when the teacher asked "whose pleasure are you dancing for?" she paused for a moment and then said "mine."

or how attending a women only erotic dance class healed something in me, even though I basically only watched

art by Rala Choi

It was the second class in three days with my friend, Parvati, who had invited me weeks ago to attend heels with her — a class that I knew about but had never imagined I would attend. But when you have a friend like Parv, who holds out her hand and is like, let’s fucking jump, bitch — you jump. Or I guess you don’t have to jump but I want to when I’m with her. Her friendship this past year has been instrumental to my own growth, and while I did not intend for this to be a love letter to her, I guess it sort of is.

First, heels.

The plan was to meet at Maya’s shoes on Hollywood Blvd. It was pouring rain and we were both running late — had a cool fifteen minutes to shop for thigh-high platform boots before a 3pm class ten minutes away. That’s the other thing about Parvati. She won Survivor. Twice. So it’s like… yeah, of course we can make it to a class ten minutes away even if it started five minutes ago.

We each bought the first pair of boots we tried on and went sprinting down Hollywood Blvd in the rain toward our cars like a movie montage, bags of shoes flapping behind us as we skidded between tourists who unfortunately booked trips to Los Angeles during rainmageddon.

Somehow, but also, duh, we made it to heels on time. The room was packed with women of all ages and sizes. Half naked and rooting each other on. Clapping and cheering, writhing and shaking, bodies everywhere. And even though I clearly missed the memo on wardrobe, the boots made me feel legit. Like I was there to learn some moves and writhe on the floor with women half my age because, who even cares about the details this is life and everyone’s invited.

When it was over, I wanted MORE. Something about the combined energy of women — full of hope and hutzpah, half naked, seducing their own reflections. First class of the New Year, baby. What’s next.

Even women like me, who got the moves 90% wrong, didn’t give a fuck. At one point I couldn’t bend one of my legs because of the boot and got stuck on my knees doing a crawl. But no one seemed to notice or care. We had become one organism — high on our own supply, exhaling breathlessness into each other’s mouths.

When you are in the right space, it doesn’t matter how you move, only that you’re moving. I had told myself in the mad dash to class that it will never not be endearing to be the one who can’t but does it anyway. That is who I want to be this year. Someone who tries things she knows she’s not great at instead of sticking to things she knows she can do.

Which is why, after heels class, I agreed to attend a different class with Parvati. A class that made heels feel like vulnerability’s bunny slope.

Like, oh you think that was pushing it? LOL.