How Far Would You Go to Make Your Man Happy?

Pole dancer
Just to be clear: this is NOT me
Dangling from a 10-foot pole, legs all askew, body heaving and dripping with sweat, doesn’t seem like the appropriate time for anybody to have an epiphany, unless it’s the one that’s telling them to get down.

But there I was, using the fatty cushion of my inner thighs to cling to the cool stainless steel, employing muscles I didn’t even know I had to hold on to the position I’d managed to contort myself into. I was determined to master the art of pole dancing. Before I could master it, I had to learn it. And from what I could tell, the tricks and turns in a three-minute routine were more physically demanding than anything my little seductress getup was meant to lead to.

But I am not a quitter. No sirree. I thugged it out, legs bruised, shoulders stiff, ankles all jacked up from the buckles of my shoes scraping my skin. Nothing says sex appeal like a Band-Aid under the straps of a pair of 6-inch stilettos.


In the end, I discovered two things: 1) I will never talk trash or get attitudey with a stripper because after finding out how much athletic prowess it takes to hold your body weight and perform acrobatic feats, I know I’d get whooped, and 2) I surprised myself by becoming one of those women I’d always been kind of critical of. A man pleaser.

I’ve always railed against social convention that bullies women into believing that we have to do it all to be The Total Package. We gotta take care of babies, work eight-hour days, come home in a good mood, cook a delicious and nutritious dinner, and then oh! be ready to put it down like a porn star when the dishes are put away. Part of it is pressure we put on ourselves because that’s the definition of “superwoman” we’ve seen our mothers and grandmothers live out. Part of it is residuals from the old-school sexism that made them try to live it out in the first place. (Except that last part. I don’t ever wanna know the gory details of their bedroom activities. Dry heave.)

But even with that consciousness at the front of my mind, I still put myself in the position — well, sort of — to go way above and beyond to try to keep my man satisfied. Dudes have so many distractions, and in this put-‘em-on-the-glass culture, I guess I got caught up.

I also took the class in hopes that I could get enough of the basics down to make up for cutting off my man’s occasional attendance at the shaker joint. He stopped going out of respect for me, just like I squelched my naturally flowing flirtiness to do the same for him. I would never want him to go get all hot and bothered from a night down at the Pink Pussycat and then bring it home to me, anyway. What woman wants to know that their dude’s five-star performance last night wasn’t based off his desire for her, but his redirected lust for Candy down at the club? No thanks. Call me a fuddy duddy, a prude, a square. But you won’t call me Inmate #4583948 because I had to go domestic after I found out my mister took a little trip to the nudie bar.

Me hanging from the top of a pole like a big ol’ Christmas ornament reminded me that I’m not above going the extra mile — or to the top of a 10-foot rod — to keep my man intrigued and keep our relationship spicy. He never asked me to do it. In fact, I won’t make my grand debut until our wedding night, which gives me plenty of time to get my twirls and tricks down pat.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that just a little part of me was doing some preventative work to stave off competition and fit into that mold of perfection. I mean, a woman who can bake a mean pan of cornbread, change a tire, sale shop, and perform pole tricks all wrapped up in one lovable package? How could he resist? I don’t ever want him to try to reciprocate a strip tease for me. That would just be ... weird. But in a relationship where both people are working to keep each other satisfied, I don’t see nothin’ wrong with a little bump and grind. As much of a womanist as I am, I'm guilty of pursuing the dream girl prototype. I just get a good workout while I’m doing it.

How far is too far when it comes to keeping your man satisfied?

Image via Cesar Vargas/Flickr

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