The Stripper Pole

Of all the sentences I never thought I’d find myself saying: Currently, I’m living in an apartment with a stripper pole.

Forget coffee table books, if you want a real conversation starter at the center of a room, a stripper pole is the way to go. Christine is taking a pole dancing class (it’s athletic, not slutty) and brought one home with which to practice.

Naturally, everyone who pays a visit has to give it a try. There’s a certain naughty curiosity involved, not to mention it’s just plain fun, like a piece of jungle gym equipment. Some people are good at it and have a natural grace. They spin around smoothly and elegantly. Others, like me, can be a bit more acrobatic with the pole, but it’s not necessarily as titillating. I can do some movements, but I always just look like a monkey swinging on a tree – I’m not likely to arouse anyone.

My best trick is where in one swoop I kick my legs up, wrap them around the bar toward its top, then slowly glide down. Here’s a photo of me, the unsexy monkey, in action:

Anyway, I’m not so sure that this is my calling, but it just might be for some of my friends. This might ultimately prove to be a successful investment for some of them, despite recent economic woes. After all, sexy doesn’t go out of business.