The Things We Do For Love

How was your day, Dan?::

The Things We Do For Love

So I have a funny story.

Several days ago I visited a special someone on his birthday. This "someone" is a gentleman with whom I had a romantic relationship last year; we parted ways, as sometimes happens, but we always kept in touch. A quick note here, and thoughtful letter there. And as sometimes happens, we're back in each others' lives again, this time definitely for the better.

For his birthday, he requested that no one give presents, instead making donations to his favorite charity. But of course his close friends are still going to buy him something, little knick-knacks of thoughtfulness filled with inside jokes. Dollar-store finds piled on his couch, his kitchen table, everywhere.

So as he showed me all his new toys, he reached behind a table, and pulled out a thick cardboard tube. On the side it said Do-It-Yourself Stripper Pole Kit. And he handed it to me. "This is for you." And he smiled.

He was very excited to get a dance for his birthday, he said, when we were alone. I laughed, and said the moment would definitely need to involve large amounts of liquor. And I dropped it, as I thought he was kidding. Because really, it wasn't going to happen.

Oh, no. He really wanted a pole dance for his birthday.

He wanted the whole thing, the hanging from the pole and swinging around of the legs, and spinning around the pole in the air and the sliding around while shaking back and forth. And he rubbed me on the bum, and smiled. "It's my birthday," he said. "Please."

I looked at him like was crazy.

I waited until he was in the shower to take the contraption out of its box. I wanted to look at it alone, and get in a trial run without anyone watching. The pole came in three pieces, with a spring-loaded extension to wedge it between the ceiling and the floor. I put the pole together, and locked it into place between beams criss-crossing his ceiling. Wedged in-between those beams, it was really stable. I shook it back and forth. it didn't move. I grabbed it with one hand and leaned back, putting all my weight on it, and it didn't move. I jumped up onto it and wrapped my hands and legs around it, holding myself up in the air. All good.

But no way. There was no way I was going to dance on that thing. I could see myself in a little thong or something stupid, bouncing around like a trained monkey. A pudgy, out-of-shape trained monkey with pasty skin. I would rather die. So I got down and walked away, blushing so hot I could feel the burn. Imagine how ridiculous I would look. Good God.

I walked into the other bathroom, and looked in the mirror. I took off my shirt. And I looked at myself, looked at the weight I've gained and the wrinkles on my face and the hair that has myseriously migrated off of my head and found a new home scattered around my chest. Once, I did not look like this. Once, I could dance around naked and get away with it. Once, this layer of fat over everything did not exist.

I put my shirt back on.

I walked into the living room again, and looked at the pole in the middle of the room. I could hear the shower running, he was still in there. And I thought about him, and how he is such a great, great guy, so nice and funny and kind. When he says the things he says, the little comments of "you're beautiful" and such, I know he means it even though the voices in my head tell me he's just trying to be nice. And there is nothing wrong with what he asked, the fact that he'd get turned on by getting me naked is flattering, really. The only thing holding me back is the problem that I'm just insecure about the way I look. And it's my problem, not his. I need to lighten up.

If it's a pole dance he wants, I thought, he's gonna get it.

I took a deep breath, and took a running leap to jump on that pole and execute an ultra-sexy move that would be the sexiest, the hottest, the most amazing move ever. One two three UP!

When all my weight hit the pole mid-air, it ripped through the beams on the ceiling, sending a chunk of wood flying across the room, and crashed into the fireplace mantle, knocking a gash into the trim. The shelf above the mantle was filled with scrimshaw, antique pieces of ivory hand-carved into intricate designs--these are now impossible to find, as ivory trade is illegal, and incomprehensively expensive--and the pole ripped through the little stands holding all those pieces, clearing the shelf and scattering scrimshaw around the room. I could do nothing more than hang onto the pole for dear life, and the pole slid off the mantle, crashing me onto the hardwood floor. Right square flat on my ass. BOOM.

He ran out of the bathroom, with a horrified look on his face. "Are you alright?!?" he yelled, as he entered the room, first looking at me, then at the pole that was now back in pieces, and then the chaos of his once-nice house. I just stared at the ceiling, flat on my back, gasping for a breath.

"I think I'm too big for this thing," I sputtered.

He laughed, and extended a hand to help me up. "I can't believe you actually tried it."