taking the sexy out of sex

recently i took a "stippercize" class. i havent blogged about it because i really needed some time to marinate on it, and digest. i hoped that, with time, words would come to me, but, much like men and anti-cellulite cream, they continue to fail me.

picture it, potomac maryland: a housing development with a sign depicting a woman on horseback warning you that a fox hunt may currently be in progress. houses so huge you have to employ the buddy system to prevent getting lost. it's a place where lawns, and women, are both perfectly manicured.

the three of us arrived late, as usual. and naturally everyone turned to stare. we were about 25 years younger, and millions of dollars poorer, than everyone else. our instructors were probably in their 40's, but were nip/tucked into looking more like 60.

it was a night of contradictions. a demo class being taught in a million dollar home where the hosts idea of hor d'oeuvres were green olives, cracker barrel cheese and wine from a handle. now, admittedly, those are all things i love, but ive seen a better spread at an overeaters anonymous meeting.

class began, accompanied by pulsating "stripper jams" last popular in 1993, and no one (including our instructors) could walk on beat. though in their defense, they were weighed down by dozens of carats of diamonds. nothing we learned in class even resembled stripping. there was marching for fuck sake. unless this is a strip joint in germany in the 1940's, stippers dont usually "march."

in a corner was a man i can best describe as "preparing-for-his-graduate-role." 22, preppy, all american, and competing in the olympic trials for swimming, he sat in the corner watching twenty 40something women gyrate and pretend to be sexy. im not completely sure what his role in the whole evening was, but i think it involved hourly rates. and, frankly, im kicking myself for not personally finding out.

once again proving that the rich are always kinky fucks, there was a rolling pin in the basement in a basket next to the couch. oh the places its been...

and for the record, it takes about 1.2 seconds for your bodies movement to make its way up to your silicone tits forcing all your dancing off beat and out of rhythm.