Would our teacher be a stripper with huge plastic boobs? What kind of shoes does one wear to this kind of thing? Would there be mirrors, peeping toms and would I get herpes?
These are the questions I asked myself before I headed to my first class at Miss Pole, where I am currently enrolled in Pole I / Strip This. This is one of the hardest classes I have taken while at UW, as it forces me to do clenching butt circles and twist my legs into shapes I haven't seen since that geometry class I dropped freshman year. I thought this class would make me more marketable for a future career in this economic shitshow, and so I decided to take a swing in a new direction and signed up.
I would find out that the answers to those questions were: No, my teacher is perfectly normal and cute. You wear socks, no shoes. There are no mirrors (thank God), no creepy dudes, and to my knowledge, I am herpes-free.
Learning how to release my innerstripper diva was a challenge but something I took seriously. I wanted to graduate top of my class as Miss New Booty, but soon realized I had no coordination, so I was somewhat self-conscious trying to perform my strip show in a room full of girls, some whose comfort with the pole is astounding, it's as if they were meant to be strippers, bestowed by god with this gift the moment they were born.
During our first class, we started with the most elementary pole move: The Virgin. We've since learned The Firefighter and The Cheerleader, and when we first started practicing our moves, I was positive that nothing about me looked remotely sexy, in fact I'm pretty sure I have the sex appeal equivalent of an androgynous agoraphobic. Every so often I landed butt-first on the floor, afraid to jump high and reach for Pole-Star gold.
As the class progressed at Miss Pole, I not only learned how to jackrabbit hump the floor with a newfound style and grace (my favorite move: The Desperation, recently renamed by my class as the Ashley Pump), but I learned how to trace the curves of my body with my fingertips in a room full of women also feeling themselves up.
I learned how to slap my own ass with pride, wiggle on the floor, and even learned how to whip myself around a pole, something I never thought I'd accomplish after growing up and leaving the playground, let alone share with anyone. But these changes did not come easy (pun intended).
Even though my ass collided with the cold wood floor more often than I landed on my feet, I had fun, broke a sweat, and had bruises to show as a badge of pole-dancing honor and bravery.
And now, as an almost-graduate of the hard knock school of would-be strippers, I feel like I know more than the average girl about how to unhook my bra, slide down a wall and end with my leg in the air, and roll myself into a human taco.
But the best lesson I learned from pole is its ability to cement unexpected friendships. With my friends and me in the class, we quickly befriended two former UW party girls, not unlike us, who now had kids of their own. Before a pole class, we met for a cocktail and talked about everything from disliking children to the importance of matching underwear.
During one class, as we all laid on the floor ""tracing"" our thighs, one of the former Badgers said, ""I just want everyone to know this is much easier two drinks in.""
After ""pole,"" as we now fondly call it, ended, we went to the Echo Tap for a burger and beer, still dressed in our workout clothes. Two guys eyed us from a nearby table and asked, ""Hey, are you guys on a team or something? Softball?""
We laughed, because in a sense, even if he was slurring his words, he was right.
""Yeah,"" we said. ""I guess you could say that.""
If you're interested in joining a pole class, e-mail aaspencer@wisc.edu for details, or look on Miss Pole's website. If you'd pay big money for a three-person pole show by a group of girlfriends, make her an offer of Echo Tap pitchers.
