I’m old enough to remember when Hooters was scandalous. I used to take my three-year-old son along with me and Julian VonJames when we Metrolinked to the only Saint Louis Hooters at Union Station. Before you judge:  A. My son was too young to be affected by the heightened sexuality. B. He was closer to breast feeding imprinting than he was breast bouncing imprinting. C. The cute kid always scored us free beer and lots of attention from the girls.

Also, I was twenty-five and a certified idiot.

Okay, now you can judge. It wasn’t exactly enlightened parenting.

For the life of me, I can’t remember why Hooters seemed like such a naughty indulgence back then. The only skin you see at a Hooters are faces, arms, and a tiny swath of décolletage. Everything pouring out the sides of those hotpants are sheathed in a prophylactic envelope. They don’t even wear sexy shoes.Perhaps the waitstaff trended toward larger busts in the old days, back before the talent pool was diluted through knock-offs and Title Nine scholarships. There’s just nothing impressive about the Hooters experience these days.

I’d say I go for the wings, but I don’t like Hooters wings. They do rock the Buffalo Shrimp, and sometimes I jones for the skrimps and a side of clam chowdah.  I order it by phone and take it home to share with the dog.  And I still overtip on takeout. What’s with that? What’s wrong with me?

When our town finally opened a Tilted Kilt, I made a beeline. Finally! Short skirts and real legs!  And midriffs! And plunging necklines. In other words, SKIN!  Wow! Somebody who understands how you run a breastaurant!

Yeeeaaaaah. Problem is… Apparently I’m the last guy on the planet who doesn’t’ think tattoos are sexy. Plenty of skin on a Tilted Kilt girl, but all of it is sleeved in ink: Arms, legs, and midriff. Essentially the Tilted Kilt ladies are Suicide Girls in tartan. Perhaps not everywhere, but I’m pretty sure ink is a prerequisite for employment at the TK near my house. Sigh. So much for that brief respite of joy.

“Here, Shawn. Here’s a cupcake. I sneezed on it.”

Great. Thanks.

It seems like society is offering me three choices, where it pertains to how I deal with PYTs:

1. Be ambivalent.

2. Lie and pretend to be ambivalent.

3. Register as a Dirty Old Man.

I’m pretty sure that the vast majority of guys my age opt for Curtain Number Two. It’s the safe play. Especially once you achieve the status of “Father of Daughters.” I get it. Every young girl somehow represents YOUR daughter.

Okay. If you say so. (Lying sacks of shit.)

And then there is the larger reality, the bigger truth: Don’t make no diff what I think. I’m invisible to women under the age of 40 anyway. Maybe that’s why I overtip. “Hey! Look at me! Look! Right here! Stare at the floating money. Good! Now two feet behind the floating money. See that shimmer? Kind of pear shaped? Yes! There I am! You see me!”

The draw of the breastaurant is not really the lovely young lasses. The draw of the breastaurant is the momentary illusion that our paunchy, middle-aged male existence has relevance beyond our workbenches and 401Ks.

Just the same. In the spirit of honesty, I think I’ll go ahead and register as a Dirty Old Man.

No sweet group insurance deals, but their newsletter kicks ass.