A colleague approached me at work on Friday and handed me a folded back portion of our Sports section.

At the bottom of the page was an advertisement for happy hour at a local gentlemen's establishment. From 2 to 9 p.m., they offer free pupu and 32-ounce pitchers of beer for $5.

The place also has four stages of women removing articles of clothing for $1 a dance move. What a deal, some might say.

Here's the rub: More than a year ago, at the age of 26, I swore off strip clubs. This choice, after frequenting Rock-Zas in several states and countries over the years, has earned me grief from my friends, and declarations that I am no longer my own man.

I have skipped stag parties and guys' nights out simply because they involved large wads of one-dollar bills.

During a recent family reunion, more than a dozen cousins from Maui and California converged in Honolulu and went out on the town. They tried — and tried — to get me to stay out all night. Each time I bailed when they headed for dens of iniquity.

"Pedro, wait until you're married for about five years, then we'll see," said one cousin. (Cue laughter).

Why a stripper-free life? Let me explain the equality rule.

If I can waltz into a gentlemen's club and lay down money for lap dances, then shouldn't my fiancee be allowed to do the same? If women can disrobe in front of me, then my fiancee should be allowed to pay for a similar male service, correct?

My argument is born out of the classic double standard that plagues men and women. Societal stereotypes convict a woman for promiscuity, but if a man sleeps with a bunch of different girls, he's a conqueror.

Shouldn't all swinging singles be judged by the same terms, regardless of gender?

I think so, and the same logic should apply to strip-club attendance. The thought of my fiancee surrounded by nude dudes and booze does not sit well with me, and I can't imagine she's keen on me stuffing sawbucks in a thong.

The rule extends to my bachelor party. When my cousin Kelii asked to be in charge of the festivities, I told him sure, but that I'd promised my fiancee no strippers. "Duuuuuuude, are you serious?" said my cousin, a single, 30-year-old drummer in a hip-hop band.

My choice to omit a prime part of the male experience was not prompted by previously bizarre behavior. Visa wasn't putting a hold on my account because managers took one look at my statement and decided that someone had stolen my wallet and used my identity to take a tour of hedonistic Honolulu.

I was 15 when I first walked into the old Baby Dolls on Ke'eaumoku Street — I've spent enough time and money in these places.

The last time I was in a gentlemen's club, I looked around the room and didn't notice a ton of gentlemen. I have enough expensive vices; eliminating this one hasn't caused me a second thought.

Reach Peter Boylan at pboylan@honoluluadvertiser.com. Read his daily blog at blogs.honoluluadvertiser.com.