Sexercise II

"All right girls, just pretend Jeremy's not here," the instructor said as the ladies in workout garb filtered in, the lights dimmed and the mood music came on.

"I'm used to women ignoring me, so it's no big deal," I reply. They all laugh and it makes me feel good. Making a girl laugh can be the best trait a man's got going for him.

They start the routine and it consists mostly of stretches that are supposed to release the stress involved with being a women, to "To turn their brains off and let their body move," the instructor tells me.

It all makes me want to fall asleep, but I tough it out, jot down notes and watching these women bend in ways I've rarely seen.

"Are you falling asleep over there?" the instructor asks me. "We were gonna let you sit in the lap dance chair, but I didn't think that'd be such a great idea."

"No problem, I'm doing just fine over here."

About a half-hour later, when the first hour's up, they take a recess and each of them sees me, remembers that there is a actually guy awkwardly sitting through this session, and they each shuffle past me shy and reserved.

The instructor asks me what I think so far.

"I get how this works on a sensual, endorphin-releasing level. Shoot, I feel more like a women already," I say. She laughs.

"Well, you haven't seen anything yet."

"Ready girls!" she hollers.

And as if they'd just robbed the sex boutique shop down the street, they each strut back into the room wearing cheap high heels.

One of them, a thirtysomething Asian women, switched into a bra and a thong.

I'm a bit taken aback at this point.

The music cranks up (it's the same shitty Buckcherry-esque sleaze rock I'd hear at a joint if I were paying to see these women strip) and they start working the pole. They've all got a routine down. They start by leaning lasciviously against the adjacent well, then saunter up to the pole, grab it, pull themselves up on it, twist around it in a sexual manner, slide down and dismount for the next girl to step up.

It's all much more erotic then I'd imagined. My palms are sweating. I've been to over a dozen strip joints, but because the women I was watching now were made with real body parts and mostly likely didn't have genital herpes, I was enjoying it much more.

I crack a wicked grin, because knowing that I'm the first guy that's ever been allowed to sit through one of these classes and knowing that I'm getting paid to do so is something I can't help but smile at.

I look over at the recliner across the room, what I assume is the "lap dance" chair, and I'm wishing I would have put up a little more of a fight to get to it.

As the girls are doing their thing I'm trying to sit there as professionally as possible. That is, staring straight at the ground when the look over at me, and attempting to hide my eyes under the brim of my hat even when they're not.

At one point the Asian women in a bra and panties has a Janet Jackson-esque wardrobe malfunction and what I swear was a nipple poked itself out to say "hey." The instructor was right there and had to see it, too.

Again, my eyes were diverted straight to the ground.

"Be a professional, Schnick. Be a professional, Schnick," I kept saying to myself, but my heart wasn't listening to me and my rapid blood flow forced me to adjust myself.

Then, just as things were getting real saucy, the music turned down and the dancing stopped.

"Great job tonight, girls. Great job," the instructor said, and they all discussed who would be in attendance for next week's session.

"Thanks girls, you were all great," I say as they shuffle out. My wit is met with giggles again.

I exchange some closing remarks with the instructor. She seems a bit nervous that I'm going to write something racy in the article.

"I promise, the story's going to be very straight-forward, I'm looking at this purely at the health and stress release angle," I assured her (obviously the article I'm referring to isn't the one on my MySpace blog).

As I said my good-byes she turned to me and said, "Now, if you see any of us on the street, just act like you don't know who we are."

"Yeah, especially me," said a tall twentysomething of Middle Eastern descent, who, from my vantage point, was the sexiest girl in the class.

I nodded my head.

"I'll do my best."

I grab my backpack, throw my headphones and find my way out of the building and onto the street, my senses still taut after what I'd just experienced.

As I'm standing at the first set of lights on the way back to my place I hear what sounds to be somebody hollering out my name over the music coming out of my ipod. I look around for a second confused, then notice that in a Honda Accord stopped at a red light at the intersection is the tall girl of Middle Eastern descent and she's waving at me to come over to her.

I take my headphones off and walk to her hesitantly (this was a woman that just a matter of minutes ago told me to ignore her if I saw her in public.)

"Do you need a ride? Come on, I'll give you a ride," she said, somewhat forcefully.

"No, I'm fine, I always walk" I reply as I get closer and try to turn back.

"No, come on, get in. It's too cold outside to be walking."

It was cold and I do live over a mile away, so I said to hell with it and got in the Accord.

We made small talk. She asked about my writing. I told her I tried to pick up whatever interesting assignments I could, which included this one. She told me she just moved to the city from the suburbs and was working in the West Loop.

"So, what do you do for fun around here?" She asked.

" "Be a professional, Schnick. Be a professional, Schnick," I reminded myself.

"Um, nothing really, I just, uh, kinda hang out. I like Wicker Park," I say.

She gets excited.

"So do I! That's my favorite neighborhood in town! Where do you hang out there?"

"Be a professional, Schnick. Be a professional, Schnick!"

"Umm, I don't know, uh," I stammer. Just then she pulls up to my street.

"I'm right here," I say abruptly and she gets kind of confused but pulls over.

"You should tell me where some good places are in the West Loop," she says.

"Yeah, uh, maybe I'll just, uh, see you around," I say as I grab my things and hurriedly exit her car.

"Be a professional, Schnick. Be a professional, Schnick!"

"Yeah, that'd be fun if we did," she says as I say good-bye and close the door.

I turn away, my shoulders dip immediately in frustration and I make the 25-yard walk to my apartment cursing journalistic integrity and the fact that I don't yet have a business card.