Having found ourselves in the lascivious locale of Amsterdam’s red-light district, we decided to visit one of the live X-rated shows. We settled on Theater Casa Rosso, which has the reputation of being the classiest live sex show in town. The crowd was mostly a sea of suit-clad Japanese businessmen—many with wives in tow.

The lights dimmed and the curtains opened. A soft glow spilled over the stage as two reasonably attractive individuals caressed each other on a white bed. They looked very much like a normal couple—the kind you might invite over to play Cranium on a weeknight. The soundtrack was a soft, pleasing electronica. As the couple engaged in foreplay, the bed began to rotate and the lights changed colours. But the highly choreographed thrusts that followed felt too premeditated to be erotic. And something about the whole sound and light show robbed the act of its realism. Besides, we were preoccupied with a burning question: Was the guy really going to climax onstage? The answer came when he didn’t. The stage just went black.

Next up was an eastern European stripper who dazzled us by lighting a candle that she stuck into what we will just call “mother nature’s candle holder.” While candlelight (and its cellulite-softening effect) has inspired many a randy couple, this didn’t light my fire. One of the Japanese wives was now slumped in her seat and sound asleep. Nuff said.

Prince’s late-’80s hit “Batdance” blared from the speakers when the next couple went onstage. He was decked out in a flimsy Batman costume (I swear my brother got the same one at Shoppers Drug Mart for Halloween one year), and she wore a leather getup. They enacted a cat-and-mouse chase that ended up in the audience with the woman stretched out across the laps of some overly delighted men while Batman rode her. It wasn’t sexy. Alfred the butler has probably inspired more fantasies.

Later our darling hollow stripper returned for another round of gyno gymnastics. She asked for a volunteer, and some moustached chump virtually bolted out of his seat and leapt up onto the stage. To a canned chant consisting of “Banana, banana!” they danced until the imbecile got on all fours to munch his free fruit snack from her, well, you know. I wasn’t even remotely turned on. I was just thanking my lucky stars that it wasn’t my man up there acting like an ape.

’Cause if he’s harbouring a hidden desire to consume Chiquita from a chick, I’d rather hit control-alt-delete.