Confession: I’m very bendy!

Yes, Friends fans, that’s a shout-out to Phoebe.

It’s also (quite fortunately, if you’re my husband) very true. I have ample evidence. Most of it is not appropriate for this blog. But never fear, dear readers, I can hint and suggest and tease without breaking the public decency codes!

I’m not going to cite my ability to do the splits, or put my leg over my head, or hold a lovely pretzel-like contortion for eternal yoga breaths. But, of course, I can do all of those things. Not quite as easily as smoothly as I could before pregnancy and childbirth made my hips expand two extra inches…but I can still tuck my ankles behind my ears when I’m motivated enough to do so.

The last vestiges of my cheerleading glory days aside, my first piece of evidence is my ability to act out a very common female fantasy: hot sex with a man in uniform! As with most fantasies, the actual reality can be a bit tricky. For as sexy as a cop—especially one as gorgeous and well-built as mine-- in full uniform looks, the uniform itself is NOT conducive to sex.

The gun belt weighs at least 15 pounds and is bulky and awkward. It is slung low on the hips, directly over the important area, and loaded down with gun, ammunition, handcuffs, flashlight, radio and whatever else, all jutting out from the critical area in awkward and potentially fatal directions. The leg holster holds another gun or a taser—two things you do NOT want to accidentally jostle-- and the radio headset snakes up his back to his shoulder. On his feet are full combat boots laced high up on the leg and concealed somewhere upon his person is a loaded back-up weapon, maybe a knife or two. And, of course, the Kevlar bullet-proof vest is heavy and thick and prevents both a bullet from piercing the skin…and the wearer from feeling anything from neck to crotch.

A woman seeking to love a man in uniform has to coordinate her moves carefully, avoiding the loaded and cocked weapons, the tangle of the handcuffs (these are NOT the fun fuzzy kind for play).  Perhaps most importantly, one must avoid triggering the radio. Some things should not be heard by the entire Force.  Like when a horny woman is playing with one of the County’s Finest’s best weapons…and hoping to make it discharge.

None of this hinders me. I am a very short, petite woman. My man is at least a foot taller than me, more so in his boots. This only adds to the necessity of extreme flexibility. With the ease of long practice, I can rise on my bare toes, snake my arms around his neck and press fully against him, wiggling to avoid the jut of his gun, to settle him in the cradle of my hips. I can wrap my little legs around him, above the gun belt, under the vest, and hang on for the inevitable discharge. Mmmm.

My husband in uniform isn’t the only thing I can wrap my legs around. I’m also fairly adept at pole dancing. Yes, you read that right: I have mastered the pole!

Ok, ‘mastered’ may be a bit of an exaggeration. The truth is, I have a new and profound respect for pole dancers! It is HARD to climb up what is really a fireman’s pole, get inverted, swing one’s legs about and somehow look sexy doing so. Still, several girlfriends and I, bored with the endless miles we log racing off to nowhere on an elliptical machine or treadmill, signed up for ‘vertical core alignment class’; i.e.: pole dancing. We thought it would be a fun way to get some exercise, maybe pick up a tip or two for our own private performances.

The first session kicked my ass. Seriously. I couldn’t raise my arms for days. Trying to satisfy the sexy requirments of that damn huge pole did more for sculpting Jennifer Anniston-esque arms than Jill-the-Norwegian-Personal-Trainer accomplished in six sweaty nintey-minute sessions.

Even more humiliating, two decidedly chunky-and-frumpy girls and one 65-year-old grandma totally bested me and my 3 Hot Minivan Mom friends. We flailed about, swinging around the pole like 4th grade boys at recess (NOT sexy!) while they strutted, flipped, contorted…all with pointed toes and pornographically arched backs…to the beat of Al Green.

When I arrived home, Stuart asked me, predictable male smirk in place, if I had learned anything. I showed him the baseball-sized bruise on my inner thigh (a result of less-than-adequate tricep strength, according to Pole Dancing Grandma) and slunk into the bathroom to soak my aching bones.

Still, we returned. If Grandma and Chunky Girls (who didn’t even have manicures, pedicures OR cute work-out outfits!) could do it, damn it so could we! We decided our main problem was the music. Who feels sexy to Al Green? Personally, I just feel faintly nauseated…the way I feel whenever creepy old Uncle George drinks too much whiskey at family gatherings and forgets that he’s, well, my UNCLE, and therefore not genetically acceptable for sexual advances. I know an unfortunate amount about these things as my family’s Southern. At my first (and last) Mississippi family reunion, I was hit on by a very nice boy who informed me, “we’re just kissing cousins, honey!” as he tried to kiss me, his cousin! In case you’re not from the South, ‘kissing cousins’ simply means we are related, but our branches are far enough apart on the family tree to ensure that our children would not resemble a Picasso...BUT WE ARE STILL AT THE SAME FAMILY REUNION! (By the way, slimy Uncle George is not ANYTHING acceptable for sexual advances, unless buckets of money, mushy bellies, bald heads and rheumy eyes do it for you…but the UNCLE bit adds a puke-in-my-mouth element.)

Back to me learning how to pole dance. After our initial humiliation, we HMMs were determined to conquer the Pole: to spin, swing, strut and prove that strippers have nothing on us beautiful, married, working, accomplished small-town mothers!

The next class, we all downed a couple of glasses of wine first and brought the Pussy Cat Dolls for non-nausiating inspiration. Loosen up my Buttons loosened up my joints, and I found that spinning around the pole isn’t all THAT hard. Carol did a headstand, her long, sexy legs entwining about the long, shiny pole. Brook climbed it and slowly eased her way down, her back arched in a way that drew fantastic attention to her well-toned ass. Me...well...I’m good at walking around the pole.

Don’t laugh, there’s an art to it. And once I’ve walked around it a few times, stroking its length with my pretty, well-manicured hands as if it is Matt Damon wearing a Russian Silver Mink ballkini, I lift my leg slowly over my head and stroke the length with my pointed pedicured toe, as if I were removing that silky, skimpy ballkini. Eat your heart out, boys!

For the record, I have only performed for the women in my class. Stuart has talked about installing a pole in the bedroom, but I don’t think it’ll match my décor. I just like the knowledge that, should the recession get any worse, I can simply take my sassy self on down to Reno and apply for a job at the Wild Orchid or Gentleman’s Club.

Or, even better, next time I take my babies for a visit to the local fire station, maybe I’ll ask those sexy men in uniform if I can take a little spin on their pole!