Don't You Believe It . . .

There is a myth being perpetuated by the media. On every show, from Oprah to Good Morning America, MTV and any show on Oxygen, you will see formerly sexy yet still somewhat attractive women encouraging you, Average American Woman, to try something that has long been considered taboo: stripping. Its been tamed down to nice words like "stripper aerobics" or "fit to strip" but they're all just whore-in-training classes. They stand there in their provocative workout gear topped with clear heels, smiling and claiming that not only will you be in shape, but your man will be happy. And how do they know what will make your man happy? They're strippers! If anyone knows how to make a man happy, its someone who takes their clothes off for men. . . and lesbians. They KNOW what men like because if they didn't, they would have gone to college like the rest of us non-sexy hag bags. They glide effortlessly around the pole like sexy little fairies, smiling and making you believe that you, too, can be the world's sexiest, most confident woman. That's right, Average, Working, Haven't-Had- Sex-in-Weeks, Have-You-Let-Yourself-Go American Woman, bring sexy back into your home. "You, too, can look like ME. . .(gliding around the pole, clear heels gleaming in the spotlight). "

Well hell, I want to look like you . . . I want my man to be pleased. I want to be more sexy, and fun and confident. . . I want to bring sexy back (damn you Justin Timberlake).

I have always been interested in strippers. I have never considered stripping for myself as I don't like strangers trying to touch me, but one way I get acclimated to a new place is to check out the strip clubs. You can always tell the quality of the town by the quality of their strippers and whores. . . and drug dealers but thats another blog. There aren't any strip clubs in my town, which mean my town SUCKS, but I have been to every strip club in chicago, a few in vegas, nashville, champaign, etc, etc, etc. I think its interesting, and my husband likes that I think its interesting so I get little, if any, objection when I say, "Let's go look at some vaginas."

So now its time to find someplace where I can learn to be sexy. As I don't have any local friends, I don't have anyone's opinion to follow so I looked online. I couldn't exactly find a stripper aerobics/fit to strip class, so I settled for a purely exotic dancing class at a place called Gypsy Rose. So lemme tell you about Wendy, the CEHo of Gypsy Rose (Her words, not mine!) Wendy is a mildly attractive middle aged whore who stripped her way to a master's in Medieval history, which would explain why she currently teaches stripping because you can't get a real job with a masters in Medieval history. Another interesting thing about Wendy is that she has been on The Montell Williams Show because her dance studio is inhabited by otherworldly beings. I kid you not, when she dances, she is surrounded by orbs and ribbons one can only be seen on camera. . . Of course, this was tremendously comforting to someone as high anxiety as me (What if i trip over your orbs? I'm not signing anything!). She'll be going back to Montell to talk to my favorite psychic, Sylvia Brown, to find out what about her dancing attracts heavenly bodies. . . I'm sure when I dance there are little demons dancing around, laughing and pointing, but you can only see them when you're tripping on acid. . .

So on with the class. . .

I arrive, wearing shorts and a I LOVE MY HUBBY t-shirt, and knee high tube socks. NOTHING says sexy like knee high tube socks. I brought heels, but they weren't trampy enough, so she asked me to wear a pair of calf-length patent leather boots with a buckle on them and. . . you guessed it, clear heels. What's a whore without clear heels? We had to sign a waiver that she seems to think will cover her ass in the case of an accident (little does she know, that if she's been negligent, waivers mean jack shit) and got to listen to her talk about her experience, which includes stripping in LA and London, and authoring two books: The Idiot's Guide to Pole Dancing and The Deaths of the Popes. . . Yes, she wrote a book about all the deaths of all of the popes. . . I know. You're impressed. In fact, she aspires to travel to the Vatican and explore the catacombs of the Vatican City. Clearly she has missed her calling so after all that Pope talk, she proceeded to give us a sample of what we will do in the class.

*que the gay, house version of Rick James' "Superfreak"*

It was at this point that I realized that I was in the wrong class. . . Not only did she do alot of self touching, but she tried to dominate me. (Not that self touching is wrong, but I don't think its interesting or sexy. Where's the class where I can learn how to make my booty clap? How about shaking my pasties so that they spin like little helicopter propellers?) Now it has been my experience that women who work in the sex industry hate men. Yes, they will have sex with them, but asking them to love, appreciate, and respect them is like asking them to stop stripping (What?!? Why the hell would I want to do that?). Because the man hate is so strong in this crowd, they tend to treat men like shit, including slapping them around and trying to injure them with their breasts. Well, Wendy, lemme tell you something - I'm not a man, and if you slam your whore boot into the wall next to my head again, I'll be sure to return the favor. . . with your face. But I will say she is qualified. She's been stripping longer than I've been alive. She climbed up the pole, flipped upside down, and then demonstrated her awesome skill by falling on her neck in a bonecrushing *thud* to the floor. . . Yep. . . Very encouraging. She played it off but it confirmed another suspicion - alot of strippers have some sort of substance issue. . .

So let's start with the walk. *que "Free Your Mind" by En Vogue*

She had an exaggerated sexy walk. I attempted an exaggerated sexy walk too, to which she said "that's a little too exaggerated." So i walked like I normally do, with a long stride and my low gelatinous ass shaking in tow, and that was "perfect." Oh! I forgot about my classmates. Allow me to introduce Holly: a hot 21 year old Asian girl who really didn't need the class. Not to say she was an A-plus stripper, but she was cute enough to not really have to shake it. But then again, I make enough money to not have to shake it either so maybe she was there for shits and giggles, too. And then there was Catherine. . . Poor, poor Catherine. She was a plain, broad and flat, very very pale white woman with a band aid on her ankle as she cut herself shaving. I thought it was strange that her band-aid was a very dark brown. When asked about it, she said, "Oh its for bla- (looking nervously at me) people who have a darker skin tone." She claims she had done burlesque before, but I didn't believe her, she needs more people. In fact, I will never believe her, even with a lot of people. In fact, I bet the orbs were hovering around her, saying to one another "Yeah. She sucks."

Sexy walk led to floor time. *Que Toxic by Brittany Spears*
In case you hadn't noticed, the music sucked. Where's "Let Me See It" by UGK? Can I get a little "Where Dem Dollas At?" by Gangsta Boo? At least a little "Make It Rain" by Everybody and They Mama. . . No? Okay.

So, just to give you an idea of how labor intensive writhing around on the floor is, we were given knee pads. I bet you've never seen a stripper in knee pads but I tell you, the floor + my knees banging into the floor = me needind knee pads. Do you know that broad had me humping the floor? Thats right. Humping. the. damn. floor . . . Yet another reminder that I was in the wrong class. I knew you would like some notes so I took some. Here's my floor routine:

Crawl crawl crawl, sit back on your knees, touch yourself, roll over on your stomach, hump the ground, crawl crawl crawl, sit back on your knees, touch your self, wash, rinse and repeat. . .

Yeah. . . Good times.

So now we move to the pole. I don't remember what music went here because I was too scared to notice anything else going on. But this is the cool part, right? WRONG bitch! Horribly horribly wrong. . . First, there was a chalk circle drawn about 6 inches around the base of the pole. This circle was called "The Circle of Death." If you step into this circle , you will be assaulted by the pole. Like literally, the pole will reach out, grab you by the back of the head, and smash your face into it. Well, just don't step into the circle, right? Sounds easy, but its not. . . especially when you're only 5 feet tall. Basically, I had to stand in the circle to assume the start position that would launch me around the pole. And believe me, that launch was not easy. Not only do you have to pivot off the toe of your inside leg, but at that exact moment of pivot, you must pull your weight up, wrap the outside leg while posing the inside leg, and attempt to keep the facial expression of someone who is not exerting a tremendous amount of effort (a grimace).Well good luck with that. As a result of having to stand in the Circle of Death, I was assaulted EVERY SINGLE TIME. And let's not mention the pole burn you get on your hands. In fact, I'm still suffering from stripper elbow and pole dancer shoulder.

On to the chair, bitches! Chair dancing is not like lap dancing where there is an object to your affection. Its like trying to be sexy on a wobbly kitchen tile perched on top of a flag pole. One false move and your ass is on the floor. Broken coccyx and everything. So we have these flimsy fourth grade chairs to sit on, and you are supposed to touch yourself and swing your hair as frequently as possible, which makes you dizzy. . . Yep. Dizzy. . . Dizzy while trying to be sexy on a kitchen tile on top of a flag pole. Mmmm Hmmm. . . So you scoot up as far as you can so you can, lean back and do a leg spread, and if you do this right, you get to sit back up and be sexy again. If you don't scoot up enough, you will hit the ground, back first, smashing your head into the ground, and to add insult to injury, the chair will fall unceremoniously in your crotch, and Wendy will talk shit about you. And your classmates will look away so they won't laugh in your face. . Ask Catherine. . .

Finally, I did a performance for the class. Very much like Flash Dance, but to Paula Cole's "Feeling Love." I just might be awesome.

Anyway, the myth is that you will feel sexy. You will, in one hour and a half session, learn to love your cellulite and hell, men will love it simply because you do. Know why? Because they're stupid men, and men are stupid. And i spit on their stupid heads. In one bumbling flight around the pole, you will be transported into another dimension where you're the sexiest woman in the room. You'll be as sexy as any one of these man-hating, clear heeled whores.

But, I didn't feel sexy. I felt like every move I made in my clear heels could potentially cause my untimely and embarrassing demise. Headline:

WOMAN STRANGLES SELF ON BRASS POLE: Strippin' Ain't Easy.

But you never know until you try, right? So what I know for sure: Clear heels and pole swinging don't make you sexy. This class isn't going to make you sexy. In fact, it just might emphasize just how sexy you are NOT. Ask Catherine. It's an issue of confidence, and swinging on a pole or humping the damn floor isn't going to build confidence (I still can't believe I humped the floor. . . I disgust myself). Instead of trying to live up to the fictitious facade of the sexy stripper, I should spend more time honing the skills I am already good at, like scrapbooking or oral sex. My husband thinks I am sexy when I talk psycho-babble which says to me that its my brains he thinks are sexy and my jiggly ass is just a bonus. (I know, how cliched.)

Hell, he hasn't even asked for a dance

And what does THAT tell you? Nooo, he's not gay. it SHOULD tell you that while impossibly sexual sexy strippers are appealing to LOOK at, his wife is clearly his preference, pole swinging or not. . .

And how awesome is that?