassy Cat with its award for best strip club), my friend Tracey and I headed to the Cat after work.

I'm not gonna lie: I'd never been to a strip club. My preconceptions were that the dancers would be voluptuous, that the place would feel skeezy, and that I'd feel out of place and somehow confronted. The reality: they are, it doesn't, and I didn't (for the most part).

In fact, The Klassy Cat felt more like a neighborhood bar that just happened to have a wall of mirrors, some poles, and a stage. It's dark, there's a pool table and other games, a friendly bartender, drink specials, and a full menu of burgers and salads. The Cat even offers a "breakfast plate" served when the place opens at noon. We sat at one of the many counter-height tables facing the stage.

There's no DJ or announcer (at least not while we were there), so the dancers chose and played their own music. This meant transitions weren't seamless, and the stage wasn't always occupied, but it sometimes lent an air of playfulness to the routines. One dancer, dressed in a long, sheer gown, asked her audience - a few men seated belt-buckle to the stage - which song they thought she was going to play next. She disappeared, came back (belly now exposed), and laughed, giddy when the men couldn't get it right. Suddenly, it was more like she was dancing for friends than strangers. Her style was effortless, and she executed her pole swings beautifully. (Tracey tells me it's all in the heels and the leg.)

At 6:30 p.m., maybe 20 men occupied the bar, and when the dancers weren't on stage, they stopped here and there to chat. One girl had on studious glasses, an oversized shirt, and not much else; another wore super-spiky heels and a scant silver get-up that didn't leave anything to the imagination.

It was the silver-clad girl that was on stage first during our visit, and her set consisted mostly of what looked like an exercise routine: leg lifts, some squats, stretches. Not much actual dancing, but the men were more than fine with that.

Another girl - this one with a large, circular tattoo on her stomach, and an all-black top and bottom - didn't do much dancing either, but was no less eye catching for it. She paired her set with some hard rock I couldn't quite identify (something by one of those late 90's bands I pretended I didn't listen to in high school).

The last dancer was tall, and wore a sophisticated, short, light-colored dress that draped to expose her back and chest. She stood out, being the fairest among the well tanned bunch. But before we could settle into her routine, I was suddenly made uncomfortable: Tracey predicted it, but a flush-faced man had come to join us, and asked (with his demeanor more than his speech) what two nice girls like us were doing in a place like this? We made our exit. The daylight shocked us.

Next up: Rick's Tally Ho and Louie's Cordial Lounge