My Life as a (Pretend) Stripper
I didn’t want to be a stripper. Really, I have no idea what I wanted from the exotic dance class I’d enrolled in at an adult education center. I didn’t know whether the course catalog’s promise to help “create a full repertoire of floor-routine and chair moves you can use in enticing performances” was an achievable or even worthwhile goal. But there I was in a leotard and stilettos, undulating my hips against an inert and perfectly innocent chair. The first order of business on day one was to pick our stripper names. The gaggle of married lady friends in matching pink leotards seemed to be in a geographical mood, seeing as how they chose names like Savannah, Sierra and Asia. The mousy woman recently dumped by her boyfriend chose Sexy Sadie because it was her ex’s favorite Beatles song. The pretty but uptight Indian woman apparently didn’t grasp the smutty aspect of the renaming process because she replaced her
