The Philadelphia Problem
The problem with this plan, though, was that I’d never once done a strip tease before. So, almost as soon as I came up with the idea, I became paralyzed with the pre-strip jitters. What if I suck at this? What if I look like the dork that I am? What are the right moves and do I have it in me to master them?
I turned to my ProjectHappilyEverAfter.com blog fans for help. They delivered, suggesting I read a post about how to give a strip tease. I memorized it. They suggested I purchase Carmen Electra’s aerobic strip tease DVDs. I bought all four. They recommended I get sexy lingerie that could be removed in layers. I went to EdenFantasys.com and ordered a G-string, pasties, and a velvety red number.
They also suggested that I go to a strip club to see how the pros put on a good show. So I asked my husband to take me to one on a Friday night when we had a sitter.
“Why do you want to go to a strip club?” he asked.
“Because I think it would be fun.”
“What-ever,” he said.
“Oh, come on. It will be sexy. I’m curious. I’ve never been to one. Take me!”
“The clubs around here are sleazy. If we go to a strip club, we’re going to one in Philadelphia,” he said.
“But Philadelphia is an hour away. We don’t have enough time to go tonight,” I said.
“Maybe another time,” he said.
Pasties, Physics, and the Zen of Stripping with Carmen Electra
During the next few weeks, I continually brought up the strip club and he continually found excuses not to go. I finally decided to go with one of my girlfriends instead. But the holidays were fast approaching. One girlfriend was on vacation. Another could only go on a Sunday, and the club I wanted to go to was closed on Sundays.
By December 21st, one thing was clear: I wasn’t going to make it to a strip club before Christmas.
The strip tease DVDs finally arrived that day, though. I planned to do the tease on 22nd, my husband’s day off, so some cramming was in order.
Could I really watch all four in one day—in between getting my actual job done?
I put in the first DVD.
Well, gee, if I looked as hot as Carmen Electra, then I could actually do a strip tease. But I’m a middle-aged mom with a C-section scar, cellulite, and a tummy bump. I can’t do this! I look like a dork. I couldn’t dance to save my life, not to mention do a strip tease while I am dancing! What was I thinking?
But Carmen reassured me, saying, “Sexy starts with you!” She even looked right at me through the TV and told me that I was doing a good job. That helped.
I got about halfway through the DVD before it was time to pick up my daughter from kindergarten.
The following day, my husband arrived home earlier than expected. I’d suggested we have a nooner, but I had not told him precisely what I’d had in mind and, as a result, he had not been very cooperative about committing to a specific time.
“You ready?” he asked.
I was anything but ready. There I was in my usual winter attire, which is a pair of blue fleece sweat pants and a blue fleece top. I’d wanted to get a second practice session in. Oh well. I’d also wanted to give my outfit a test run. Oh well again.
“Um, uh, yeah, um, I think, um,” I said.
“We can do it another time,” he said.
“No, no, no, now is good,” I said. “I just need about 5 minutes.”
“No rush. I need to shower,” he said.
No rush? During the short time it would take my husband to shower, I was supposed to transform myself from dorky-fleece wearing mom into a sexual temptress? Me?
Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.
I grabbed my pile of lingerie, and I ran to our daughter’s bedroom and shut the door.
I took everything off.
First came the G-string. The little strings were twisted and tangled. I kept accidentally slipping my foot through the wrong hole.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.
Finally. There. It was on. But was it on correctly? I wasn’t sure. No matter.
Now for the pasties.
“Hum, I wonder how this works?” I thought as I stuck them to my nipples.
They fell off.
I put them back on, pressing them more firmly into my skin.
They fell off.
I turned them over. I looked at the fronts of them. I looked at the backs. Isn’t there any tape or a clip—anything--that will keep these things on my nipples?
I found nothing.
Back to my bedroom I ran, searching for the pasties packaging.
Instructions. Instructions. Instructions. There. Have. To. Be. Instructions. I can’t be the only woman who doesn’t know how to do this.
No instructions.
Maybe they need to be wet?
He was still in the shower. I snuck into the bathroom, ran sink water all over them, and ran back to my daughter’s room. I pressed them into my boobs. They fell right back off.
Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.
Okay, no pasties. No biggie.
I ran back to my room, pulled a black waist cincher from the drawer and ran back to my daughter’s room. I pulled it over my head. Next came the tiny red velvety number that I will call “shorts” but is really just a fancy loincloth.
It was then that I realized that the outfit I’d hoped to put on next was not remotely going to look right on top of everything else that I was wearing. Had I been wearing pasties? Perhaps. But pulled over another waist cincher? I’d look like a homeless person who was wearing multiple layers of lingerie in order to stay warm.
“Don’t look at me!” I yelled as I ran to my husband’s closet. There I found a dress shirt and tie. I ran back to her room and put both on.
Then some tall black boots.
I looked in the mirror.
I had on no makeup. My hair was a bit limp and un-styled. But my body? If I don’t say so myself, it was looking pretty darn-tooting hot.
“Momma?” My husband yelled.
“I’ll be right there,” I yelled. “Go sit in the chair in the living room and wait for me.”
I found my iPhone. I got Wild Cherry’s “Play That Funky Music” going.
I waltzed into the room. He whistled.
“This is your Christmas present,” I said, as I moved to the beat.
I was bumping and grinding, whipping my hair around, and doing all sorts of sexy moves that Carmen had taught me.
Then? My mind went blank.
I said, “Uh, um, I can’t remember how to do anything else.”
He said, “Take it off! Take it off!”
Okay then! Why not?
I took off the tie. I tickled him with it as I walked in a circle around the chair.
I turned my back to him as I slowly unbuttoned the shirt. Then I turned back, slipped out of it, put it over my head, winged it around in the air, and I threw it to him.
I did the same with the waist cincher.
My husband continued to play the part of the dirty old man at the strip club. He nuzzled his head between my boobs. He smacked my ass. He chanted, “Off! Off! Off!”
I danced my way out of my loincloth.
Now it was just me and my G-string.
“I’m not quite sure how to do the lap dance part,” I said as I walked toward him.
“Ow!” he yelled.
I’d just stepped on his bare foot with my boot.
“Oh my God! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I so sorry!”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m okay.”
Forget the lap dance. Let’s do this!
I crawled onto his lap. I gripped the back of the chair for support, and I let him give me the ride of my life.
Alisa Bowman writes about marriage at ProjectHappilyEverAfter.com.