Now I enjoy scantily clad women as much as the next awkward heterosexual, but my Steve Urkel libido just can’t get behind a Halloween costume contest called “House of Whores.”

Set for Saturday, October 26, at the Onyx Club in old Roseville, promoters are offering $500 to the lady wearing the skankiest garb. At least that’s the message one gets from the nightclub’s cartoonishly misogynistic ad. Featuring a “cop” whose bikini briefs can’t possibly be regulation, and a “nurse” whose super-sized decolletage could smother her patients, the glossy ad looks like Barbarella's costume designer was suddenly in charge of all civil service uniforms.

Here in Sacramento, Bojangles Nightclub is offering its own spin on this tired trend. On Wednesday, October 30, the 18-and-over K Street spot is “presenting” an event it’s calling “SEXY, SLUTTY Halloween.” (Yes, all caps.) As of today, 27 people were signed up to go on Facebook.

I don’t know if nightclub operators are just bad at being clever or are downright gross people—after glancing at some of the Onyx’s other porn-lite promos, I have a guess—but the brazen proffering of cash for “whore” flesh indicates an ever-shrinking pigeonhole for Halloween’s female participants.

It’s not like this is a new observation. Every year us media types take on the “sluttification” of Halloween with varying degrees of originality. It can be an especially self-serving soapbox when stood upon by a dude. (Look how evolved I am, ladies! Follow me on Twitter!)

So rather than bemoan our deteriorating moral values (you do know this is all happening because of the liberal war on Christmas) or pick on the Onyx’s shameless sexism, I’d like to complain about how the sexy-costumes marketplace has, for too long, overlooked us poor guys. Judging by the unfortunate number of Magic Mikes I saw preening for attention last Halloween, dudes want, nay, deserve to be exploited, too. Can I get an Amen?

I actually have some experience with being objectified on Halloween. Three Octobers ago, I dressed in drag, and spent the night getting groped by women who saw an opportunity to flip the script on unwanted male attention. The hostess of a party actually grabbed the back of my neck and shouted, “Let’s see how you like it!” I didn’t.

That’s why it’s time we men join our exploited sisters and ride this nauseating tide to its breaking point. I still have that dress somewhere; writer Dave Kempa’s itching to disrobe his inner nudist; and co-editor Nick Miller, a frustrated Homeland viewer, pledged to win the cash prize by going as “sexy Claire Danes cry face.” (Copy editor Shoka even offered to attend as a “sexy bottle of Purell,” just so we can sanitarily bust this glass ceiling.)

The Onyx wants whores? Trick or treat.