“It’s not about the pole. Or is it?”

I run a quarterly Story Slam down on the Gulf Coast. The following is the true story I told at the last Slam. The theme was: Exposed.
 
Back when I lived in the City of Angels, I was freelancing as an advertising writer and creative director. There was a boutique advertising agency for which I’d done several projects. They called me one afternoon. Was I available to help pitch a new client? The team needed a woman. I didn’t ask why. I was indeed available. They were nice people. Plus (and this is a biggie) they always paid on time. I said, “I’m in.”
 
The next day, walking into the conference room, I knew immediately why they needed a woman on the team. I realized who the client was. Sitting on the agency side of the table were five men. On the client side was one very recognizable face I’d seen repeatedly on TV and in movies. I also knew her other claim to semi-fame was a series of workout gyms that featured pole dancing.
 
In this meeting, where she was explaining the business so we could effectively compete for her business, she repeatedly said, “It’s not about the pole.” She spoke of female empowerment and different circles of self acceptance and inner strength. But she was adamant: “It’s not about the pole.” They talk about the pole only because it’s their point of differentiation. (Can you feel me being skeptical?) 
 
She also must’ve seen my face, which was not in poker mode. She looked around the table, stopped at me, pointed and said, “You! You need to try it!”
 
At this point in my life, my main workout was boxing. Two hours a day, five days a week. And this was not aerobic boxing. Nothing in this workout ended with a handclap. This was boxing boxing. A boxing ring with ropes, heavy bags on chains, speedbags, doubling bags, timed bells that keep going off indicating rounds. I’d started boxing in New York. When I first saw a boxing workout, I said to myself, “If I can survive an hour of that without passing out or throwing up, I’ll be in pretty decent condition.”
 
I enjoy being active, but I was never great at any sport. If asked to describe my stride while running, people would use the phrase “lumbering gait.” But, since boxing is the opposite of dainty, it seemed to sit well on me. When I continued doing it in Los Angeles, I actually got to spar with female boxing’s then-champion, Christy Martin. That was a giant sports thrill. Even if she did punch the padded headgear clean off my skull.
 
Sidebar: I recently saw a documentary about Christy Martin and let me say: her power is insane. Getting in the ring with her means I was an idiot. 
 
But back to the pole! (Which it’s not about.)
 
If I’m going to write effective advertising for a product or service, I need to understand it. Which is why I agreed to sign up for the “Intro To Not-About-The-Pole Workout” class. I called the gym to get on their schedule. I explained that I was doing marketing for their boss and needed to book a class. The nice lady on the phone told me available times and I made my selection. Then she asked my name. (NOTE: I wasn’t married yet, and my maiden name was “Cohn,” pronounced like the thing you scoop ice cream in.)
 
ME: My name is Honey Cohn. 
 
WOMAN: OMG, that’s such a great pole dancing name!
 
ME: So, it is about the pole? 
 
WOMAN: Oh, yeah!
 
For the next hint that this might in fact be about the pole, let’s cut to: the workout studio waiting area. Behind the front desk, most gyms have things like Muscle Milk, energy bars and water bottles. Here, they had red, stiletto-heel shoes and sexy maid’s uniforms. (I chose to wait until after class to do my shopping.)
 
Besides me, there were about 10 other ladies waiting around for the intro class. We all did our best to make no eye contact. Plausible deniability? Witness protection? Sheer embarrassment? All of the above? Probably.
 
Once inside the room, the class started with the lights down low and everyone sitting cross-legged on the floor in a circle. The instructor had us take turns saying why we were there.
 
This where I start feeling like a snarky, cynical little shit. As these nice women start telling their stories, I’m hearing things like:
 
FIRST WOMAN: I beat breast cancer and need to feel sexy again.
 
NEXT WOMAN: I followed a guy to LA, he dumped me and I’m alone.
 
OTHER WOMAN: I was the victim of assault and want to get back my power.
 
When it got to me, all I could say was, “I’m helping with the marketing.” To my mind, that sounded like I was declaring, “See, I’m not wounded like the rest of you. I’m just here to observe, then monetize your pain.”
 
The next woman up had a much more appropriate tale of getting beaten up and we were right back on track. The instructor then had us do a few provocative moves on the floor that made me endlessly grateful that the lights were low. 
 
Finally, it was time to take to the pole. We were told that the approved technique is to grab the pole in your right hand, take two slinky steps forward, then spin slowly to the floor. Grab, slinky-step, slinky-step, spin. 
 
As I watched the ladies before me attempt the move, I admit: my competitive side wanted the win.A couple of the women did okay on the first try. But most failed. Then it was my turn. I grabbed the pole, took my two slinky steps (once again, so damned embarrassing) then spun: Around, around, around, floor! Thank you boxing-arm strength!
 
Then, class ended with a pole-dancing show—which was really a closing tactic to get us to sign up for a package of workout sessions. Imagine a dark room. Then, pop! Spotlights! A small stage. Three poles shining in the darkness. Music starts. While I can’t remember the song, I’m somehow positive it was Phil Collins’ “I Can Feel it Coming In the Air Tonight.” Slinking into the light were three women who approached and mounted their poles with confidence and power, and began doing some very sexy, Cirque De Soliel-level shit. 
 
The strength and control they displayed was no joke. It was even more impressive because they were doing it all while wearing shorts made of animal fur. Think: mink-upholstered Daisy Dukes. I was pretty sure I’d be able to buy a pair at the front desk.
 
When I got home, Mr. Parker asked how it went. Was there anything I could share with him. Hmm. There was one thing. So, at this point you know that it was 100% about the pole. And we didn’t have one in the living room, yet. But my instructor had taught us how to pick up something off the floor in a very sexy way. This is what I would demonstrate for my man. 
 
I pretended to drop my keys. I coyly whispered, “Oopsie. My keys!” Then, crouching with my back to him, and keeping my torso straight, I reached for the phantom keys. Then, while keeping my head down, I begin raising my butt into the air. From down by the floor, I look back at him for an extended moment, then finally stand. So, so very sexy. 
 
He laughed mightily. The move did not go into my repertoire. I guess I’m just a throat-punch kind of girl. (Don’t tell the client.) 

Stay Careful-ish,
Honey