I alluded to a happy hour I threw the other night that was attended entirely by pole dancers. Here’s the video from that evening.
We drank (a little) and we worked out. We being everyone but me, of course. I haven’t performed or free-styled in so long that my confidence is shot.
It wasn’t nearly as raunchy as one might hope, unless you count all the sexual harassment thinly veiled as concern for my fellow poler’s safety. Clothes are DANGEROUS when you pole, people!
I don’t know why I am so obsessed with getting men to take their shirts off, I mean, other than for all the obvious reasons. I think I like being able to boss people around and actually succeed.
I AM THE BOSS! I AM IN CONTROL! PEOPLE DO AS I SAY!
Unless they are my children/husband/dog and pretend they can’t hear me.
Success has a lot to do with picking your battles. Hanging out at a pole/parkour studio and hoping someone takes off his/her shirt/pants is like me going to a café and hoping someone brews some coffee.
In other news, Lonny and the cat are getting along quite well. I think they are starting to resemble each other. Don’t you agree? I mean, not the fur (obviously) but the expressions.
We finally settled on a name for her. We’re calling her Francesca … or Frankie. Frank.
But isn’t our missing former cat also named Frank?
Well, yes, he is. But hear me out. When I got the kitten, I wanted to put a tag on her and had an old one of Frank’s. If I buy her a new one, I would have to shell out at least $5.
Time to cut the crap.