Last night? Bachelorette party, baby. And yes, of course, we ended up at a bar with a mechanical bull. But I really need to talk about what happened BEFORE the bull.
We took a private pole dancing class. And it was HARD. (That’s what she said.)
Not only are my arms and legs screaming in agony, but I seem to have a raging case of pole burn down the middle of my back. In hindsight, the fact that I was able to fling myself around a pole for an hour without sustaining a major injury was nothing short of a miracle.
It turns out our dear bridezilla Gwen is quite a natural on the pole. Actually, it turns out that almost everyone in our group took to the pole right away. ALMOST everyone.
Who has two thumbs, a rather strange obsession with kazoos, and should never ever be allowed back on a stripper pole? *sigh*
My fellow pole-mates had already seductively scaled their poles, licked the ceiling and were gracefully sliding back down to Earth before I could even figure out how to grip the damn thing between my overly moisturized legs.
Side note: I think I know why strippers rock the body glitter now. It’s not an aesthetic choice, rather a practical one. A girl needs a little traction (pronounced the way Mrs. Alicia Bridges says “action” in “I Love the Nightlife“).
Interwebz? I can’t even writhe on the floor properly. I thought of all the areas covered during our educational session, that would be the one where I might excel. I mean, between my constantly falling down and occasionally passing out, I spend half my life on the floor. But no. Uh uh. Not even kinda.
I watched our tiny and ridiculously toned instructor roll onto her stomach, stick her right leg up into the air, then pull her knees up and under her body so her pert little spandex-clad ass reached for the ceiling before she somehow gracefully undulated her body until she sat kneeling with her knees thrust wide. Yeah, I can’t do that. What I can do is grunt, one leg flailing wildly while somehow getting my shoe caught on the pole, then make disgusting squeaking noises with my sweaty palms, and flop about the floor until I find myself sweating and whimpering in something resembling indian style. (Crap, I forget what we’re calling that again. Cross-legged? Oh just go with the visual people. I’m 1/16 Cherokee so I’m pretty sure I can call it indian style.)
Come to think of it, that’s how I ended damn near every one of the segments we learned. My personal favorite? Somehow our instructor was able to fling out her left leg, then hook it around the pole as she skillfully whirled her five foot frame around the pole, slowly descending into a provocative, wide-legged squat. From that position, she thrust her purple metallic bubble of an ass towards our faces, then diligently humped the pole until she resumed the standing position. She flipped her giant mane of tousled, dark hair over her shoulder and said, “Easy right?”
It’s like we were twins separated at birth.
I managed to somehow knock my front teeth into my pole while launching into my interpretation of a spin. Lord only knows how, but I was able to hook my ankle around the pole mid spin. Then my fight-or-flight instincts took over and I clung to that bad boy like it was Sting in a crowd of Insane Clown Posse fans. My spin instantly stopped with a horrific, skin-burning screech. Slowly, as my death grip loosened, I descended in uneven, squeaky bursts until my ass hit the wooden floor. I suppose if you’d consumed a fifth of gin and the light was really dim, it’s feasible my soon to be patented “Red Thighed, Pole Filled, Indian Style Slide” could be considered a sexy move.
Really. I’m like grace personified over here.
So in addition to the raging case of pole burn I have searing down the middle of my back, I also have a little crotch inflammation happening as well. I thought it was the bride that was supposed to get broken at these things.
*limps off in search of Tiger Balm*