I'm in love with a skripper*...

*Skrip-per (n.) colloquial. Stripper; often one endowed with large secondary sexual characteristics, i.e. buttocks or breasts. Often in African-american song lyrics. see also: Video Dancer.

So I took a pole-dancing class Saturday night (this is what comes of four women sitting around saying "We should do something different for January Girls' Night!" Don't be surprised if next month, we're all at some amateur night, daring each other to get up there and shake what our mommas gave us -- with clothes, of course. We aren't that adventurous)

After two and a half hours of Dips, Venuses, Corkscrews, Goddesses, Pirouettes (what, only ballerinas can do it?), and Prancing, I gotta say: I have a whole new respect for adult entertainers/dancers/strippers/skrippas. (well, maybe not 'skrippas', as we did not learn the 'booty clap' and honestly, I'm afraid to). Walking around a pole, shifting your momentum while simultaneously launching your body weight upwards to maximum height, then latching onto the pole and gripping it so that you are bearing your own weight while spiraling downward -- all the while trying to look sexy and alluring and worth the tips....

Dude. Seriously. It ain't for the weak.

Or, apparently, those without damned good core muscles and upper-body strength. Your girl has UBS she didn't know she had, but core muscles? pfft. I couldn't do the whole split-and-twirl bit. Gotta work on that one.

It was fun, though, 8 women of varying ages and sizes (and appropriate stripper names -- mine was "Honey") cheering each other on with every fall, spill, and decidedly ungraceful spin. Thing is, some of us are better at it than we thought, and everyone had things they were good at. One was really graceful, one alluring, one technically astute, one's enthusiasm was simply contagious, etc. I think that was really the best part: Discovering that part of you you didn't know existed, and/or being able to show it off if you did.

C. was surprisingly agreeable to the possibility of installing one in the garage. I've already begun a playlist on my Ipod ("Honey Pot")

heh.

Vanity, Vanity, all is Vanity

So I looked up an ex-internet-Friend (read: flirt partner) a coupla months ago. And before you start getting any ideas, yes, we're just friends (not FWBs, either, mind, but merely people who know a lot about each other and don't mind the occasional 'how are you?' email back and forth)

Thing is, he used to be over a group I used to write for. Good stuff, too. A good group, that. People submitted pieces, commented. He wrote too. And for whatever reason, I left the group, but still kept in touch with him, and then that faded out, too. When I caught up with him, of course I asked him about his writing.His answer: he was concerned his Muse had left!

Are we Tortured Artists or what?!

So we got to talking about inspiration and how age and life can take its toll on writing, and how your style changes, etc. Long story short, I've got myself an audience.

And seeing as how C. ("I don't get it, but I know you like to write that stuff, so I'll support you in it") doesn't want anything to do with the actual reading of any of my work, I have to say I like the fact that someone out there will read it. I like knowing that someone likes it and will actually ask for more. I used to feel this way about actual sex, but those days are long gone, so I settle for being a bit of all right at writing about it. And liking it.

And having others read about it, which I enjoy immensely. Which, I guess makes me a little bit vain.

And maybe in some weird way, trampy? Heh. who'da thunk it!