Pole Therapy

If you had told me three months ago that I would be spending four plus nights a week pole dancing, I wouldn’t have believed you. But if you had told me, back then, that my life was about to implode, I wouldn’t have believed that either. 

Per usual, I came to the studio straight from work. After peeling off my scrubs, I toss them into my designated locker, replacing them with one of my favorite ensembles. Some of the girls like the lacier stuff. Complete with sparkles, ribbons, maybe even some garters. But me? I prefer all black. 

The boustier stops just above my bellybutton and boasts plush silk cups with an intricate black lace overlay that stretches up to tie behind my neck. The bottoms are simple, black faux leather shorts. And the heels? Exquisite. Masterfully crafted three-inch stilettos. 

“Rosie, hey.” Erica squeezes my shoulder warmly as she breezes into the changing room. She’s already outfitted in a sheer red number that I don’t recognize. Erica is what might be described as voluptuous or, in less generous vernacular, heavy. But that doesn’t stop her from wearing the raciest stuff in the studio and crushing it out on the pole. 

Her husband Dave is her dedicated fanboy. Every showcase, he’s front row with a dozen red roses, whistling and hooting enthusiastically while she dances her ass off, like he’s the only one in the room. 

“Whew, that’s hot.” I reply, strapping on my second heel. “Is it new?”

When you dance together four nights a week, you get to know everyone’s wardrobe.

Her dimpled face brightens visibly and she brushes a strand of honey blonde hair out of her sky blue eyes. “It is, in fact.”

“Are we celebrating something?” I cock my head inquisitively. 

Biting her lip, she glances around before leaning forward to whispers conspiratorially. “I’m pregnant!”

“What? Erica, congratulations!” A genuine smile spreads across my face and I throw my arms around her enthusiastically. 

After navigating numerous routes and disappointments, Erica and her husband began IVF, their last effort at a family, several months ago. 

“That’s so wonderful Erica, really. Dave’s elated, I imagine?”

“Well, we found out two days ago and he started work on the baby’s room…two days ago.” Her flushed cheeks ball up like little apples and the happiness coursing around her is nearly palpable. Evidently, “the glow” is a real thing.

“So, he told me I should buy a celebratory outfit for the showcase, since this will probably be my last one for awhile.”

I nod in approval. “Well, you are one hot momma.”

We enter the studio and I inhale deeply. A sense of grounded-ness and calm fills me. Contrary to my initial assumption, Ava’s pole dancing studio isn’t the seedy, poorly-lit nightclub full of creepy, leering men and desperate women that I envisioned. 

I quickly discovered it to be quite the opposite. The sage gray walls, slate floors, and dusky lighting provide a clean, but sexy, vibe. An empowering environment where women of all different ages, colors, and backgrounds come together to support each other’s growth and feminine power.

Five metal poles are anchored floor to ceiling and I approach my usual pick on the back left. 

With steady practiced movements, my hands grip the cool material and, with languid grace, I swing up, securing myself in place by wrapping my leg around the pole. 

Exhaling deeply, I lean out and back against my anchor, opening my chest to the ceiling. My quads, hamstrings, arms, and core contract and relax in rhythm with my movements. 

Three months ago? Forget the fancy stuff, the twirls and spinning upside down, a leg pointed deftly to the sky. I couldn’t even suspend myself on the pole for more than a minute or so. I was as awkward and clumsy and afraid on the outside as I was on the inside. 

Now, I am a bird in the sky. Nothing can touch me. 

Carefully, I attempt my newest maneuver. A turn, a twist, and I am upside down; stilettoed feet intertwined, the only thing keeping me afloat. A cascade of long, dark hair streams down around me like a canopy and, eyes closed, I extend my arms, flying, and break into a smile.

“Damn girl! I said you were a natural. It took me six months before I would even attempt that move.” 

The blood is pushing on my eyeballs, so I right myself, landing softly on my feet to greet my friend. 

Dark exotic locks, ordinarily coiled and secured like a crown on Gwen’s head, hang nearly to her waist. Her caramel colored skin matches her eyes, as smooth and flawless as her every movement. I flash a smile. 

“Thanks.”

Despite her modesty, Gwen is one of the best dancers in the studio. Her petite frame, though in striking contrast with her robust personality, is ideal for maneuvering. It is, in large part, thanks to Gwen with her hearty laughter and openness, that I felt comfortable staying. 

Growing up, I wasn’t the team superstar, but I was athletic and have always been an active person. But that first day, the first hour, I tried the pole, I was brought to my knees. And not in a sexy way. 

I remember that day clearly. Humiliated, I was sitting on the floor rubbing my forearms and feeling generally like a failure when Gwen approached me.

“Harder than it looks, huh?”

  Recognition flickered in my mind. I had seen her earlier, spinning and twisting, as fluid and graceful as water. Face red, I think I only managed a mumble in agreement. 

“Some of its strength,” she shrugged unapologetically, “there’s no short cutting that. It just takes dedication and time. But some of it,” she grasped the pole, hoisting herself up effortlessly, “is leverage.” Lowering back down, she gestured for me to stand and mimic what she had just done. 

I was hesitant, doubtful. But I needed it. I needed to be strong, to be capable. So desperately, I needed control of something in my shattered life. 

I obeyed, doing my best to imitate what I had seen. And…it worked. 

It was a small move, but it was a move. My first move. Confidence soared. 

Maybe I can do this. 

“I’m Gwen. I teach night classes if you’re interested. It’s helpful, at least until you get the basics down.” 

It wasn’t her words that struck a chord with me that fateful day. No, it was her utter and complete lack of superiority. Her kindness to not make me feel like a fool. To offer strength without making me feel weak. And so I went. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. Every week. For the past twelve weeks. 

Gwen and I became friends. I learned her story. 

She joined four years ago when the hollowness and superficiality of the modeling world that she inhabited had taken its toll. She felt like a shell of herself, praised for her pretty face and body but stripped of self-worth and power. 

Through mutual friends, she met Ava and joined the studio. It was just a hobby…at first. But, as her skill and confidence grew, she knew that she wanted to help other women find that, too. 

“There’s a man out front looking for you, Rosie-Rose (her pet name for me).” 

A bolt of anxiety flashes through me. “Who? What does he look like?” 

Gwen frowns at the tension in my voice. “Uh, dark reddish hair, green eyes…maybe six foot, two?” Understanding dawns on her face. “It’s not…?”

But I exhale a shaky laugh in relief. “Oh, no, thank goodness. That’s my brother.”

“Really?” Concern abated, she is back to her usual mischievous self. “Because he is one fine specimen.” 

“Easy there, Slut.” I tease, crossing the room to a hook on the wall. Tugging on the silk robe, I walk to the front desk, pushing back the new wave of apprehension slowing my steps. 

#

“And you think pole dancing is the answer?” 

Undisguised skepticism saturates his tone. I understand his concern, I used to think the same thing. Our upbringing was conservative, to say the least.

“I think there is something good here. But I get how it seems.” 

When everything happened, Liam was the first person I called. My big brother. My best friend. He dropped everything, drove to the brewpub- Mason’s usual Friday hang- and punched him square in the face. 

“Rose,” his expression softens. “Mason’s a prick for what he did.” His hand clenches into a fist where it rests on the counter. “But don’t let it change you into someone you won’t be proud of.”  

I consider a moment. Pole dancing has changed me. I’ve become someone who refuses to be a victim. And that is something I am supremely proud of. 

My tone is steady, replete with perhaps a touch more bravado than I actually possess. “Mason is a prick. But this has nothing to do with him.” 

A lie. If it wasn’t for that cheating bastard I wasted the last three years of my life on, I never would have stumbled into this little studio, what now feels like, a lifetime ago.

Then, he was the reason I went. 

I was furious. Devastated. Determined to make him pay; to make him rue the day he thought there was something better, someone sexier out there, for him, than me. 

I wanted to make him grovel. To be a goddess, so undeniably sexy and desirable that he would live the rest of his days in regret for picking someone else when he had had me.

But these last three month have lifted me up to a place of freedom, beyond the cages of brokenness and bitterness. 

Now, I go for me. 

The lie that Mason has nothing to do with this has evolved into the absolute truth. 

Liam runs a hand through his unruly hair, clearly baffled by what he’s hearing from his strait laced, goody-two-shoes, little sister.

Just twelve weeks ago, my world was black and white. And pole dancing? Even recreationally, was most definitely black. 

Who chooses pole dancing as a hobby? Women who had daddy issues, that’s who. Poor, broken creatures who desperately craved affirmation and attention. 

How wrong I was. 

In the movies, I’d scoffed at scenes with “dancers”, unimpressed as they glided and contorted their scantily clad bodies up and down with ease. Who can’t wrap themselves around a pole?

Besides, let’s a call a spade a spade. I think we all know that the main point here is the skimpy women, not the athletics, I’d critique dryly.

It took that inanimate piece of metal tubing less than one hour my first day to change my entire perspective. Who couldn’t wrap themselves around a pole? Evidently, ME. 

Twelve weeks ago I thought my happiness and life had ended. But now, there is a new happiness. 

In the studio I find peace, a break from my relentless mind. I relish the burn in my muscles as they flex and engage, losing myself in the sequences that I have painstakingly learned and feverishly perfected night after night. 

I am loved and rooted for by my new friends. These women who, three months ago when I was lost, heartbroken, and afraid, I ignorantly would have misunderstood and pitied. Women who are becoming some of my greatest role models and friends. Resilient women who have overcome diversities; who reject petty jealousies and competition. When one of us wins, we all win. 

Now, when I enter the studio, Mason is the furthest thing from my mind. I don’t dance to make him regret or to prove my worth. When I dance, it has nothing to do with him at all. 

I am a goddess. And it’s for no one but me. 

“I have a showcase. Next Friday. I know it might seem kind of weird but, it’s just for family and close friends…if you want to come, to see what it’s really like.” 

Liam’s brows raise for a moment and I hold his gaze. 

I have no doubts of my brother’s sincerity. It isn’t judgment in his eyes, it’s love. If he could only open himself up to see past the stigma, past the idea…to see what I see. 

I watch the conflict play out in his eyes as he studies my own.

Exhaling a laugh, he tugs me into his burly arms, planting a kiss firmly on my head. 

“Of course, I’ll be there, Rosie. I mean, what kind of brother would I be if I didn’t go cheer my little sister on while she pole dances?” 

A smile breaks across my face and I shove him playfully. 

“Be sure to bring some ‘ones’.”