The Path To Dancing In The Rain

Here are three changes that you can make to live a happier life!

My kids have always liked to run and play in the rain. I thought it was kind of cute, but I always stayed in the house watching them enjoy themselves. A couple of years ago, I realized that I'd been living small, sad and nowhere near my potential. As I was heading toward my 50th birthday, I decided to change all that. Recently, I realized I'd made significant positive changes when a warm summer rain enticed my children and dog outside, and I decided to join them. Myhusband took a picture of that moment and when a friend saw it he asked me to tell him my path to dancing in the rain. Here are the three changes that made the biggest difference in mypersonal development to joy:

1. Stop worrying about what others think of you. This doesn't mean that you should say or do anything that you feel like doing. I'm still kind, polite and hopefully thoughtful, but I no longer concern myself with the judgment of others. I was terrified to write a blog but then when I thought carefully about the worst-case scenario (people not liking it or leaving rude comments) I realized that I had absolutely nothing to lose by writing it. I had similar thoughts about my appearance, my children, my work and even my dog. I can't control what others think so why spend any time worrying about it? I do my best. I try to do it with integrity and care. How other people respond to that is completely up to them and not at all my problem.

2. It's not about you. I started to realize that I personalized so many things that people said and did which I assumed were about me. Apparently, I'm just not that important and that people's bad moods, bad attitudes, rude behavior, or snarky attitude is rarely about me and almost always about them. I've worked hard to limit time with people like this simply because they are unpleasant but not because I feel bad about myself when I'm with them.  Making assumptions about others thoughts or feelings is doomed to disaster. If someone is being rude to you, either nicely ask them why, ask them to stop, or limit your time with them. People who spend most their time criticizing others either have too much time on their hands or are miserable themselves. Neither is about you so why spend your time worrying about it?

3. Face your fears today. What are you most afraid of? Asking for a raise, a divorce, more loveand attention from your family, writing a book, speaking in public, changing a career, or starting a new career? Whatever it is, look at it and confront it now. When I look back at the greatest leaps in my life they came from me facing my biggest fears. Yet here's the funny thing. The majority of what I was most afraid of turned out to not be a very big deal. What are you avoiding in your life? Most likely, that is what you are fearful of and today is the day to face that. Get clear on your fear, figure out the first step to move forward and then do it. You won't regret it. 

So how are you playing small? What will it take to change that? If you need children or dogs for inspiration, you may borrow mine but you have to return them. The days and the years will tick away whether you want them to or not. One of my clients said to me recently, "I can't believe I'm as unhappy as I was a year ago. I don't want to spend one more day feeling like this." Andshe took the first step to changing her life for the better. What are you tolerating and aren't you ready to stop doing that and start dancing in the rain?

Lisa Kaplin is a life coach and psychologist at www.smartwomeninspiredlives.com

You can reach her at Lisa@smartwomeninspiredlives.com

Sign up for her free ebook "A How To Guide for Women Seeking A Passion Infused Life."

Go to www.smartwomeninspiredlives.com and click on the link at the top right corner of the home page.  

Resource: yourtango

Why The First Lap Dance I Ever Got Ended Up Being My Last

Why do men want lap dances? In my case, I was curious.

You can touch a stripper in Toronto. You can fondle her thighs, squeeze her boobs, kiss the nape of her neck as she arches her back in pretend ecstasy. Unlike the American clubs where you’ll get beaten by a bouncer and tossed in the alley if you lay a finger on her, you can do almost anything you want in Toronto.

"You can touch me anywhere except my pussy," the blonde told me. "That's my job."

She was curvy and ravishing. She smelled like hand sanitizer. She charged $20 a song to sitnaked on my jeans in a dim upstairs room, making conversation and moaning, and I suppose she was beautiful. But it was excruciating.

Why do men want lap dances? In my case, I was curious.

I was out of town in a city with lax rules and willing to try something I'd never done before. I'd been in my share of strip clubs over the years — I certainly don't mind watching pretty women take off their clothes — and I'd seen countless men pulling out $20s as they leaned back to lock eyes with a stripper. Some of them looked like they were falling in love; some of them were leering, laughing, joking about her in the third person to their friends.

But in spite of all the scantily clad dancers who had put hands on my shoulder asking if I wanted to buy a drink or a private dance, I never did anything more than watch until that night in Toronto.

Every Boy's Fantasy

The feigned closeness is part of the appeal, of course. Gentlemen, how often does your wife-girlfriend-date push you back in a chair, strip off her underwear and straddle your legs? How often do you ignore her eyes, stare at her chest and ask her to smother you in her cleavage? Would you dare? Could you do it with a straight face? And even if she's up for doing that now and again, could you just demand it when you saw her, without worrying whether she was in the mood, without first asking how her day was?

For $20 a dance, you can. And if you squint just right and ignore the brass pole and the thumping music and the slack-jawed guys all around you, you can pretend that she really cares about you and you've made some sort of connection — maybe even that you're different from all the other creeps who come schlumping in the door.

Inside every man, no matter how rich or powerful, is a shy 15-year-old slinking near the bleachers at the high school dance, head-over-heels for a girl he's afraid to say hi to, cultivating a fantasy that she'll make the first move and tell him how special he is. At a strip club, the shy boy can buy his dream, for a price.

I suppose this is why some men pay for sex. All the stories we hear about high-priced call girls mention the same kinds of clients — married men in their 40s and 50s who want a warm connection with no strings attached, a couple of hours devoted only to their pleasure. I guess they buy a little bit of delusion, too; even if I didn't think it was morally wrong to think I could purchase a woman's affection along with her body, I’d never be able to convince myself that she'd really sold it.

A Lesson In Disappointment And Regret

In Toronto, I had my pick — hair color and length, tall or short, busty or petite. It takes all kinds, I guess. I honestly don't remember her name anymore; I remember that I picked her because she looked like my girlfriend. 

I remember easing back on a red cushioned bench while she crawled up and down me, performed nude acrobatics inches from my face and told me how great it felt. She told me about growing up in the plains of Ontario and asked me to buy her more overpriced glasses of zinfandel. And when I said I'd had enough, she said no, couldn't I stay for one more song?

It was stimulating, yes — I'm only human — but I walked outside that night feeling awful about myself.

Everything that went on inside those doors was a perversion of what I've always believed about men and women: There, they pretend to like each other, but they are just trying to satisfy themselves. It's a sad bargain, and I had just taken part in it.

For a fistful of Canadian money, I was complicit.

Resource: yourtango

This Just In: Why Women Love Your Dance Moves, Fellas!

Good news for all the male dancers of the world!

In news that shouldn't be shocking to anyone, scientists have officially proven that women prefer men who can dance.

It seems that Kevin Bacon wasn't just the cool kid at his high school in Footloose because he's Kevin Bacon, rather he was cool because the man can MOVE.

The German scientists who discovered this fact (and let's be honest, the Germans know how to dance) asked 53 women to watch two videos at the same time. The first video featured what's considered a "good" dancer, while the other featured an "Elaine Benes"-style dancer. (Refresh your memory here. She was B-A-D.)

The verdict?

Scientists tracked the women's eye movements, and found that the ladies ogled the men with fancy foot work and didn't really pay attention to the guys without the right moves. After watching the videos, the ladies shared what they thought about each dancer. What did they decide? The guys who shook up the dance floor were "attractive" and "masculine." The same could not be said for the other group.

I mean, do you really think Elizabeth Bennet would have fallen for Mr. Darcy if he couldn't woo her on the dance floor? Back then, dancing was essential in the courting process! It goes to show that if you can at least move without doing the white man's overbite, then there's at least some hope for you and your gender as a whole.

Making an effort DOES get you some points though.

Although for some there is no point in even trying, as they have been born with two left feet. It should be noted that if you at least go out there and make an attempt, you're already more attractive than the killjoy in the corner of the room refusing to partake.

Sometimes making an *ss out of yourself is JUST as charming, if not more so, as the perks of being a wallflower.

So dance, my darlings, dance! 

Resource: yourtango

DREAM ON: Aerosmith's Steven Tyler Was My Former Teenage Lover

Every time I see Liv Tyler, I think, that could have been my kid!

Facebook can be one hell of a way to keep up with old friends. Another of the interesting aspects it provides is in allowing us to see what the people of our past look like today, whether we keep up with them or not. Funny how an old lover’s photo might pop up out of nowhere — especially when that old lover turned out to be a very famous person.

So, there I was, scrolling through my news feed, and lo and behold I found myself riveted by a truly stunning photograph of what appeared to be an old native American woman, casually bedazzled in tribal attire. Her every crag and wrinkle told a story. She was, in her way, quite lovely — a bit of a hippie, in fact — and the shock of wiry silver hair that accented one of the most weathered faces I’d ever seen only served to bring more character to this unique portrait. All I knew was that it was worth clicking on and having a closer look.

But when I looked closer, I realized she was in fact not even a woman — she was rock star Steven Tyler, the lead singer of Aerosmith, and my former lover.

Dude seriously looks like a lady now.

Now, when I say 'my former lover' I am talking about the distant past way before all those crags and wrinkles had a chance to form, ages before that silver shock of hair could even reach that level of melanin depletion. There was a really cute guy who was just starting out with his band, and there was me, an even younger girl who was just beginning her sexual adventures one summer day, about a zillion years ago.

We met on a dock by a boathouse, on an island, during summer vacation. I’d go as far as to say our little experience together was comparable to what people imagine the reality behind the story in the film Dirty Dancing to be like.

Except, unlike the film, we really were dirty, and we did way more than dance.

He was the cutest thing in the world. Gorgeous face, long, slim physique. He had the whole world of craziness ahead of him, and in those early days — before fame ran him through the shoots and ladders of what would be his very intense life as one of the greatest rock singers of all time — he was actually super nice, a total sweetie-pie. I have nothing but fond memories of him. He was kind, beautiful, considerate and an awesome sexual partner, even at that young age.

Let's just put it this way, he was my first oral sex experience — both ways. So yeah, that famous mouth of his? I've got a very special memory of those lips, that is for certain. As for my lips, I had a whole lotta young Steven Tyler to deal with, and it was certainly a memorable experience — all good, all good!

But the really weird part was looking at that photo. Yes, Steven is older than me, but wow — if he looks like that now, what the heck do I look like? I mean, I remember a smooth young man who had just penned his first hit record, 'Dream On.' So, who was this shaman-woman-person that he’d morphed into? It’s funny, every time I see Liv Tyler, I think, that could have been my kid!

I imagine he’s one of those rock dudes who went through women like water.

Thankfully, I was one of the early ones before all the drugs came in to warp and enhance the experience. Would he recognize me today? I doubt it. Would he remember me from that boathouse so long, long ago? Probably not, but that’s OK, too. I don’t need to be remembered, nor do I expect to be.

What is really interesting to me about it all is that if we’re fortunate enough to live to be old, we become these portraits of intensity. Where our beauty may not read as youthful and elastic as it once was, our faces do tell the stories of our lives.

Once, there was a young Steven Tyler and a young Dori Hartley. Their paths would cross for a short summer encounter and then those paths would veer into entirely new worlds, where the only thing they’d have in common is a thread of a memory.

So, for the sake of kiss and tell: Was he beautiful? Yes. In every department.

Is he still beautiful? Absolutely. And though his face is a map of wrinkles, folds, shadows and older flesh — one of those wrinkles has my name on it. And it works both ways, doesn’t it? Because even though it can’t be seen with the human eye, I too have an invisible tattoo somewhere on my body that says, "Steven Tyler was here."

Resource: yourtango

How — And Why — I Stripper-Proofed My Husband

My husband is quite popular with strippers, so I found a way to make him less popular.

My husband is a quiet guy. He prefers staying home to going out and would rather spend a night at the movies rather than at the bar with the guys. So when he admitted to having a preferred corner in a dark corner of a local strip club, I wasn't really surprised.

He's always liked boobs and women and strip clubs have always held this sort of mystical appeal to him. He's certainly not a regular but when he does go, he has a pattern. He sits in a back corner, orders a Coke to fulfill his one-drink minimum, and keeps a dollar in his hand for the ladies who make the effort to travel back to his secluded spot. Oh, and he never touches. There are even some dancers who know they can come sit with him if they're worn out by the drunk creeps. I mean, that's kind of adorable right?

He really likes to talk to strippers; he finds them fascinating and I've known him long enough to find this strange social habit of his endearing.

For a quiet guy who doesn't really appreciate small talk, he appreciates the unique social skills a successful stripper has to have in order to be really good at her job. "Sure, they want my money, but they're so easy to get along with," he told me.

He also admitted to indulging in a lap dance or two, which is when I realized there's a fine-line between what I'm comfortable with and what I'm not when it comes to my husband indulging in the occasional strip club visit. (His justification: "Hey, it's how they make their money.") So in the name of honesty, openness, and research we headed to his dark corner of Dancer's Royale.

My mission: to find out if my husband paying someone to grind up against his crotch would bother me as much as I thought it would.

(Sidenote: This wasn't my first visit to a strip club. The first time I went was with another friend and I held onto a five-dollar bill until I saw I girl on stage earn it. So many of them looked completely bored and annoyed that when a dancer finally got into what she was doing, you bet I was willing to tip her for her effort and dedication to the job. Strippers have strength in places I don't and DAMN if they don't make some good money. I couldn't do it, but I understand why many do.) 

Anyway, back to the story.

My husband and I sat down in his favorite dark corner and after a few minutes, it became blatantly obvious that with me at his side, my husband was suddenly ... stripper-repellent.

Seriously. The girls wouldn't come anywhere near him or even acknowledge his presence when I sat next to him. (Meanwhile I smiled at every one who passed by, garnered a few compliments on my hair and corset top, and even got a few tips on exfoliation and moisturizing.)

After telling another friend about this odd incident, she commented maybe it was "stripper code" not to acknowledge a client when they show up with a spouse or girlfriend.

Which makes sense.

If a throng of girls ran up to him the moment we sat down, I might wonder if his story of "sitting quietly in his dark corner" was really true. However, it's more likely he didn't actually know any of the strippers working that night — he had never been there that late on a Saturday — and plus, they had plenty of other clients without girls attached to them to cater to.

At first, I felt pretty good. Look at me, being cool with my husband as naked flesh bounced all around us. How many wives can claim they've gone to a strip club with their husband and left happily committed? However, after seeing tables of men surrounding us get attention, lap dances, and usherings into more private rooms for a more "intimate" experience, I began to feel like a giant wart on the side of my husband's face.

Was I actually ruining the strip club experience for him? Did he like having me there as proof he didn't have to pay for a warm body to grind up against him? 

As the awkwardness of naked girls surrounding us faded, we began to notice which strippers seemed to actually enjoy their job as opposed to the ones who rolled their eyes as soon as they were out of sight. I learned about something called the "teeter-twatter" (two ladies face each other and wrap their legs around a pole with a gentleman's head between their thighs as they rock back and forth) and realized that in the world of boobs, mine are, in fact, top-notch.

Overall, we had a good time — even though we didn't partake in any of the ladies' talents.

It was a bonding experience, a learning experience, and we learned that going to strip clubs together is probably not the best idea because of our disagreement over who deserves a tip. I'm still not convinced he should be accepting dollar dances from anyone who offers. He believes he should support everyone's effort; I believe in supporting the dancers who truly care. (Clearly he's more charitable than I am in regards to what goes into those garter belts.)

While I may have scared away girls who wanted to dance around — and on — my husband for a few dollars, I managed to keep the handful of bills we walked in with in his pocket.

So even though stripper-proofing my husband may have been a little boring for him, it turned out to be fiscally responsible for both of us.

Resource: yourtango

My Ex Had The CREEPIEST Jewish Fetish

I could just picture him masturbating to a map of Israel every night.

At the Metro Club in New Orleans, I was dancing with a law school student named Hendrik, who kept palming his way down the backside of my thighs. Without hesitation, he told me he had been waiting all night to dance with a Jewish girl, especially one as "full-bred" as myself.

Oh God. Was it really that obvious? I wondered, reminding myself that if I would just stand 45 degrees to the left of guys, when speaking to them, that my nose would not seem nearly as obtrusive.

"You know, it's so funny," Hendrik said, "My grandfather was a Nazi officer but my dad and I, we absolutely love the Jewish people. Especially the women. Huge fans."

It was weird of Hendrik to natter on about his Nazi-infested genes before scoring my digits. I liked his honesty though. I also liked how his shoulder muscles packed so nicely into his ski sweater and how his strong, steroidal voice would crunch all the way down to a creak whenever he tried to be romantic.

"Did anyone ever tell you that your hair is the exact same color as your eyes?" Creak. Creak. Creak. He made me want to dig into his esophagus and slowly and tenderly caress his vocal chords. But I—fortunately—held myself back.

My first real date with Hendrik was a stroll through the New Orleans French Quarter.

He spoke with terrific emotion about ex-lovers, probably to make me jealous, but I didn't like him enough to mind.

There was Michelle Rosenthal with her nasal South Jersey whine, Mimi Moskowski who sported an unshaven hippie bus, and Avivah Katz who used to bob her tongue into Hendrik's earlobe in the back row of Temple Emanu El's Friday night services. "It was just her way of saying 'Shabbat Shalom,'" Hendrik insisted. The list continued on with clunky Jewish last name after clunky Jewish last name, lots of bergs and ovitskys, very few vowels.

I could just picture him masturbating to a map of Israel every night.

Hendrik's flaming Jewish fetish made me a bit more self conscious of my voluptuously Jewish facial features. One night, when Hendrik and I were enjoying our privacy outside an empty Café du Monde, he traced his finger along the curve of my nose as if it were a breast. I wanted to reroute his fingers to someplace—anyplace—sexier. Look! Down below! There's these fat, flowering 32D melons just above my ribcage, here, have a stroke! Hendrik couldn't hear my thoughts though, of course, and began to molest the bridge between my nostrils. I could practically hear him humming, "Ahhhh, Juuudaism."

Trying to be heard over street music jazz, Hendrik said to me, "Um Rachel… sweetheart… would you mind singing a little Hebrew prayer for me? Please? Like the 'Barak ata' one? It gets me off. I'm being serious." He laughed at this, appreciating his own sexual weirdness. I sighed and whispered "baruch atah adonei eloheinu meleh ha'olam" into his ear in my slinkiest phonesex operator voice. He fondled my nose again and I giggled.

I imagined Hendrik dreaming up various Jew girl-on-Nazi descendant storylines before he went to bed at night.

Fantasy #1: The Jew girl, with her inky black eyes and teeth slanted shyly inwards (think Anne Frank) kisses goose-stepping boy atop Noah's ark. They are the only two humans left after the flood, the fate of humanity rests upon them to procreate (cue urgent music). Their limbs tangle about, her arms become legs, his legs become arms, they tangle about some more, the rhythm of the Mediterranean Sea eggs them on and then, suddenly—voila! The bible's first ever half Christian/half Jewish baby is conceived!

While my feelings toward Hendrik never grew into love, I, in utter anti-feminist fashion, wanted him to love me. But I wondered: could a guy nursing a fetish ever truly fall in love with his the girl of his fixation?

I doubt it.

It seemed I could never be the object of Hendrik's cosmic, chemicals gone haywire love because I was the object of Hendrik's typecasting. Hendrik was casting for his real-life Noah's Ark Jewess and I was the one who best fit the bill.

A few weeks after I began dating Hendrik, I went through a serious Dolly Parton phase, perhaps in rebellion to all the pretentious snot clogging up my college campus. I wrote country songs and performed them before my full-length mirror and my roommate, who promised not to judge. I wore cowboy boots and peroxided my hair so blonde it washed out all the Jewish character on my face.

I e-mailed Hendrik a digital picture of the new me labeled "Just as Hitler ordered" and I expected at least some kind of half-pleasure to come out from under him; maybe he would call me his "sexy little Barbara Streisand" or he would tell me gently that I looked very hot but that he wanted his Jew back. I just assumed that all guys, even the most Jew-chasing among them, were turned on by blonde. I thought it an evolutionary thing.

For a good few hours, I stared, autistic-like, at my computer until an instant message from bodyofgod937 popped up on the screen: "Call me when you have better judgment" is all it said.

My better judgment told me that I should delete Hendrik's from my cell phone and that I should have listened to my mother and only dated nice Jewish boys. Jewish boys, after all, would never pass up a good shiksa.

Resource: yourtango

The Important Lesson I Learned From His Strip-Club Bachelor Party

My fiancé's bachelor party forced me to learn a hard lesson about relationships.

Being the modern, liberated, well-educated woman I am, I never thought I would mind the man in my life going to a strip club. Years ago, I would even occasionally join my guy friends for an evening at a gentlemen's club. It meant free cocktails all night, and have you ever seen the ladies' room at a strip club?  The restrooms are girly bonanzas that range between the cosmetics aisle at a drug store to a miniature Sephora. Plus, strippers on their bathroom breaks have the best gossip. 

Fast-forward to 2008—the year I got married. As bachelor party talk began, it never occurred to me that a strip club might come into play. In the three years I'd been dating my fiancé, he'd never been to one, so I just didn't consider it. I've known plenty of women who have "forbidden" their husbands from seeing exotic dancers, but I didn't think my fiancé needed another mother. The strip club conversation simply never had a place in my relationship lexicon. 

A week before our wedding, the least-planned bachelor party known to man had finally arrived. The event was on the books for six months, yet the groomsmen waited until they got in the car to decide where they were going. That's when I got the "Strip Club Call." My future husbandwas going to spend the evening surrounded by scantily clad women with enormous breasts; he might get a lap dance; he would for sure be looking at naked women all night, just as he was about to marry me. 

And, suddenly, I was furious. My head was reeling, but I tried to express my distaste as serenely as possible, which resulted in the overly calm voice that in horror movies indicates possession by an evil force. The conversation went something like this:

"Wait, you're upset? You never told me I couldn't go!" (Maybe he does need another mother). "But the guys have it all planned out!" (A plan they made five minutes ago).

"I can't tell them to change the plan!" (Sure you can: "Guys, I think it's pretty disrespectful to Emily if I to go to a strip club a week before our wedding.")

The whole time I was creepily calm.

He went to the strip club.

Meanwhile, I went to my girls. It took calls to several of my bridesmaids that night for me to work through how I felt. I've always been confident in my looks, but suddenly this event shook my assurance. Is there something he wants to see that I don't have? I was also mad at my stereotypical reaction. I felt like a cliché that you see on those horrible wedding reality shows. The fiancé makes a fool of himself by "acting like a man" at his bachelor party, and when his bride finds out, she makes a fool of herself by screaming and lunging at him. You always wonder, "Why are these two even getting married? They have no respect for each other." Were we no better than that? 

Then it came to me: We were better than that. We had a tremendous amount of respect for each other, and I had simply dropped the ball on communicating.  I hadn't taken the time to examine my feelings, or express them to my future husband (a good habit to have when committing to spend the rest of your life with someone). 

The next day, the defense for Team Man was working overtime: "We just talked and drank! No one even got a lap dance. We might as well have been at a bar!" 

"Then why didn't you just go to a bar?" Zing! That's 150 points for the double X-chromosome.

Holding his party at a strip club suggested he needed one last hurrah before we got married, and it offended me. I thought our marriage was one long hurrah—something we looked forward to, not something from which we needed a reprieve.

Sure it's idealistic, but if you can't afford some idealism the week before you get married, when can you? The strip club wasn't the issue; it was the timing of the visit that bothered me. So when he promised to never go again, I could honestly say I wouldn't care if he did. We'd already be married during that next visit; it wouldn't be a statement about our impending union.   

I learned the hard way how important it is that I'm fully aware of my feelings. Just because I didn't have a problem with strip clubs when I was young and single didn't mean that I wouldn't find a visit to one disrespectful and hurtful the week before my wedding. More importantly, no matter how good your relationship is, the guy you're with can't know how you feel if you don't tell him!

I've put my "strip club" lesson to good use in my marriage. From the mundane, "When I'm under deadline, the noise of the television is very distracting," to the more significant, "Sure my family's crazy, but you're not allowed to say they are." When I tell him how I feel, my husband is quite good at respecting those feelings. So perhaps I have to thank my husband for his pre-wedding faux pas!

Resource: yourtango

5 Beginner Burlesque Moves To Try On Him Tonight

Give him a sexy show for his eyes only.

Burlesque superstar Jo Boobs has been wowing audiences and teaching eager exhibitionists, like me and Margaret Cho, with her amazing va-va-voom skills. The School of Burlesque's Headmistress Jo has taught me all my naughtiest moves, and took me from clumsy nerd to confident lap dancer. Yes, she's that good, people!

While classes and shows have been for the lucky few who live in the New York City area, now, in a bookstore near you, is a new manual that'll have you bumpin' and grindin' with the best of them. Ms. Boobs' opus, The Burlesque Handbook, is everything you need to know to take yourforeplay to striptease heaven. It gives readers a taste of her tips, from what to put on and how to take it off!

Check out some of her best techniques here:

1. Do You Want To Touch Me?

"The most important thing to keep in mind is that you can make them think of the way you feel by touching yourself—running your finger along your arm, caressing your shoulder, and touching your neck. This makes them think that you're nice to touch."

2. Hit Me With Your Best Shot 

"We watch so much video that we think our partner sees us from all angles, but in reality, the only camera on you when you're doing a tease for your lover is their eyes. Always think about where their eyes are, and make sure they can see what you're showing them, or tell when you're deliberately teasing and concealing." 

3. What Not To Wear

"Onstage, you need major sparkles, but in private, you need fabrics that have sensual texture. Delicate lingerie won't work onstage; sequins can scratch your lover during a lap dance. Think about how they feel!"

4. Smells Like Tease Spirit

"Wear a fragrance they like, whether it's perfume, sweat, or soap, and move closer and then further away to tease them with fragrance and body heat."

5. Private Eyes

"Tease them with eye contact just like you tease them with everything else. Look at their eyes, then look at your own breasts, then look back at them to catch them looking!"

Written by Simcha Whitehill for The Frisky.

Resource: yourtango

Another Woman Gave Me An Orgasm At A Strip Club Bachelor Party

What happens in Atlantic City stays... on YourTango.

I'm not one of those girls who hates other girls.

Most of my close friends are women, and although I have guy friends I'm far from "one of the guys." I don't like sports, I don't eat pizza or drink beer, and I'm very particular about keeping things neat and tidy. However, my best friend from college happens to be a guy.

I first met Josh* a few weeks into my freshman year. We went on one date, kissed for three seconds, and quickly decided we were better off as friends.

Twelve years later, and still very close, Josh called to tell me I was officially invited to his bachelor party.

It was going to be me and 27 dudes in Atlantic City for the weekend. I was honored to be deemed awesome enough to be the one chick at a bachelor party, excited to see behind the testosterone curtain, curious to learn what really goes on at these things and determined to live up to Josh's expectations of me seamlessly fitting in, even though I lacked an Adam's apple, stubble, and a penis.

Before arriving at The Borgata I instated some rules for myself.

Rule one: Under NO circumstances was I going to sleep with any of the guys attending the bachelor party.

Rule two: I would pile into hotel rooms with the rest of the guys and not complain about the smell, squalor, toilet seats being left up, sleeping conditions, snoring, puke-stained clothes piled in corners, burping, ball scratching and urinating in the shower.

Rule three: I would gamble, smoke cigars and drink a lot, but not so much that I would lose sight of rule one.

While checking in at the front desk the hushed annoyance and pissed-off stares made it clear I was going to have to prove myself. A few of Josh's friends already knew me but the rest immediately asked, "Who invited her?" Having breasts at a bachelor party is a bad thing, unless you're the hired help. 

I ingratiated myself to some of the guys by becoming their wing woman and helping them scope out girls at the bar. I earned more fans when I convinced a bouncer not to throw us all out of a club after Josh's brother peed in the stairwell. Others gained respect for me when they realized I played poker, and well. 

That night all 28 of us went to a steak house.

Although Josh was the guest of honor, it looked as though I was a queen traveling with my harem of men. At this point there were about 5 holdouts who were still not sold on having a chick at a bachelor party and convinced I was ruining everything. They didn't mind letting Josh know about their disapproval. His mature and wise response: "Shut the fuck up dude and relax."

After the last of the red wine was gone we made a pilgrimage by cabs in a long caravan to the best strip club in town.

I've been to my fair share of strip clubs and if this place was the best in town I shuddered to think what the other ones looked like. Atlantic City in general seemed like Vegas's aborted fetus.

Some of the strippers were smokin' hot, others not so much. A few C-section scars were visible as well as lots of bruises, faded butterfly tattoos and bad boob jobs, but nothing was going to thwart me from shoving bills into g-strings.

Lap dances were being bought by the baker's dozen so it only made sense that I get one too. I picked a pretty little blond named Treasure (the best stripper name ever). Treasure smelled like baby powder and strawberries, had a firm body and was fully waxed.

The champagne room was set up with booths and partitions, giving the illusion of privacy, but really anyone who craned his head could see everything going on. Unbeknownst to me all the guys were hyper aware of this, and they all watched me get my lap dance.

The song started.

Treasure dripped over me, caressed me, and dragged her knee in between my legs. I felt the distinct notion that if I put a little effort in to it, and Treasure continued to do exactly what she was doing, I could actually have an orgasm.

But that would be crazy! Getting a happy ending in public at a strip club would be insane, right?! 

Treasure, as conscientious as she was, sensed that she wasn't far away from fully satisfying her customer so she continued the knee action, slowly and softly. My breath quickened and I whispered to her, "Oh my God, I could come." And she whispered, lips glossy and full, "That’s the idea."

I made the decision in that disgusting Atlantic City strip club booth to let go of any and all restraints good society had placed upon me. All weekend I’d been trying my hardest to fit in at a bachelor party and "finishing" at a strip club is as stereotypically male as you can get.

So I let go, and let Treasure do her thing. She was extremely talented.

To the amazement of everyone in the room, including me, I got a full on happy ending, something none of the other 27 bachelor party participants were lucky enough to get. I manned up, even more than the men, and the irony was lost on no one.

Well, maybe on Treasure, just a little bit.

*name has been changed

Resource: yourtango

YIKES! 10 Unintentionally Disturbing Moments From Famous Sex Scenes

These will get you more bothered than hot and bothered.

Movies with sex scenes in them aren't really necessary anymore. It used to be that a movie having a good sex scene was a nice bonus. If you wanted to watch two people have sex (for whatever reason), you could pretend that you just wanted to watch The Collector and not feel like a complete perv. These days, if you want to watch two people have sex, then you literally have every single porn ever made or a ride on the New York City subway. If you're going to watch an actual movie, you're not doing it for the sex.

This change has made some classic movies look kind of creepy now. Back when they were released, people were happy just for the sex scene. Today, people can be a little bit more discerning about it. Instead of a nice bonus, the scene has to actually make sense within the movie. Often times, they don't even come close.

You can tell that the producers just threw the scene in to help sales. It's incredibly obvious, and the details of the scene don't make any sense, or they add a new layer to the movie's story that just makes the whole thing uncomfortable. Here are 10 classic movie sex scenes that are unintentionally creepy.

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Resource: yourtango

ALERT: "Twerking" Fitness Classes Are Now A Thing

It's more than just a dance; it's an ... exercise?

Twerking classes are a thing — in the United States and everywhere!

Violet Flame (in Scottsdale, Arizona), Lex Twerk Out (in Los Angeles) and Vixen Workout (Florida) offer twerking exercise classes, and Twerk Out Workout (in Atlanta, Georgia) will even teach a class at your girls night and bachelorette party. Sip on apricot Cosmos and have a serious sweat session. 

Some twerking exercise class combine pole dancing, hip hop or toning classes. If you are a beginner twerker you can burn 400-500 calories; if you're more experienced you could burn as much as 1000 calories!

But where twerking work out classes are really big is in Europe, and the Queen of Czech twerking is Anet Antosova. 

While she's very well known in Europe, she's gaining in popularity in the United States, and was even a featured performer in Kanye West's European tour.

One day it's the Czech Republic and the next, it's the world, and the world seems to be hungry for twerking.

Besides being an incredible dancer, Anet leads very popular twerk-workout or twerkshops all over Europe.

She's mesmerizing to watch. It's SO easy to get fixated on her always-moving booty. 

She obviously has all her twerk moves down from the Booty Pop to the Twerk Split, but also knows many other dance styles including Jamaican-dancehall, jazz, African and street.  

Her "twerkshops" are always packed, because she definitely practices what she teaches.

When Anet twerks, her face is just as expressive as her body, and it's easy to see how dedicated and focused she is on her art and how she wants to spread the twerk message through her classes and her performances.

Take a look at how Anet makes twerking look so amazing and maybe if you take a few twerking exercise classes, you could become the next Anet and get your booty into amazing shape.

Resource: yourtango