“And remember,” Salma Hayek said, “there’s no need to compare yourself to anyone else in this room. Everyone is on their own pole journey.”
Give me a break, I wanted to say. The journey was spinning around and around in a tiny circle, going nowhere. But at least pole walk time gave me a chance to survey the four other students.
Layna, of course, looking ripped in yoga shorts. She was somehow both stocky and lean, her ponytail bouncing jauntily with each exaggerated step.
A curvy girl in green velour pole undies and a cropped Wet Leg shirt, short hair dyed a silvery blue and shaved on one side, her face studded with colorful pimple stickers shaped like stars.
A slender woman in her fifties with thick black hair wearing a cherry-red two-piece with extra straps under her buns.
And a lone guy—tall, muscular, handsome as a young Idris Elba—with hair in long twists and a fade who clearly took his pole walk very seriously. His face was a mask of intense concentration, like a woman on a high-dose of SSRIs trying to orgasm.
When Salma Hayek had us pause for a water break, I stripped down to my T-shirt and a pair of running shorts. I caught a glimpse of myself in the side wall of mirrors and my brain did its usual critical rundown. My shoulder-length dirty-blond hair was three months past needing highlights and two days past needing a wash. Grief had drawn dark circles under my eyes and parentheses framed my mouth. But, I noted with satisfaction, my arms were strong from hauling groceries and I still had my mom’s great legs.
When I turned back around, the slender woman with jet-black hair had shimmied up her pole, like a shapeshifter that transforms from nondescript middle-aged lady to weightless, comic-book assassin.
I want to be able to do that!
The hopeful thought surprised me. It was not the thought of a woman so depressed her main source of pleasure was staying up late to binge Chunky Monkey while watching a reality show about lone survivalists eating rancid seal fat in order to outlast each other in the Yukon.
“Get out of here! This is a Pole Virgins class,” Salma Hayek called up. “Just kidding, y’all! Zhang Xiu is coming back from an injury, so she’s retaking the intro series.”
Zhang Xiu had a giant tattoo of a dragon covering her entire calf.As she slid back down to the floor, the sound of her inner thighs against chrome echoed with asqueeeeeak.
“It’s time for body rolls!” Salma Hayek cried. “Duck your head under an imaginary wire. Bring your face to the pole. Next your chest. Stomach! Hips! Knees! Nowpopyour booty back down.”
Her body roll looked like a ribbon of silk.
My attempt was as jerky and spastic as a short-circuiting C-3PO.
“I’m giving more Chris Farley than Shakira,” I said, louder than intended. Everyone in the class laughed. Hard. For the first time in a year, I’d made somebody (other than the twins) chortle.
After Salma taught us the L-sit, the class ended with a free dance to “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes. As I practiced my new moves, I let myself feel the fantasy. The pole sit required me to grab the chrome with both hands andsqueezeit between my thighs while my legs stuck straight out in front of me, ankles crossed, hips tilted hard to one side. This was agony on my inner thighs, but I was doing it. I was flying around a chrome pole, hair streaming behind me as I belted out, “Be my baby now-ow-ow! A whoa oh oh oh oh!” And damn, it was fun. Life could be so cruel. So mean. But there could also be these unexpected glimmers of exhilaration, of joy.
During our cool-down stretches, we all did exuberant, sweaty downward dogs.
“Pretend your buttholes are flashlights and point them up to the sky!” Salma Hayek chirped.
There was something festive about the juxtaposition of the sexy moves with the intentionally unsexy metaphors of the body. And while I regularly carted my kids to art and gymnastics and violin lessons, it had been years since I learned something entirely new for no practical reason whatsoever.
“This week I want you all to decide on a pole name. Out there, I’m Lupe, stressed-out CPA. But in here? I’m Salma Hayek, inspiring pole instructor. I want each of you to have a pole persona that provides that escape. You get me?”
Out there, I was Tilly Turner. Forty-four years old. Motherless mother of twins. Failed comic who couldn’t find it in herself to crack a joke. But here at Pole Kisses, I could be anyone.
“I’m heading to Huckleberry’s for a drink after class,” Salma Hayek continued. “Anyone want to come see how the pros do it?”
The Pole Virgins responded with a volley of “Hell yeah”s.
“I’ve got room if anyone needs a ride,” Zhang Xiu said.
“Where’s your motorcycle?” Salma Hayek asked.
“In the shop. My daughter loaned me her new Rivian.”
“Baller!” Salma said.
“Girl knows how to spend that Allergan money,” Zhang Xiu agreed. “She makes a fortune working at that place. Everyone wants a minimally invasive glow-up these days.”
No way was I going to a strip club. So while the other students slowly wiped down their poles with a cloth and a spritz of alcohol, I gave mine a quick clean and scuttled to the waiting room where I prepared to slip out into the early evening. But a little sign over the shoe cubbies distracted me.
