barefoot dancing

Way back in the day, when I worked in the music industry, my friend J and I were in New Orleans for a conference of some sort or another having to do with record folks and bands and like that. Having some time to kill before the rock show, we wandered over to Bourbon Street and found ourselves approaching one of the (many) strip clubs that lined the avenue. Now I, for one, had always admired the ability of the ladies-of-the-club to wear those amazing shoes and do what they do without falling on their ass, and when I would find myself in a club such as that, I'd mostly tip the lovelies who I thought had the best shoes (& command of them). So as we approached the club on this sultry night, the only thing on my mind was Oh-whee, what footwear will I get to witness in action? On reaching the door, the bouncer, wearing the clichéd long leather trench coat (really? c'mon, it's 412 degrees out with humidity) asked if we were there to audition. J and I exchanged the briefest glance and said, Yeah, sure. While at the same time feeling certain that Mr. English Leather was being facetious given that neither of us had what we would have assumed to be the required physique to be a stripper. But without missing a beat, he asked Names? Cherry Bomb, I said (with thanks to The Runaways for some divine, my first-favorite-girl-band intervention). J offered Venus Flytrap. We were shown in and told to wait at the bar for the manager so we could audition.

From the moment we walked through the curtain, I think our mutual understanding was that we would just go with it. I mean, no one has ever (directly) died from embarrassment, and if we were forced to run out of the club on short notice, it's not like we couldn't pull from our previous experiences of beating hasty retreats from all manner of other clubs, bars and restaurants. So there we were.

As we entered, we noticed that there was a woman warming up on stage. Turns out she was the featured dancer for the night, and since it was still light outside, the club wouldn't be expecting patrons for a few hours so she could take some time to get her swing on all for herself. After a few twirls, she spotted us at the bar and came over to chat. I'll call her Ms.Terree and she was a bit of a riddle. A hard bravado that was about as substantial as her g-string in hiding some yearning under the surface. (That I couldn't tell whether the yearning was to demolish or delight the men who surrounded her was testimony either to her practiced polish or my need to make up stories.) She did not hold back in describing the ritual she went through every night she worked: a shot of tequila before stepping on stage to numb out her overall revulsion for the crowd, a shot of tequila leaving the platform to keep her from decking the club manager after he squeezed her ass, a shot of tequila again because, well, why the hell not? When she told us that we'd be fools to want to work there, we actually believed she cared for our well-being and we exited back into our own world of tricks and numb-ification.

Now, years (feels like a lifetime) later, I look back on that conversation and realize that even though Ms.Terree and I now have more in common than I ever would have thought what with swinging round a pole and all (and I even have a certain command of the shoes these days), I suspect we may still exist in different ozones as to why this dance makes a difference in our overall quality of life. Lawdy, lawdy, do I ever appreciate Sheila Kelley, who, after a role in the movie Dancing at the Blue Iguana, recognized what this movement can do when a woman owns it, holds it and wraps it around herself, for herself. When I lift myself up onto a pole and fly around it, I'm really constantly stunned at how powerful I feel. To do this all for my own sense of pure joy and not for commerce or lascivious entertainment (though don't get me wrong, I also appreciate the sensual power my body can convey when I choose to share it) is priceless. This is good stuff and I wonder at how the movement has mostly existed as a commodification rather than a celebration of women. But maybe it's shifting, as more women (and the men who get to have it shared with them) recognize the joy in the climb and soar, the absolute smiles that come with feeling the support of the floor, the cylindrical pole, the warm body.

So, in the end, Cherry Bomb has become a kind of alter ego for me. This year I ran in the NYC marathon flying her flag (see above, rendered so awesomely by the S's own cool-chick C.Roman. thank you), and I flew in a different kind of shoe-wear, crossing the finish line faster than ever before, tearing down my past and giving flight to a whole lot more to come. And I felt thrilled to bow down to all the ladies out there dancing in the tall shoes, dancing barefoot and everything in between as we all move to the power of our muse.

For a really great example of how sexy a dance can be without any added inches of footwear, check out award winner, Barbara Dial's PoleSuperstar performance from this fall '09. True poetry in motion.