No, you be da man

Long ago, when a female friend – let's call her "Helaine" – and I, temporarily between boyfriends, would have dinner at a restaurant together, we'd decide who'd bring the check up to the cash register, by alternately tagging each other with the phrase, "You be da man." Which, over time, became "Eubie" for short. It was our ironic little ritual, a harmless nod to our momentary manless state.

I think about that lots lately. These days in America, figuratively speaking, hardly anybody wants to Be Da Man.

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Consider, for example, the Duke University lacrosse team stripper rape case. A friend of mine surprised me when he sided with the so-called athletes, or whatever they were – the stripper, he contended, was literally crying "wolf."

While I'm usually uncomfortable with gender-based perspectives, this case seemed to split folks right down the middle, men on one side of the room, women on the other. And yet, I do know how difficult – yes, humiliating – it must be for any woman to come forward and publicly allege sexual misconduct. Immediately, no matter what her occupation, her whole past gets scrutinized microscopically, and she risks being branded a floozy if she's ever slept with anyone of her own volition.

But here we have an ugly scenario worthy of some inferior dramatist.

Let's consider some of the sickening details: Oozing privilege and entitlement, the callow Caucasian college students in question may have become raucous, rowdy, racist, revved up by the performances of two black strippers, reportedly hired for $400 each from an escort service.

Yes, chicks apparently were voluntarily collaborating as sex objects. All over again. Did feminism never happen? Strippers! That's so ... over, isn't it? No! Stripping is a living like any other. Right?

Camille? Camille Paglia? Speak up!

Back to "the party."

Someone may or may not have threatened to brutalize one stripper with a broom. Incensed, or perhaps terrified, after such a possible threat, the stripper may or may not have left "the party," yet – inexplicably – returned ... for more of the same? Only worse – allegedly getting dragged into a bathroom and raped, beaten and choked?

The DNA tests purportedly "reveal" nothing. A cabdriver supposedly supported a student's alibi. Did the stripper in question arrive on the scene already bruised and scratched? Did she pass out? Can photos lie? The other stripper initially denied anything untoward occurred, then recanted.

Astonishing revelation: That the second stripper has actually contacted a high-powered Manhattan crisis-management PR firm for advice on how to spin her involvement in this case to her own financial and legal advantage is, to my mind, beyond comprehension. The same firm used by Sean "Puffy" Combs?

Oh, please. Spare us.

Well, Stripper No. 2 finesses, after all, like the accuser, she's a divorced, single mother and once this story gets around, she says, her ability to support her child will probably be compromised by scandal, since, as it turns out, both strippers reportedly have criminal records.

Meanwhile, I'm still replaying my mental movie of these college boys going bug-eyed watching these poor women take their clothes off. I know, I know, it's a male rite of passage. But strippers as a campus diversion instead of getting humanized by – you should pardon the expression – the Great Books? Sooooo tacky, tawdry, sleazy. And preposterous! This is the 21st century! What's the point? What does it accomplish, college students hiring strippers for titillation? The manly thing to do? Oh, I see. Real men pay for sex, right?

What's next? Cigars? Got it!

And all those dudes hiding behind lawyers. Lawyers – the condoms of corporate affairs – whenever they're used, you can be sure someone's getting screwed! Won't somebody on that sports team dust off their pathetic principles, step forward, and Be Da Man enough to tell the actual truth?

Whoever's at fault, something profoundly fundamental needs to change between men and women – and soon.