We had a family emergency recently. It took days of hard physical labor to get things fixed up and back to normal. I returned to Colorado exhausted, keenly aware of my mortality and my limitations. When faced with such a gloomy realization, some people might turn to religion, or maybe drugs.
I auditioned for a TV reality adventure show.
I took my youngest daughter’s motto to heart: YOLO or You Only Live Once, and filled out a short online form. I made hay about being an erotic romance writer. I figured that would distinguish me from the multitude of personal trainers. I swept through the questions, my answers more snarky than pensive. Halfway through the questionnaire, I got my cheery back.
Not long after, I got a call from a producer/casting/assistant type of person, inviting me to an on camera interview. I went.
The on camera audition was an altogether unfamiliar, and lovely, experience. There were three young people in the room. Two transcribed what I said onto their laptops (I think that’s what they were doing), and another worked the camera and asked questions. The interviewer was empathetic and highly personable.
I wondered what they were looking for.
I’ve always been goal-oriented. Concrete achievements are the measure of success. Like a degree. Or getting to the top of a mountain, or potty training a child, or getting a book published. I soon recognized that audition success had nothing to do with a curriculum vitae. Beyond the basics of my background, the casting folk just didn’t care.
They were looking for personality.
To get to the next round, I’d need to allow the producers to see some innate, inborn part of me. I’d have to pitch who I was, not what I’ve done. And I’d have to do it by showing, not telling. Was I funny? Intellectual? Judgmental? Adventurous? Psycho? Personality analysis happens during all job interviews, I suppose, but usually there’s a pretense of discussing skills and education. The purpose of a reality show interview is only to find people who’ll make good TV. Heh. We'll see how far I get. In any case, I'm having an adventure.
Pole Dancing and Me
I've always believed that I should write what I want to know, rather than what I do know. Learning something new makes writing fiction a full-on blast. But sometimes I cheat. Like when I wrote exotic dance scenes in Management Skills, I ended up relying on my general dance experience.
But ever since, I've wondered... shouldn't I find out what exotic dancing is all about? I got my chance last Friday when one of our local pole dance studios (yes, we have two!) offered a trial class for 5 bucks. Armed with curiosity and a full water bottle, I went. The instructor was cute as a button, wearing some sort of tiny volleyball shorts and jogbra. Happily, she was patient and a skilled teacher. She started out with stretches and upper-body strengthening exercises. I should've known I'd be in trouble when she started doing one-armed planks.
Soon we were learning mini-routines on the pole. Arm strength is critical. Why? Because pole-dancing is actually not dancing; it's gymnastics. It is an athletic event. The pole is made up of some sort of material that's supposed to stick well to skin. Evidently, a bare thigh squeeze can help hold a person up. Hence the instructor's volleyball shorts. Unfortunately, I wore super long shorts, sometimes known as pants. So no thigh squeeze for me. I had to hang and slide and twirl using my upper-body.
Which brings me to the subject of sexiness and pole dancing. Grimacing and grunting and landing in a meaty heap is not normally considered sexy. Let's just say I tried hard. But the instructor did teach us a little routine we could do on the floor. I convinced myself I was even graceful doing it. I committed the little dance to memory, intending to show my husband.
I performed my floor dance for him. He found it... inspiring.
The pole-dance class left me with aching shoulders and arms. I hurt for two days. I still have bruises on my inner and outer thighs and ankles. I can't wait to go to class again.
But ever since, I've wondered... shouldn't I find out what exotic dancing is all about? I got my chance last Friday when one of our local pole dance studios (yes, we have two!) offered a trial class for 5 bucks. Armed with curiosity and a full water bottle, I went. The instructor was cute as a button, wearing some sort of tiny volleyball shorts and jogbra. Happily, she was patient and a skilled teacher. She started out with stretches and upper-body strengthening exercises. I should've known I'd be in trouble when she started doing one-armed planks.
Soon we were learning mini-routines on the pole. Arm strength is critical. Why? Because pole-dancing is actually not dancing; it's gymnastics. It is an athletic event. The pole is made up of some sort of material that's supposed to stick well to skin. Evidently, a bare thigh squeeze can help hold a person up. Hence the instructor's volleyball shorts. Unfortunately, I wore super long shorts, sometimes known as pants. So no thigh squeeze for me. I had to hang and slide and twirl using my upper-body.
Which brings me to the subject of sexiness and pole dancing. Grimacing and grunting and landing in a meaty heap is not normally considered sexy. Let's just say I tried hard. But the instructor did teach us a little routine we could do on the floor. I convinced myself I was even graceful doing it. I committed the little dance to memory, intending to show my husband.
I performed my floor dance for him. He found it... inspiring.
The pole-dance class left me with aching shoulders and arms. I hurt for two days. I still have bruises on my inner and outer thighs and ankles. I can't wait to go to class again.
Miss You, Sir: Cover Reveal
I'm thrilled to announce that Siren will be publishing my new BDSM novella series about the Quinn Brothers. Miss You, Sir will be coming out at the end of February. Take a look at the terrific cover. I love it!
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