i do pole dancing: tales of my clumsy existence and an insight into a culture of judgment

I first enrolled in pole dancing at the start of 2012. After a less than successful stint in first semester, where I was kicked out after just one lesson, I finally managed to join a class.

It didn’t live up to my expectations in many ways. That’s where the self-degradation comes into it. The sexy, smooth or graceful art that I had signed up for was a myth. Or, at least, unattainable with only a semester’s worth of classes. I looked nothing like the YouTube videos of athletic perfection – there is nothing elegant about watching me climb a pole, especially when you throw high heels into the equation. I heave myself up there, hoping and praying that I’ll reach the top in time for the next pose. And when I try to position myself for said pose, I inevitably find myself ungraciously sliding back down the pole. That’s because pole dancing is really, really hard. I am constantly finding muscles I didn’t know existed, usually by waking up with agonising pain or stiffness the next morning. Imagine trying to hold your entire body weight in the air by just the muscles in your inner thighs. It’s not pretty. Or successful. Ever.

But I use all of this to have a good laugh, even if a friend’s mum does insist on calling me ‘Sarah the Stripper,’ thus distinguishing me from others of my namesake.

Somehow, I manage to mention my penchant for pole dancing almost every time I meet someone – occasionally it slips out, but mostly it’s intentional. Why, you may ask? Two reasons: first, it puts people at ease. Like my friend’s mum, it allows people to have a laugh at my expense and gives us something quirky and interesting to discuss. But perhaps more importantly, I derive much amusement from judging their reactions.

Pole dancing doesn’t have the shiniest reputation. It’s stereotypically linked to stripping, sex and sex work. Obviously, there is a history of erotic dance in Western countries, with the pole serving as a phallic symbol in stripteases. But pole dancing emerged in a number of countries as a method of exercise or training. Indian wrestlers used pole dancing as a training device and the Chinese showed off their athletic, circus skill. Currently, there are schools set up across the world to teach non-performers the art of pole dancing. There is even a movement, the International Pole Dance Fitness Association (IPDFA), attempting to integrate pole dancing into the Olympics.

Despite these perfectly honest examples of pole dancing in modern society, I find myself being constantly judged for taking lessons. After telling a work friend about my latest pole dancing exploit, she proceeded to repeat the story to my manager – a male. While I never would have said anything myself (he’s my boss in a family- and child-orientated business), the look on his face was priceless. He then exclaimed, ‘But you’re a good girl!’. Because, somehow, taking a pole dancing class makes me “naughty”?

When I tell certain acquaintances, I find myself receiving an analysis where their eyes travel from my face (where they were happily sitting for the conversation prior) to my feet and back up again. Their apparent judgement of my body and sexual appeal is somewhat uncomfortable, but it says so much more about them than it does about me.

Much of the fun of pole dancing is sharing the experience with my friends. We work extremely hard and celebrate enthusiastically when we conquer a new move. We take photos as we sit in uncomfortable poses, suspended in mid-air. We film the moves, which involve quick spinning around the pole. We take mementos from shows we attend to revel at the professionals. But one of the girls wants to pursue a career in politics, so the rest of us can rarely share these images with our friends and family on Facebook. Everything must be censored. Her future political career is at stake.

One photo, simply of the four of us after a class, did make its way onto social media. We stood in a group, smiling. Nothing risqué. But the caption ‘my lovely pole girls’ and our midriff bearing tops (necessary for skin grip) did damage. It sparked an onslaught of private messages from people we hadn’t spoken to for years (mostly males). People I rarely saw would mention it months later. Most of it was innocent interest and curiosity, or good natured teasing. Some of it was rather discomforting.

I judge people by their reactions, and then correct their misconceptions. A beginners’ pole dancing class is not pretty. We bleed regularly. My legs are covered with bruises and carpet burn, my feet ache with bruises and my wrists get sliced up from the friction of the pole.

But when that’s all said and done, it’s a lot fun and really good exercise. I get to reject the stereotypes, and I encourage others to do the same. Maybe I’ll even become good at pole dancing.

One day.

A version of this article was first published in Issue 1 of the Flinders University magazine, The Empire Times.