By Samantha Wassel of Between the Monkey Bars

We are living in an era of female empowerment, and let me tell you, I am here for it. I am a strong, fierce, independent, badass, motherfucking lady who delights in the strength of the female form and all of the amazing things it can do. I love pushing my body to its limits and seeing what hidden pleasures it has in store for me. I own this bitch, and I don’t need a man—or anyone else, for that matter—to help me realize how fucking phenomenal it is.

So when my best friend suggested I join her for a pole dancing fitness class, I was all for it. OH HAYELLLL YES. I was tired of low-key yoga, deep breathing, and the lotus position. It was time for my lotus to bloom. I couldn’t wait to get up on that pole, spread my legs to the sky, and let my vagina roar with the freedom and power of it all.

What I wasn’t expecting was to enjoy myself so much, I’d end up getting kicked out of the class for what the instructor referred to as “repeated, disruptive, ear-piercing, envy-inducing orgasming.”

I couldn’t help it, and—let’s be honest here—wouldn’t have stopped it even if I could have. That hard metal pole did more for my starving clitoris than any penis has in years. I was riding the high of embracing my own girl-powered strength and sexuality, and my lady bits got excited. So sue me.

Except don’t actually sue me because I just dropped a shit-ton of money on that class and they don’t offer refunds.

Apparently screaming out “YES, YES, OH GOD, YES!” while curling your toes so hard you sprain all your proximal interphalangeal joints and have to seek medical attention is “highly distracting to the other students.” Okay, so one lady got startled and slipped off the pole while hanging upside down like a sexy sloth. Big deal. We all signed waivers. Besides, it was only a mild concussion.

So I guess I’m going to have to find another way to get my fitness on while simultaneously expressing my inner sexy beast. I’m thinking about registering for a barre class. Hopefully I can find one that allows you to straddle the actual bar and ride it until the cows come home. Or at least until this bitch comes.

*****

About the Author

Samantha Wassel is a sarcastic and slightly unhinged SAHM to three energetic boys and four lazy cats. She enjoys running, writing, kettle-belling, reading, nerding out, and eating exorbitant amounts of goat cheese and peanut butter (but not together, because barf). You can find more of her work at Between the Monkey Bars.