I often had so many phone numbers from guys I met at clubs that it was a scavenger hunt to find people in my phonebook.

“We look like hookers!” my best friend and I would scream as we pranced across the street in four-inch heels and skirts so short we had to pull on them to hold them down.

Car horns and cat-calls were directed at us as we strutted into one of several dance clubs at which we were regulars, ready for a night we would probably not remember very well the next morning.

Those days have become a memory, yet not a memory distant enough to reclaim all of my pride. It was only a couple of years ago that I thought a diamond-studded tube top, a mini skirt, Chinese laundry heels and body glitter were totally hot digs for a Saturday — heck, maybe even a Wednesday — night on the town.

I actually came across one of my old clubbing tops the other day, and holding up the sequined horror, I said: “Oh my God! I can’t believe I used to go out in public in this thing!”

But I did. Multiple times. And I thought I looked really hot.

Back in my clubbing days, my friends and I would often be surprised at how much attention we got from men (actually, it might be more appropriate to call them boys).

I often had so many phone numbers from guys I met at clubs that it was a scavenger hunt to find people on my phonebook whom I actually wanted to talk with when sober.

After a night out, I’d get phone calls from guys I never remembered meeting.

Well, no wonder I attracted so many guys — I was a walking billboard for an easy one-night stand. But I did not go home with guys I met at clubs, though I sure must have looked like I did.

Female clubbers can be shameless and have many techniques for suckering guys into buying them drinks or even buying them those crappy flowers and stuffed animals the female employees come around with.

To get a drink, several tricks work.

I was a big fan of waiting to finish the last sip of my drink until the guy I was targeting was looking at me. I would finish the drink, then look sadly into the empty glass, tipping it sideways and frowning a little. This worked nine times out of 10.

If it didn’t, and I was drunk enough, I would just slam the glass down and announce, “I need a drink!” Only real schmucks fell for that one … but it turns out there are a lot of schmucks in clubs.

To get a guy who was trying to dance with one of us to go away, we would usually take the lesbian approach. If the guy still persisted, one of us would tell him, “Get away from my lover!”

He would usually step away, but only to join the crowd of guys who had formed to watch us.

I was a big fan of getting as many beads, pins and other accessories they give away as I could. Having recently moved, I threw out bags of the junk. One of the homeless men who picks through my old garbage saw me throwing out the sparkly bundle and went after it like it was a five-course meal.

There is something oddly liberating about continuing to dance at a club about two drinks after you have officially become drunk. Flashing your thong (or lack thereof) as you “get low” isn’t embarrassing at all!

Annoyed by your pantyhose? Just rip them off (literally, one leg at a time)!

Falling on your butt while simultaneously spilling your drink down your chest serves two purposes in one: you take a rest from dancing as your body gets cooled off.

For female clubgoers, the personal enjoyment and public shame does not end at the club. Once shooed out of the club at bar time, many illustrious places — such as George Webb and IHOP — await clubbers.

By this time, hair is frizzed out, makeup is in all the wrong places and items of clothing are torn, dirty, or missing.

I was a big fan of a certain Greek restaurant downtown. The owner had a love/hate relationship with my friends and me. On a “good” night, he would give us extra food and ask us to come lay down on his waterbed, which he claimed was in his “office.”

On a bad night, he would shove our fried mushrooms at us, and as we would turn to sit down in the dining room, he would shout, “To go!”

Being a clubber can actually be a good experience for new 21-year-olds. But the sad fact is I remember there would always be 30-, even 40-somethings out on the dance floor, looking like polyester-clad, stretch-marked nightmares.

If you’re old enough to have children who can go to clubs, you definitely should have stopped entering them yourself over a decade ago.

When I see women dressed up like I used to be, part of me gets slightly nostalgic, but most of me just feels sorry for them. Being a club ho is pathetic, but unfortunately sometimes it takes (a former) one to know one.

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