Working The Pole:

So the other night I went to my girlfriend Heather’s house for some strong cocktails and light entertainment. Luckily she lives around the corner and close enough for me to stumble home when I begin to suffer fits of the horrors and complete blackouts. The other night was no exception when I found myself weaving down the street with a huge painting tucked under my arm and a half finished drink in the other hand. Navigating a blustery March evening with a large canvas can be a bit tricky but you learn quickly which way the wind blows as it comes in handy as a means of propulsion...I like to call this liquored-up mode of locomotion, Stumble Sailing.

So the evening started off as usual with a few drinks, a few puffs, and catching up on the latest when suddenly the conversation turned to pole dancing. See Heather was once an exotic dancer, not just any exotic dancer but a head liner with her name on the marquee. We had been discussing the finer points of seduction as interpreted by erotic striptease when Heather says to me, “Have you ever danced with a pole?” I had to admit that of all the forms of dance that I have experienced, pole dancing is the one art form that had escaped me. I have been to many gentleman’s clubs before and have admired the work of professionals but never have been given the opportunity to join them and then subsequently having been booed or beaten off the main stage. Thank God. That’s when she said, “I have a pole wanna give it a go?” I do a quick visual assessment of the property and wonder aloud, “Where is it?” She got extremely animated and a bit amused at the thought of personal instruction in the art of pole and took my hand and led me toward her makeshift champagne room. Amidst the construction of an addition that will soon be her new boudoir I found a gleaming brass pole stationed in the middle of the room. She snapped on the spotlights and some Britney and headed for center stage. I could have died. There she was giving me the private dancer, an experience that would probably get me stabbed by the straight population. She was whirling and writhing around and around in essence...working the pole.

When the song finished she said, “Now you try.” I was reluctant at first but by the second verse of Toxic I found the groove. Y’all, working a pole aint easy in fact it’s a downright workout. The idea of spinning around a simple pole seems easy enough so what’s the big deal? The deal is trying to make it look effortless and at the same time seductive and graceful. I’m pretty graceful and know a thing or two about making complicated movements seem effortless after all I am a former gymnast and seduction, well I could give Sharon Stone’s smoking beaver scene a run for it’s money. However money is the name and taking dollars away from a glassy eyed schmoe is the game. So I ramped up the energy giving it my best shot and after about a cd worth of songs I got pretty good at it even managed to work in some of my own creations. Sliding ones hands up and down the pole mocking masturbation is always a turn on but walking away from the pole and fanning my smoldering crotch with my hand wafting the fragrance toward the audience has always been a signature move.

Working the pole is the equivalent of Mirror Time. I love Mirror Time as it’s the only time I have alone with me...it can last for hours and hours. So with my new found pole dancing self confidence I said, “Push that shit out of the way it’s blocking the mirror.” Heather and I began moving equipment from one side to another when a neat little painting emerged from the rubble. “What’s that, I’ve never seen that hanging in your house before?” I said to her admiring the red glow appearing from behind a few heavy bags of cement. “It’s a damn ugly ass painting I’ve had for a while...you want it?” She asked. Of course I wanted it and after about thirty more cd’s of exotic exercise and several more cocktails I found myself sailing my new painting and my drunk newly christened stripper ass home to bed.

When I woke up the next morning I was in agony. It’s like I did eight thousand squats, my thighs were burning and my legs were covered in bruises from banging on the pole. I looked across the room and noticed the painting shining in the sunlight and I decided that it’s not such a bad little Charlie Brown painting after all and in fact I like it.

Next visit I’m to bring six inch stilettos and a thong.