The Nevada Sagebrush

Krystal Bick

“Ladies, grab a pole,”our blonde, tanned and toned instructor told us, “and don’t forget to stick your butt and breasts out!”

I looked around the room, with nine brass stripper poles riddling the space and 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop”softly playing overhead in the yoga-like studio.

What the hell did I get myself into?

Partly on a dare but mainly because I was curious, a few weeks ago I found myself at my very first “exotic workout”class, ahem, I mean pole dancing class.

I know, I know. But before the snickering/leering/feminist finger pointing ensues, let me defend my case.

My friend Cydney and I, bored with our usual workout routines, let our imaginations run a little wild when we saw an ad in the paper that read: “Bodies By Brenda — Exotic Workouts.”

And, being unfortunately addicted to more Cosmo-reading and Sex-and-the-City watching than we would like to admit, we both signed up for an hour-long pole dancing class, as we eventually ruled out the lap dancing class. (Maybe some other time, we told ourselves, rolling our eyes.)

Inside the intimate studio that night, we walked in and were greeted by none other than the infamous Brenda herself, who started signing us up for class like it was a Monday night PTA meeting — no biggie, because everyone pole dances, right?

My fellow classmates, all regular attendees, started filing in, calling dibs on which poles they wanted, what moves they hoped to practice and how they were still sore from last week.

And all I could think was, “God, I just hope I don’t bruise something that will prevent me from peeing comfortably for the next couple of days.”

I looked at all of them. Regular women — no different than me and no one who looked like they came straight from Wild Orchid across the street. One woman, my instant favorite, was about 60 years old and wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed: “Radical Feminist.”

Oh yeah, I said, time to get radical, and time for me to make a fool of myself.

Our first moves were a warm-up for getting acquainted with the pole. Basic leg wrap-arounds and stretches, Brenda told us, are key for helping us “feel sexy”and “feel the part.”OK, feeling sexy, check.

But then, just as I thought I was off the hook from embarrassing myself too much, Brenda, without missing a beat, wrapped her leg around the pole, spun with ease and finished it off landing gracefully on her knees in an arched back pose, hair flipped along the way — “The Firefly.”

My jaw dropped. Were we supposed to bring dollar bills to this class, or did she actually expect us to do that?

I may have paid $20 bucks to be there, but I didn’t really imagine myself doing real stripper moves. What woman would actually do that to herself?

But the funny thing is, I caught myself thinking, why not? All Brenda was encouraging us to do was to carry ourselves with confidence, authority and the general feeling of knowing what you want. Not too feministically shabby, eh?

Too often, I think women shun their sexuality, or at least their sexual forthrightness. “That’s the man’s job,”we tell ourselves as we wait around hoping he gets our “hints.”

And what I found, as I was flexing my leg around the pole, sometimes you have to forget about your comfort zone, take a few risks and embrace that taboo we call (gasp!) sexuality.

Granted, pole dancing isn’t for me and it sure as hell doesn’t dispel the skewed view of women as objects, but hey, where else can you swing around a pole and feel little Jane of the Jungle-ish?

Krystal Bick is a columnist for The Nevada Sagebrush. She can be reached at kbick@nevadasagebrush.com.

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