I have an inner stripper.
I imagine that psychologically they are intimately related. One feels invisible so the other begs to be seen or something like that.
When I learned, through yoga and meditation, to embrace my clingy little self, I unknowingly empowered her sexually-confident alter ego. It’s a fascinating dichotomy, especially since my inner child was raised Catholic.
I tend to attract friendships with women who are in touch with their inner stripper. Two of them worked in clubs and made a lot of money fully embracing their erotic-dancing selves. I sense there are quite a few of us in the front two rows of Zumba class who are one marimba step away from ripping off our sweaty clothes.
Paradoxically, my inner stripper is kind of shy and hard to coax out. But once she steps out in her stiletto heels she loves to be center stage. She’s had three performances so far: only for my man and only at our cabin in Colorado which is one of the sexiest places ever. The bi-level, wood-floor structure creates the perfect stage and the log beam support under the loft doubles as a makeshift stripper pole.
I haven’t stripped for my man in way too long. I’m not sure why. I’ve had a song picked out for months and I have a pair of fabulous feather earrings that would look great with a pair of heels and nothing else.
It could be because we haven’t been at our cabin since September. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been channeling a lot of my inner stripper energy into this blog.
I’ve been baring myself here, through my words, for you.
I’ll be traveling through Portland and Boston later this month.
I believe it is time for a new pair of elbow-length feather gloves.
This video will ignite your inner stripper.