In the first of ESPN The Magazine's daily reports from Tampa, Neal Scarbrough goes to Venus. The Mons Venus. Just to see what all the fuss is about. Yeah, that's the ticket.

It started Sunday, really. When Jim Fassel told his Giants if they wanted to have a good time at the Super Bowl, "Do it when we're not in it." It continued when the Baltimore Ravens were offered specific instructions about what's legal and what's not in Tampa.

They must have been trying to keep Tony Siragusa from parasailing, right? No, they all were running scared of one place -- Mons Venus, Tampa's world-renowned, grand and glorious strip club. Judging from all the attention and talk, it apparently is Tampa's only must-see attraction -- for men.

And therein lies the, um, rub. Tampa has decided while the Mons and other clubs like it may be must-sees, they also are must-not-touches. So now there's an ordinance that says the "entertainers" must stay at least six feet from their customers when offering private dances. It seems there were a couple of Dallas Stars in the joint during a recent raid. The last thing the Giants and Ravens needed was to be conducting interviews from in front of the lockup. Hence, the warning.

When I hit the media center Monday I had the good fortune of running into many familiar faces from the football business. All I overheard were plans to hit the Mons.

"When you going?"

"I've got an early deadline Wednesday. Let's go early, when no one's watching."

"Dude, you ain't Ray Lewis."

They have pro sports here, don't they? Movie theaters? Dog tracks?

But I had promised a Pulsecard, and the day had offered nothing but a tour of the media center. On the way back to my hotel (in Alabama), I stopped in to see (but not touch) what all this fuss was about. What went on at The Mons? Who would I see there? Where were the police hiding? I had a deadline, after all.

You could easily miss this place. The marquee resembles a sign for a diner that you wouldn't think about stopping into. "Super Babes, Super Dances, Super Deals, Super Bowls," it heralded. Whoever had the pipe dream to open this place must have been sleeping in his car, because it can't be much bigger than an oversized garage ... with a stage ... and mirrors ... and lots of neon and black lights.

Not counting the woman at the door (Poof! Twenty dollars gone like magic) and the waitresses, there were 42 entertainers jammed into this neon garage and none of them had the same name -- my favorites (names, I mean) were Cinnamon and Malibu. Admittedly, temptation is everywhere. A handful of these beauties were actually strolling the club bottomless. No wonder the league is worried.

I must have picked the right shirt and cologne, because I kept getting asked to dance. "Want a dance, big fella?" "Are you ready for a dance yet?" "My, your wallet, er, smile, looks good." Sorry, but at $30 a pop that wasn't happening, especially not for a Pulsecard.

As for the dancers and the law, let's just say there must not be much difference between six feet away and six pounds of pressure per square inch. They're both part of every dance. (The row where most dances take place is only four feet from the outer wall -- and no remodeling plans are in the works. "People don't come here to be that far away from me, Sugar," said Jewel, real name Julie.) Six feet be damned.

So how are athletes -- young, frisky and with money to burn -- supposed to avoid this place, especially on a dead Monday? Well, some couldn't. As I rose to leave -- my wallet intact and my knees wobbly -- a couple of Ravens entered. They just got into town, and headed straight for the Mons? First things first.

I won't identify them, because I didn't identify myself, but they were members of the unit that doesn't score points, which in Baltimore is everybody but Matt Stover. Were they concerned about being spotted? Only by the police for violating the 2-yard bubble. "I want to get a dance," said one, "but I don't know where the cops are." So you're cool with being here? "You can't go to Tampa, and not see this place."

And I had to be the guy to take you there.

Neal Scarbrough is pro football editor for ESPN The Magazine. He's obviously had a long season. E-mail him at neal.scarbrough@espnmag.com.