The winning team called its routine "Ridin' Dirty," and found the likes of group leader Gypsy, Annalise, Vivian and other Maxim-grade hotties dry-humping everything from bales of hay to a mechanical bull. Hot candle wax was dripped from one thong-clad crotch to another, and their gravity-defying splits made my hamstrings ache. It was a Vegas-style take on Hicksville sexy, and one that left most patrons fisting the air in rabid approval.

What enraged me was not that "Ridin' Dirty" won but that Bunni Luv's "Cellblock Hustle" lost. (Note: Only three teams competed, the third being Michelle Fontana's "Fire and Desire," which is like having an American Idol where everyone who auditions gets a record contract in the end.)

As one of 12 judges, it was partly my responsibility to make sure whichever team had the audience hollering the loudest was also the most adept in four categories of measure: appearance (drag queen rouge, rock-solid bods), stage presence (seductive/constipated expressions), talent (um, you know, like dancing) and choreography (costuming, originality).

With the top group taking home $10,000 and the runners-up getting $3,000 and $2,000, respectively, this was some high-stakes booty shaking. Kind of like Cirque du Soleil — but naked. And with really bad music.

The judges' seats at the edge of the runway gave us a great gynecological p.o.v., plus a clear shot of one another's faces. Directly across from me were sixth-borough sweetheart Jessica Pressler, Philebrity blogger Joey Sweeney, DJ and corset-maker Psydde Delicious and Headlong Dance Company co-founder Andrew Simont. Somewhere to my left, Apprentice washup Erin Elmore and 2006 Wing Bowl champion, El Wingador. (Can I get a woo-woo?)

So there we sat, a motley panel serenaded by topless performers — a sight made worse only by the stomach-turning smell of rags soaked in rubbing alcohol that were being used to wipe down the 30-foot pole. Regardless, I was overjoyed to see local choreographer and Fringe favorite Brian Sanders (you know him from the recent The Music That Made Us Dance: From Lindy to Hip-Hop, 2005's Patio Plastico and 2004's Junk) co-choreographing the prison-break antics for "Cellblock Hustle"; all Powerbar kicks and confetti explosions, Sanders made it Chicago meets "Smooth Criminal" meets fly daddies and coochie mamas for a coupla stiff drinks.

It was ecstatic. It was dramatic. And it totally came in last.

When I try to think back to how or why this could've happened — I had given the group four nines on a scale of five to 10, and even the audience booed when the results were announced — my memory is a blur of 8-inch plastic heels.

Whose votes were thrown out, dammit? Was "Cellblock Hustle" really disqualified because a dancer touched the stage barefoot, as alleged by one very unreliable strip club message board? Must politics always reign supreme? What kind of exotic dance competition was this, anyway? Does anybody really care? Can I get a woo-woo?

Questions? Comments? Thinking about cheating? E-mail ashlea.halpern@citypaper.net. No phone calls.