I bet you are wondering where I’m going with this.
Have you ever visited a strip club? Don’t be coy with me. Let’s talk about this. I had my first exposure to this concept at a relatively young age after my mother found out that my father, Crazy Bob, had hit one after a work party with some fellow office buddies. Needless to say, this did not go over very well. I believe my mother actually took me on a drive-by of the club so she could point out the exact place where Crazy Bob allegedly, “looked at some sluts.” I wish I could remember the name because strip clubs always have spectacularly funny names. My friends and I headed to one named Peppermints, a male strip club in Canada, as part of a bachelorette party during my senior year of college. I can still recall it like it was yesterday. Each male dancer had a three-song routine, with the final song revealing the full monty. A woman, clearly a regular, recited the all the dancers’ performance schedules as we stood in line. She then sat, all by herself, with dollar coins in her mouth so the male dancers would remove them with theirs. Ick. Another girl drank so much that she vomited on the floor and the performer proceeded to stop his routine until the mess had been cleaned up. He managed to insult one of the girls in our party by commenting on her Long Island accent. After this, I somehow banged my head on the feminine napkin box in the restroom while adjusting my black Emma Peel catsuit (please don’t ask about my bizarre college or high school attire because that’s worthy of an entirely separate post). I had to hold my nice, cold, JD and Cokes against my forehead to ease the swelling of the goose egg for the remainder of the evening. Success!
Let’s fast-forward to approximately eight years later. I attended a regional sales meeting in Idaho and tried to keep up with the guys after dinner and we wound up at a very classy joint, The Torch. The Torch had stellar decor, complete with bar stools outfitted with hot pink lips for seat cushions and chair backs. All of a sudden, I wound up with an oily blonde woman on my lap courtesy of one of my male counterparts. At that point, I was just grateful this was merely a skimpy bikini bar versus a full nudie establishment. We then watched her go up and down the pole like a champ in her lucite heels. She made it look so very, very, easy and the dudes really seemed to dig it.
Now let’s fast-forward to about five months ago. I received an email from a friend requesting my presence at a six-week class she’d been taking complete with this link to a local dance studio: http://www.goddesshour.com/descriptions.htm. Yes, people. I’m talking about the fine Art of Pole Dancing. I am a firm believer in trying anything once and it conveniently fit into my schedule. I also firmly believed that my partaking in this class would enable me to magically spin around the pole, in heels, as easily as my oiled-up buddy at The Torch. I was confident that these skills could be honed overnight. I was convinced that said skills would garner a bevy of new male suitors. And after six weeks of class, I can tell you that I looked so amazing working that pole. Really. I don’t mean to brag, but I was almost as sexy as this:
What? Clinging for dear life doesn’t scream sexy hotness?
Okay. In all seriousness, it was a great class with two amazing instructors. I just found it hard to stop laughing as one made references about serving it up like a steak dinner, and I wondered aloud what a vegetarian man might want for dinner. We decided that I would serve myself up like butternut squash because broccoli isn’t a very sexy vegetable. We also decided that what I lack in the sexy department, I make up for in funny. So there you go. In a nutshell, pole classes are a great upper body and core workout because you are basically pulling all of your weight up the pole on a consistent basis. You will also enjoy a lot of laughs and inside jokes. However, you will be a little sore from working different muscle groups, and classes cause quite a bit of bruising on the shins and knees due to the spins and floor work. I also managed to screw up my shoulder because I had overworked it by lifting heavy boxes at a fundraiser the day prior. My bad. Despite this, I had a fun experience at Goddess Hour and would definitely recommend it to others. While I might not pursue another pole class or a career as an exotic dancer, I would definitely consider one of their belly dancing or hula-hooping classes. Hula-hooping is going to be huge and hella-sexy. As for my friend who instigated my class participation, she still wishes to remain very anonymous. She also continues to advance her level of expertise and is on her second public performance this weekend (clothed, of course). Lady Sensory a.k.a. Butternut Squash just might have to make an appearance.