I NEVER liked the popular drinking game, 5-10.

The game is too much of a hassle – testing your hand-eye coordination, having to do mental sums in split seconds, c’mon, I can barely remember the number of Bellinis and vodka tonics we’ve already ordered.

So my friends and I come up with our own drinking games which I like to think are more creative, fun and, thankfully, no measure of your mathematical aptitude at two in the morning.

Phew.

The most recent one is called Spot the Real Working Girl.

The game came about after one girlfriend’s wry observation about the state of dress (or undress) of the patrons at one very trendy nightspot: “The girls here wear shorter dresses than prostitutes.”

Her comment inspired cackles and our new drinking game.

Based on a girl’s outfit, you are to figure out if she’s a girlfriend- for-hire or just a regular club patron.

The one who guesses wrongly has to tipple.

And let me tell you, this game is no walk in the park.

One only has to hit any of the hot night spots to witness the brazen flesh parade.

Young and nubile bodies in hair bands masquerading as skirts, handkerchiefs for tops, monokinis that pass for a body suit and cheap copies of Herve Leger bandage dresses that are so ultra tight and short, you wonder if they’re actually band aids woven together.

In my line of work, it’s common to see models quickly disrobing backstage to slip into the next outfit they have to parade on the catwalk.

I’ve been on set at lingerie shoots where only silk gossamer La Perla threads delicately cover the necessary private bits.

In many fashion or beauty spreads I’ve commissioned, the word “sexy” has been interpreted in countless ways – whether it’s fetish-geared Dominatrix, pouty jail-bait Lolitas, Mata Hari femme fatales or sensual Aphrodite that would surely inspire original sin.

Prude is not a word that exists in my vocabulary.

And yet what I see the lasses wear in clubs now make me blush.

Once upon a time, you would chance upon an upskirt moment when some poor inebriate was sprawled on the sidewalk outside a club.

These days, a nightspot is an arena for nipple flashing even before the patrons get sloshed. Skin – lots of it – seems to be the fabric to sport, and trampy, not vampy, is what’s being channelled.

After all, our young and infamous dethroned beauty queen recently proclaimed her sartorial style as being “very trashy”, favouring “low-cut, halter necks and tie-backs where you can’t wear a bra or anything.”

Ironically, it’s the real working girls that seem to be putting on the class act.

Outside one famous hotel disco, where the ladies of the night mingle with mainstream society, the ones who ply the trade were suited up in pencil skirts (so a la sexy secretary), chic tops and figure- hugging dresses.

They seemed to understand vamp dressing much better.

If one didn’t pay attention to their porn-star anklets, trampy heels and fake Fendi and Chanel handbags, they could easily pass off as regular party goers.

Salut.

This article was first published in The New Paper.