Yes, my first Tom Jones concert eleven years ago at the Universal Amphitheater, where we only went because tickets were a ridiculous seven bucks, altered me forever more. No longer was Tom Jones just some schlocky Vegas relic still trying to keep the glory alive. He was a veritable sex machine. The song that triggered my affinity wasn’t “It’s Not Unusual” or “What’s New Pussycat,” it was a single that aired ubiquitously on Radio Europe in 1994 when I was studying abroad and all I heard on the radio were the same 10 songs over and over. I didn’t take to Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do is Have Some Fun,” but I did eventually succumb to the dance floor magnet—“If I Only Knew.”

Since then, I’ve seen him in concert about nine times. I’ve seen him at performing arts centers, I recently saw him in all his glory in Vegas, I even once drove up to San Fran to see him at the Fillmore. But when I saw him last year at the Greek here in L.A., I realized my mission: Pop people’s TJ-cherries. I popped three that night, and all three lovely ladies left agreeing that they wanted to hump him. Knowing that the man known as The Voice is sexy, and the only man I’d ever say that about, doesn’t make me fruity. On the contrary, I bring chicks to his shows because it’s an aphrodisiac. He oozes sex. Though he’s 65-years-old, he could bag more babes than anyone half or even a third his age. He gets more panties thrown at him nightly then you’ll ever have the salacious pleasure of removing from bothered bodies in your life.

Last year, it was three virgins. This year: 10. I had to go through Group Sales for his concert at the Hollywood Bowl to arrange a dozen tickets together. (He nearly sold-out two straight nights at this 18,000 capacity venue, over 40 years after the start of his career!) “But if you deflowered 10 people, why’d you need 12 tix?” you’re asking. Because one of them, Barflies’ very own Lauren the Adnostic, was so smitten last time, she returned. (Incidentally, one of my honeys from last year was stoked about seeing him again, but the show fell on her cousin’s wedding. The last one really wanted to go, but we broke up since then and I wanted her to think I was bringing a date.) So the night finally arrives and the lot of us met up on site beforehand for a delectable potluck. Joining me were old friends, friends from work, friends from out of state and out of country, and another Barflier, Liz the Tinkinator, and her sister, Nancy, who CRIED when she found out where Liz was bringing her as a surprise. Nancy, who ditched her husband and son behind, is my new favorite person.

After our picnic, we found our way to our seats, where we had over half the row. Because of the amount of wine, vodka, and Irish whisky consumed beforehand and during the show, I suspect a few people seated were irritated by more than their sticks up their asses. C’est la vie. We caught the end of the opener, the Pete Escovado Orchestra, which wasn’t unlike seeing Tito Puente, only the drummer happened to be Sheila E. of Prince notoriety. The only thing more impressive than her extreme hotness was her drumming prowess. Her solo, captured on the Bowl’s four Jumbotrons, was a whir of flesh and drumsticks. Then the real spectacle took place.

ToJo (my newest nickname for him) opened with “Tom Jones International” from his recent album produced by the Fugees’ Wycleaf Jean. You read right. Dressed in tight black pants and a black shirt that looked like it had been bedazzled with black beads, the scorching summer heat turned him into a sweaty mess faster than usual. He announced that his set would consist of tracks from his three newest albums, which also included his umpteenth repackaged Greatest Hits and one of early rock covers performed with pianist extraordinaire, Jools Holland. When the lead-in strains of “Delilah” began, Lauren and I looked at each other wide-eyed, excited, yet confused why it appeared so soon on the set-list.

“Why? Why? Why? Delilah. YOU BITCH, YOU SLUT. YOU WHORE. My, my, my Delilah. YOU BITCH. YOU SLUT. YOU WHORE. So, before, they come to kick down my door…”

Evidently, not everyone at the Bowl was familiar with this little amelioration of the chorus the way Flogging Molly fans are when they cover it. No matter, most people around us had a good laugh and the cool older ladies in front of us I think joined in. As for the 12 of us, we ripped that strumpet Delilah a new one with great fervor. When Tom sang “Help Yourself,” we were all magically transported to Pleasuretown, where Ron Burgundy and Kelly Bundy were doing it on a rainbow. And when he sang to me how I could leave my hat on, well, it was all I could do to keep from going the full monty.

Here I must add that his set was disappointingly short. Barely over an hour. Not than I know many men that age who can perform at that level—his dance moves could make Shakira blush—but it was easily the shortest show of his I’d ever seen. I’d like to blame the Bowl’s early curfew. He did not play many of my favorite songs, ones that are staples of his set list: “If I Only Knew,” “Daughter of Darkness,” “Burnin’ Down the House,” and, gasp, “Sex Bomb.” He did, naturally, please and delight us with “What’s New Pussycat” and “It’s Not Unusual.” Earlier in the night, once we took our bench, the fantastic bulge in my pocket was revealed. I’d procured panties for all the ladies in the group. Only a few were launched during these musical chestnuts.

All in all, everyone had a kick-ass time. They’d seen the Welsh Wonder in action, and they were convinced I wasn’t making it up—my fanaticism—this whole time. When he did Howlin’ Wolf’s “300 Pounds of Heavenly Joy” reworked as 200 lbs, because, well, he’s svelter, I think I heard some, uh, how to put this delicately, some squishing. TJ’s band was as solid as ever, owing much to the brass section. By the time he closed with “Kiss” (it all comes back to Prince) as the encore, we were 12 punch-drunk giddy ToJo fans, dancing with abandon, anxiously waiting for Tom’s return. I’ll order four dozen tickets as soon as they go on sale.