Pole Dancing

The last posting was about death, so it stands to reason that this one should be about sex. I went to see a show at the local theatre called "The Naked Truth." It stars several popular soap opera actresses as they tell a poignant tale of betrayal, love lost and found, sex discovered, domestic voilence and cancer survived. You know, typical grrl stuff. But it was the context of the viewing more than the rather cliched melodrama that really struck me.

A few years ago, I was in a bookshop in Dublin, and I came across a book on the sale table called "The Irish Joy of Sex." Well, says I to myself, "I didn't know they had their own book on it," so I opened it up and every page inside it was blank. I suppose it would have only been one euro even if it had had text. Nevertheless, I found it a thoughtful comment on the topic. So it was with this cultural background in mind that I went to see a play that billed itself as "The Naked Truth: its a woman thing. A play by women for women that men should see." There I was, in a packed theatre, watching a play that had a 20 minute intermission during which the loudspeaker urged us, "And now we will have a 20 minute intermission. Please drink responsibly." True enough, the little bar was mobbed. No beer was served, but enough whiskey and wine coolers were packed away in those 20 minutes to equal the take in ticket sales. Thus it was a highly receptive audience in the second half, but I did notice that the bar was open a good half hour before the performance started. Anyway, this well lubricated audience was 90% Irish women between the ages of 30 and 50 (do the math: they (we) were teenagers in the 70's and 80's). The performers were about the same age, but the play was done in working class English accents. The music was pulsing American disco from the 80's and 90's. I know this because I recognized the majority of the songs from my kickboxing-aerobics days. So these middle aged Irish women were watching working class English women learning how to pole dance to American disco-pop. Not only that, but the finale is a real set of pole dances.

The progress of the play is the usual cliche: clutzes bloom by dint of hard work, shared struggle, and community feeling. And this audience bought the Miracle Play hook, line, and sinker, such that in the finale, when the apparent clutzes came out and did polished dances, the audience just cheered right along with delighted willing suspension of disbelief and almost naive support of the women on stage. But what were they cheering for? For women their own age wearing see though bustiers or latex nurses uniforms, spiked heels, stockings and garters, shimmying thier fannies up and down poles and wagging their tits at the audience. Ah, how, um, liberating and empowering. The audience staggered to their feet and gave the half naked performers a standing ovation for humping their poles with such womanly authority. Granted, it was funny, but I was still trying to wrap my mind around the nature of the juxtaposition of conflicting genres. Oh, and the song that the performers took a bow to was, I suppose, a rallying cry for feminist empowerment, "Sisters doin' it on the stage."

I have to admit that I discovered my prudish limit when I was genuinely grossed out by the woman who turned her back to the audience, jammed the pole between her butt cheeks and shimmied so that her butt fat jiggled around the pole. I can only suppose that this is a classic "pole move" designed to titillate. I'm afraid it had rather the opposite effect on this audience member. Now excuse me whilst I remove my Victorian frock.