Yoga and Me

By Jill Morley

GROUPON – 20 classes for $20

Might as well try it again.

Yoga Class #1

"Is anyone here new to yoga?" my lovely crunchy granola meets LuLu Lemon yoga instructor asks. I can smell a hint of Tofurkey on her breath so I know she’s legit.

A few hands raise.

"Brand spanking new?"

My hand creeps up. As usual, I am terrified to speak in front of a group of people I don't know, especially one in which I feel like an outsider. In boxing gyms, I feel right at home. It's a safehouse for ragtags. I know it's strange to feel more comfortable in a place that is predominantly male, where we pound the crap out of bags and each other, but it's familiar and has become Home.

I sputter, "I've tried it a few times and um,...I keep trying to like it."

Some people in the class laugh, a few won't even look at me and I am pretty sure I see an eye roll on a corner mat.

The instructor, Lola, brings over two "bricks" and a blanket. At first, I think that just from looking at me, she can tell I am special. That I can do all sorts of amazing things that the others most likely, cannot. After all, I am a boxer. I learn that the brick and blanket are to help extremely tight people get into poses. Shove a brick under a thigh that cannot reach the ground on its own, or a blanket under your butt if you cannot sit up straight. I later decide to call them the "brick and blanket of shame" and know that they will be with me for a long time.

I have flirted with yoga at different times throughout my life but while I long to love it, it's only resulted in one night stands. I usually found it boring, painful and bourgeois with a hint of spiritual arrogance. I remember a yoga teacher saying that he would never eat an apple that was sitting on a weight machine because it would have absorbed all the aggressive energy of the kind of people who lift weights. You know, "those people." Judge others much?

The people who take such pride in doing their extreme standing splits while I am in pain just trying to straighten one leg would also enrage me. I know from doing other sports that you have to start at a very humble place and be patient. You cannot expect results right away. You are not going to be Muhammad Ali after a week or two of boxing... or most likely ever, but you can become a force to be reckoned with if you work at it diligently over time. In Taekwondo, I remember being a white belt watching a black belt test and thoroughly doubting I could ever learn all those kicks, defensive moves, and especially that many katas. Four years later, I passed my own black belt test and resolved to always remember to not get overwhelmed by where I want to be when I am first starting something new. Ego is a bitch.

Yoga is supposed to be about "the journey." It's not a competition, but my competitive spirit has always gotten in the way of enjoying it. How can that skinny bitch jump her legs straight through her arms like an Olympic gymnast when I would most likely break my toes or become mangled in my own arms? As I get older, I am learning the value of letting myself be where I am and not judging it. Let her do her practice and let me do mine. “Stay on your own mat,” a wise yoga practitioner once told me. And it’s true. There is no trophy. No medal. No purse. It's just “practice.” I say knowing that this very evolved way of being eludes me often and I have to practice keeping my mind in this place. Yes, another thing to practice.

I'm probably trying too hard to do the poses right because I know how important technique is and my mind has a tendency to think random thoughts. What do these people do in their real lives? Are they in a cult? Why are there cushions on one side of the room with faux fur pillows? Do they have orgies here where they wear animal masks? Why can't I just concentrate and not think these things?

It doesn't help that the girl in front of me has on see through tights and is wearing no underwear. I am too jealous of her body to get any kind of thrill out of it. Damn me for being straight, but even so, my eyes keep wanting to look over as she downward dogs.

In boxing, when you get a combination wrong on the mitts or start to hurt from a strength exercise, it's not completely out of place to utter, "Fuck! Mother Fucker!" I can't say it's not frowned upon, but if it happens, it's not a big deal. However, in the candlelit room reeking of lavendar oil, a few whispery MFers escaped my lips when trying to straighten out a tight hamstring. I caught a dirty look from the woman on the left. I folded my lips in an effort to lock them closed and tried not to do it again. In my world, when I get super frustrated MF happens. Not yogi right. Yogi wrong.

"Everyone step forward, or if you want to challenge yourself, jump your legs through your arms," says Lola as she effortlessly hops through, her wavy hair bouncing like a Tresseme commercial. I chortle, "Yeah, right," and slowly step through. But the girls in front of me, next to me, and one of the guys up front jumps right through. I take comfort knowing I could beat the crap out of every one of them. White belt, I think to myself, and continue on.

"Plank position," Lola gently commands. Oh, it's like a push up position. I can do that.

"Into Chaturanga," Lola says as she lowers herself to the ground, but doesn't touch it. Her chin and elbows are near the floor, her back is flat and her toes and triceps are basically holding her up. Having done twenty million pushups and punches over the last few years, I do this with her. She sees how easily I execute, gets up and stands next to me.

"Plank," she says. I effortlessly push back up, pleased that she can see that I don't totally suck.

"Chaturanga," she says, watching. I lower myself back down slowly, almost in defiance. We do this a few times. The last time she says "Plank" I burst up with the loud grunt of a power lifter. Yogi wrong and for that matter, not very feminine. My arms start to shake and I look around to see if other people are planking. Some are in a "child's pose" (resting) and others have their knees to the ground, modifying the movement. I become embarrassed that to them, I am like the skinny bitch showing off by jumping through her yoga arms and slowly go into child's pose.

At the end of class, I am sweating and even though I haven't been pounding on bags, jumping rope or sparring, I feel invigorated. It's a different kind of invigoration. Perhaps because it's selectively strenuous and focuses on your breath with your movement. That, and you aren’t getting punched in the face.

At the end, there is always some sort of silent meditation and when you leave the room, you feel more centered, focused and charitable. After class, Lola tells me I am super strong and asks what kind of athlete I am, which makes me like her even more. I tell her I am a boxer. She hugs me and tells me to come back. Things will get easier. There is tea and water in the waiting area. I help myself to some tea and watch an older dorky guy get shot down by a very pretty 21 year old blonde.

"These chairs are really comfortable right?" he says.

“Your jeans?” She asks.

“No,” he says, “The chairs.”

She nods and goes back to texting.

I realize the older guy is probably my age and sigh. I smile at the other people in the studio as I leave. I peacefully go to the parking garage get in my car, take a breath and turn the key in the ignition. How long can I enjoy this contentment? There is a long line out the garage and I can already feeling my real world New York impatience waking up, cracking her knuckles and asking me what the hell is going on? Why is it taking so long to get out of here? Are these people in the booths mentally challenged? I remind myself, that I am not in a rush and let the traffic take its course. At home, I marvel at what a different culture this yoga thing is.

As strange as it is, I want to do it again.

YOGA CLASS #2

Inspired by the girl from my first class, to avoid unsightly panty lines, I decide to go to the second class commando. Unlike the girl from my first class class, my tights are opaque. I am open to new things and experiences, but this felt a little too "Free Wilma." Very difficult to be “mindful” when your petunia is not cradled by a piece of cloth. Next time, thong. Another bad wandering thought. Yogi wrong. I also decide to wear one of my favorite T-Shirts that says, "I Eat Lightning and Crap Thunder." Not sure if I'm doing it to be contrary or ironic.

The classes are always primarily women, which for some reason, makes me a little uncomfortable. I know at the boxing gym the guys aren’t looking at what label sweats I’m wearing or if my nails are properly manicured, but I know women pay attention to these things and become a little self conscious. Some things that go unnoticed in a boxing gym, might not fly here. For example, I might smell.

“Everyone sit up straight on the edge of your mat,” Lola purrs. “If you can’t sit up straight, put a blanket under your sitz bones. (ie. ass) That’s easy enough. I sit up straight sans blanket and see her staring at me. She starts walking over.

What’s the problem? I think to myself. She comes over and places a blanket under my butt.

“I’m fucking sitting up straight!” I want to yell at her. Perhaps my years of being hunched over a computer and shoulders rolled forward in a fighting stance has forced my body out of whack. I have to be open to that possibility. We sit like that for a while and I notice the girl next to me has on a Stella Artois T-Shirt and also cannot sit up straight without a blanket. I immediately know my people when I see them.

Even though it’s my second class, it’s already easier to go into downward dog. A space in my back has opened. My body needs this. I try to straighten my calves.

“Motherfucker!” escapes my lips in a whisper. The girl in the Stella Artois T-Shirt smiles at me and nods. An alliance has been formed. I am proud to announce that this Turrets like behaviour only happened once this class.

I think I am getting better.

Porn Scars

Why is it that an MMA fighter who did gay porn in college is allowed to be a finalist in the Ultimate Fighter show, but a woman who did softcore porn 10 years ago gets fired from her job as a UFC ring girl? These people were not campaigning to be Mother Theresa or Jesus on a stick. They are not aspiring schoolteachers, politicians or role models. They did something subversive in their past and now they want to leave it behind and move on with their lives. Personally, I think they both should be able to keep their jobs. If Dakota Cochrane has healthy blood tests, he should be able to fight. If Chandella Powell looks great and can bear the weight of a card that says "Round 1," she should be able to be a ring girl. She was hired for her beauty and sex appeal, not for her amazing choice making abilities. What fighter or ring girl hasn't done something shady in their past? Let's face it, most interesting people have had to have done SOMETHING in order to make them who they are today. Why can't we "forgive" the choice and move on? Not to mention, I have gay male friends watch the UFC as if it is softcore porn, so what's the big deal? But, Chandella got fired and Dakota got a pass. It seems that women who have had any involvement in the sex industry are shamed for life; not by compassionate intelligent people mind you, but by the ignorant people with their heads up their asses. Men get a pat on the back and a laugh, but women have to wear the scarlet S for life. Diablo Cody is one of the most maligned Oscar winning screenwriters of our day. She is funny, sexy, smart, snarky and super intelligent. Everyone may not like her style or even her writing, but instead of a take-it-or-leave-it indifference, there is this mean spirit directed at her. So, she used to be a stripper. Why is that so overwhelmingly frighting? Maybe she has too many weapons. She knows too much. Meanwhile, Stephen Soderbergh is making a film around Channing Tatum's past escapades as a male stripper. Will there be any backlash from that? I think not. Channing will most likely continue to charm us, hoofing away in those "Step Up" movies until Tom Cruise ages out and he replaces him in the "Mission Impossible" franchaise. I am not an activist. I am not going to Dana White's office and protest on behalf of Chandella Powell. However, I will sit on my ass with steam coming out of my ears and write this blog.

What happens when you are not fight training.....

After my last fight, a rematch that was on December 11th, I knew I had to take a long break before getting back into the ring. My goal was to change my style to be more aggressive and to throw more punches so I could get the W this time. I knew the fight wasn't going to be pretty and it wasn't, but with the help of my coach and training partners, I was glad I could implement the changes enough to get the win.

Now, my heart isn't into fighting in the ring. It's somewhere else.

For one thing, the film is coming to a close and all my fighting energy has to go towards finishing it. Hiring a composer, sound designer, mixer, music supervisor, getting everyone to do it below their normal rate so I don't go too much into debt is my job now. Also, I have to finalize: lock picture, title, voice-over, be prepared to live the rest of my life with the decisions I make now. No going back and changing. As Michael Jackson once said, "This is it."

After training hard for five solid months, my body is stiff and sore. Not a spring chicken and having other responsibilities in my life, this whole competing as a boxer thing takes a toll on a girl. I was grateful to have the time, the wonderful people encouraging me, coaching, sparring and training hard with with me. But now, I need a break!

1. The first thing I noticed is I immediately dropped some weight. When you don't train twice a day, you aren't as hungry. Even enjoying cocktails and Nutella, I somehow shrank. My back and shoulders got a little smaller simply from atrophy. While I enjoy that lean look, I want to keep my strength and know I can bang if I need to. Much more important.

2. Another thing, I found I had more energy. This can be a good thing or a bad thing. With more energy, I can go out at night, drink, dance, carouse and be social, but sometimes stayed out way beyond my bedtime. This is actually mucho fun after being a house monk for several months.

But, I can totally see how pro fighters who have made fighting their way of life and then retire, can go off the deep end when their training ends. That crazy energy isn't being sated with discipline and physical exertion anymore, so they look for something else.

Luckily, I've already had my dalliances with drugs, hookers, and alcohol, but I still have the urge to wear fishnets. Fortunately, when those fishnet photos show up on Facebook, no one blinks an eye and I don't have to explain anything to my husband.

Finally, being with friends I hadn't spent time with in months was amazing and having the energy to really connect made me feel like a sponge soaking in the people I love.

Working for yourself with more energy is a blessing. I am an emailing, editing, phone calling, going to meetings dynamo when I am not needing a nap in the middle of the day after sparring, jumping rope and hitting bags. Also, I manage an MMA fighter and can set aside more time to get fights for her, negotiate and learn more about the lay of that land.

The lists of things I need to do around the house are getting accomplished at a frightening speed, which gets my husband off my back. Yay.

3. The creativity I put into combinations and movement in training is channeled into my writing, helping to create music for the film, ideas for projects on the back burner, and discussions with other people. I actually have the impetus to want to initiate other projects. Before, I was too tired to even think about it. Just the thought of trying to get another project off the ground made me want to tap out.

4. When I do go to a fight gym to train, I don't feel the need to go all out. I just work my technique so it doesn't go away and enjoy watching the other fighters spar or move around the bag. This is completely different when I am training for a fight and have the blinders on. I also enjoy talking to the other boxers, people training, coaches, etc. I am a part of the world again.

5. I am enjoying swimming, running and even tried, (cough) yoga. Yoga pretty much kicked my ass for a few days. At least in sparring, after the initial impact of punches, the pain usually goes away. If it's a hard body shot, it might stay with you for a bit, but yoga will fuck you up for days, especially if you are ambitious. Maybe Pilates would be a better fit...

I wonder if the desire to train full force will return. In the meantime, I am not going to judge it. I'm just going to enjoy wearing girly clothes, make-up, having more time in my day for other things, work my ass off to finish the film and position it the best that I can. After that, I'm sure another desire will possess me......or, I'll just have to fight again.

Hobby

Disappointment keeps tapping me on the shoulder today.

Lost my fight on Friday night, and it really pisses me off. Still. Not as much as right after. On Saturday, like clockwork, 45 minutes would pass by and in a Turret's like explosion, I'd yell, "Fuck!" Now that only happens every three hours. I guess, I'm taking it better as each day goes by. This is where I wish all the Buddhist rhetoric I listen to and repeat would just sink itself into my bones already.

At the end of the fight, I didn't feel like I lost. I didn't even feel her touch me in the last round and I know I was hitting her hard with my right hand and hook so I'm not sure what happened. It could be that I was getting hit and not noticing it since her punches were so light and you go into a totally other headspace during a fight. I know I didn't dance around the ring like Muhammad Ali and punch like Mike Tyson, but my fists felt more satisfied than usual....meaning, didn't I hit more often? Didn't I hit harder? After watching the tape, I saw that I certainly did not perform as well as I did in my last fight, but that opponent gave me more time to do my thing. Box and move pro style. This girl walked towards me throwing a bunch of soft punches non-stop. She had good form and kudos to her for getting in there with me and doing her thing, but this isn't the kind of boxing I signed up for. Where's the art? The science? I don't mean to show bad sportsmanship because yes, she was good, but I have had my ass kicked in the ring by a Pan Am Games Gold Medalist/National Champion and knew I was way out of my league. This was not that.

Unfortunately, on fight day, my coach called me at 3pm and let me know he had to work that night so I'd need to find someone there to work my corner. My heart fluttered for a second, but that was all right with me. I mean, at the end of the day, you are in there alone anyway. My husband, Gary was able to accompany me and give me good support. On the car ride to Costa Mesa, my hands started getting cold and sweaty. We got there at about 4pm and blood would rush into my head from time to time making me very hot. I tried to enjoy observing what my body was doing - heart palpitations, frequent urination, clamminess, chills and sweatiness were some of the fabulous bodily functions I experienced all up until fight time. What is fun about this again?

When my husband and I were warming up with mitts, we found a licensed coach who agreed to wrap my hands and be in my corner during the fight. One of the things I love about boxing - The people who love doing it, coaching it, being a part of it enough to lend their time and skills to other people they barely know. We are part of the same hardcore secret society.

He gave me some great advice which really seemed to work - reaching over her jab with my right hand and following up with a hook or an uppercut. I was happy to see that all the work I did getting off the ropes with my coach, Marcelo, came out in the ring. I was put on the ropes three times and quickly turned her around and put her on the ropes and started throwing and landing. Other things I worked on didn't come out - I slipped under punches, but didnt' come right back with enough. I didn't push forward and fought much taller than I feel I should have. At the same time, I still felt like I had the edge because I was stronger and hitting her harder and I thought, more often. But, sometimes the reality can be skewed when you are in fight state.

After my last round, the coach had to go take care of his fighter who was up next. My husband was taking off my headgear and I asked him if he thought I got the W. He smiled and shook his head decidedly yes. Then, I went to the center of the ring to hold hands.

The ref raised her hand and said the winner was in the red corner and I remember looking at her corner and seeing it was red and wondering how that could be. I shrugged my shoulders, shook her hand and got out of the ring. Hmmph. Okay. So, this is boxing. You win some, you lose some, you learn all along the way.

I guess it took me by surprise at how disappointed and upset at myself I was. This is a hobby for me, but it encompasses everything I do. The training keeps me level headed, calm; it gives me energy, confidence, focus, a stress outlet and a social outlet. I've become a part of this great community of people who enjoy martial arts, being physical, keeping in shape and fighting to be strong mentally and physically. So, why do I care so much if a decision doesn't go my way? Maybe it's just my nature to beat myself down. Luckily, it's also in my nature to get back up.

The same weekend, a fighter I manage, Kaiyana Rain, had a big MMA fight in Temecula. She had been working very hard, upped her training and is in phenomenal shape. We knew her opponent was tough. She was also undefeated.

Backstage, I ran into the guy that worked my corner for my fight. He took me aside to tell me he was stunned to find out I didn't win! He said he left the corner to go work with his fighter before they announced the decision because he didn't see how they couldn't give it to me. His friends told him on the way home and he couldn't believe it. That was nice to hear.

Then, it was cage time. Ripped and intimidating, Kaiyana danced around the cage when they announced her. Her opponent hopped up and down in her part of the octagon and the audience eagerly awaited the first and only "girl fight" of the night.

When the bell rang, Kai and her opponent sized each other up. Kai landed some great leg kicks, there were some quick exchanges. Throughout the fight, Kaiyana took the girl down three times and controlled her against the cage. More exchanges and Kaiyana closing the gap, smothering her. In the last round, the opponent attempted a lame guillotine choke, but Kai got out of it and started throwing punches at her. The last bell rang.

The audience was informed it was a close split decision....in favor of Kaiyana's opponent. What???? How do these people score these matches? Her coaches and myself were very pleased with the way she worked, the progress she made and the dominance she showed. The ref was calling it the fight of the night....as was her last fight. How could that not be anything but great? Tons of progress and another exciting fight. In a pro MMA fight with her same moves, she would have won.

This weekend was a real exercise of realization for me. Yes, I hate to lose. HATE IT. Am I afraid I might lose again or "get robbed?" I sure as hell won't like it, but if I can get better in the process, I can live with it. I want to figure out the scoring system; where do the judges sit? What constitutes a clean punch? Is it bad that I drop my hands and act like a cocky ass sometimes? Can they take points off for that? How can I be more composed and thoughtful when I have a girl running at me throwing punches? These are all legitimate concerns that I have as I move forward in my fight "career." My "career" is in quotes as it is in reality, a hobby. But in my heart it is real.

Fight Training...again

Training for my fifth fight. I can't believe I'm actually doing a fifth. I guess it's funny that after every fight that I do, I am unsure if I will do another one. Part of that has to do with the fact that I have my own business and am making a feature documentary so the time to train isn't always there. Also, I put myself through so much, even though it's just an amateur Master's Division fight, that I sometimes dread going through it all again. The last part of this equation is that I am 45. I don't feel or act my age, but since I turned that age, I know there is a ticking clock on the times I get to keep going into the ring and fighting in a way that is hopefully fast and strong. Once that goes, I don't really see the point. The fight with myself is bad enough without the kind of frustration that comes from watching my abilities wan and my body dwindle.

So, I know it's a gift to be able to train and fight for my upcoming match on October 21st. I have the time to really train. My trainer, Marcelo, is great and seems to be really into it, and my training partners, Kaiyana and DeMauriea, give me good work in the ring on a regular basis. I also love my treks to Wildcard to spar with Georgia and ogle the pros.

The best part of this fight is I actually know the drill. I know the kind of training and cardio I have to do in order to feel good about stepping into the ring. I trust my coach will be there for me (This is only the second time I will have the coach who trained me in my corner during a fight - Yeah, it makes a difference) and I know that I have to work hard at correcting my weaknesses for these next two weeks. Every day there is progress, like there should be. My favorite thing I learned about training for a fight is not to be so hard on myself if I don't feel like I performed well enough in sparring; or if I gassed out early, or slipped into an old bad habit. That's not to say I don't curse myself out and get upset by accident at times, especially when the training starts. But, I understand that that kind of "beating up" is futile. It's so much more productive to be gentler with myself and to move on to the next moment with the corrections in mind. It's a lesson I seem to need to relearn every time I am training to fight. I have to know that each day my conditioning will improve. If I'm sucking wind after a few rounds today, it will only get better by the end of the week if I put the work in.

I guess those are the things I love about boxing most. The lessons that carry over into my daily life if I practice them every day.

Having just finished a fine cut of my film, "Girl In The Ring," I do feel like a weight has been lifted and I seem to have more energy to do things outside of editing. We still have to do sound design, color correcting, scoring, etc, but the story has been mostly ironed out and we are ready to give birth to our five and a half year old newborn. It's the kind of thing that makes you want to do something celebratory, like train to fight!

Teaching Rose

Okay, so this blog was not meant to honor friends who have passed, but I did just lose another and there is a short story already written from when we met many years ago.

Rose lead a long full eccentric life. I met her because she wanted me to teach her how to strip. She was 71 at the time. I learned so much from her and lost touch with her in recent years, but just got the email. This story is one of my favorite ones and was published in a few different anthologies so I figured I'd post it in honor of the Beautiful Rose.

Teaching Rose by Jill Morley

She met me at the door in a black sequined thong bikini and white feather boa. Not what I expected. Don't get me wrong, I knew she wanted to learn erotic dance, but at seventy-one, you'd think she'd want to take it slow. Not Rose.

She had approached me after one of my theatre performances. Said she liked the way I danced and asked if I taught stripping. She had been fascinated with it after going to a strip club with a male friend a few years before, and had been looking for a teacher ever since. She was just now getting the courage to do it. A little late in life, she admitted, but figured she could still dance for women, since men "probably wouldn't want to see an old bag like me", dance erotically. Even though she was in good shape and looked about forty-five, she knew men liked their beer cold and their women young. But she wanted to make a statement. And she wanted to do it topless.

I never taught stripping before. The concept seemed counter-intuitive. I even told her the moves basically came from a feeling and it was a matter of connecting to that feeling. Not hours of learning endless choreography. In a way, I felt deceitful agreeing to teach her this trade for forty dollars an hour. For me and most strippers it is strictly on-the-job training. Connecting to the female instinct, right there on the playing field. My definition of erotic dancing would be: The ability to generate a magnetic sexual pull with one's hips.

The thought crossed my mind that she could be an old lesbian having her kinky little way with me, but I figured it wouldn't be too bad. Another notch in my G-String. Besides I wanted to ask her what "fascinated" her about it. At twenty-eight, I quit actual go-go dancing two years ago and I'm over it. The novelty played itself out. I do an autobiographical performance piece using this dance, but I always look forward to the end when I can put my jeans and T-shirt back on. How could this woman of seventy-one get all giddy over getting naked in public the way I did at twenty-three?

Rose had watched my show attentively in the front row, hands folded on her lap. Dressed in a black silk button down blouse and slacks, she looked like she could have been one of my Mom's neighbors in suburban New Jersey. She had dark wiry hair and wore big eyeglasses that took up much of her face. Despite her age, she was rapt in a gaze, like a small child studying a bug on a flower.

I was a little nervous riding my bike to her apartment on the day of our first lesson, but also laughed to myself. I had no idea what I would teach her. Just figured I would turn the music on and take it from there. For comfort, I wore sweats, sneakers, and put my hair in a ponytail. Yes, I dress for comfort now. I paused just before knocking on the door.

She opened the door wide exposing much of her body to any neighbor who might have been passing in the hall. Hi Jill, is this okay to work in?" she asked. Her choice of weaponry was a black sequined bikini with fishnets.

"Uh, yeah, sure." I actually got a little self conscious and hoped she didn't expect me to really strip down the way she was. I totally thought she'd be in workout clothes, but God bless her. There she was.

"I got it at Patricia Fields on sale," she said proudly as she flipped her boa over her shoulder. Pat Fields was where all the strippers shopped. We even got discounts just for being strippers. I could tell Rose was working on being an insider.

Her body was surprisingly shapely and strong. She told me she had been doing yoga, weight lifting, and taking a Pilates class to increase her strength and flexibility. Her back and arms were strong, her legs shapely, and her figure hourglass. There was barely any sort of varicose vein action happening, or loose skin. She told me she just had her breasts done six months before so they would look firm again for topless dancing. Her surgeon asked why she was getting them done at her age. When she told him, he thought she was nuts, but wished her luck. One of her young gay male friends, Daryl, nursed her while she was in recovery. The breasts did look firm, but each had a scar going from the nipple to just under the curve of the breast. She planned on getting tattoos to cover up the scars. Maybe roses.

Already, she was experimenting with stick-on tattoos. Today, she had a dragon on her thigh and black nail polish on her toenails. No piercings, but the lady was hardcore. Beat up combat boots stood in a corner of her living room. Most of her boyfriends, she said, were a lot younger than her, sometimes half her age. The men her age usually sat on park benches outside her building feeding pigeons. She couldn't exactly relate to that. The blacksheep of her family, she was always known for doing her own thing. Her family accepted her, but thought Rose eccentric.

All her life, she said, she had a good body and would get catcalls when she walked down the street. She loved that. "Lived off" that. A natural exhibitionist, she likened herself to a peacock. Rose wanted to prove that it was never too late to learn something new, even if it was a senior citizen taking up erotic dancing.

A real estate broker, Rose also ran a bed and breakfast out of her apartment. She charged seventy-five dollars a night.

"I thought we could work in the guest room because one of the walls is mirrored," she said, as her high heels plunged into the carpet with each step.

"Are these heels high enough?" Rose asked.

"They'll do," I said encouragingly, "Besides we'll worry about costuming you later. Let's just get to the dancing."

Rose beamed as she pressed play on the box, giving us some Toni Braxton tunes. She told me how sexy Daryl was when he danced to this CD. He had made her a tape of it. We had to play it loudly because the battery on her hearing aid was getting weak. Standing on the sparse, blue-carpeted room facing the mirror, I started the gyrations first. Shifting my weight from side to side in faded grey sweats, I showed her how to move her hips in figure eights, a staple move. She was a little off at first, but eventually picked up the rythym, arms dangling at her sides. I told her we'd get to arms later and not to feel odd about touching her body. Watching me in the mirror, she copied my every move. Once in a while, her heels would get stuck in the carpet.

Then we did another one she calls "the wave" where you isolate your body much like a cobra. We did both of those moves in repertory for about an hour. She started to get the hang of it before I left and she thanked me for my time. She said she was glad she could learn it that way instead of embarrassing herself somewhere. Then she showed me her breasts up close, and told me of her tattoo endeavors.

As our once-a-week lessons continued, Rose got a lot better, started using her arms more, and yes, we even got into floorwork. At one point, both of us were lying on our backs facing the mirror, legs spread eagle, my feet clad in sneakers, hers in heels. She was loving it. She told me she was really into raunch. That this other woman had taught her burlesque moves but it didn't satisfy her. Spreading her legs in a thong bikini in front of her guest room mirror seemed to do the trick. She started experimenting with costumes- red evening gowns, pink spandex, and feather boas. She became expertly skilled at taking off her top and tossing it effortlessly into the air revealing her newly firm breasts. She'd smirk and a little spark in her eyes would go off whenever she did this maneuver, making it even more of an event.

After four months, the time had come. I told Rose I was throwing a party and would like her to dance there. Other people were go-going and she was definitely ready. I knew my friends would love her. Flattered that I would ask, she asked all kinds of questions, like what should she wear? Should she show up in costume or change when she got there? How many sets should she do? Was she to strip completely naked? Would people be tipping? All sensible stripper questions.

The affair was a glamorous one at a small club in Soho. A designer friend made metallic dresses for some of my girlfriends to wear. Some of the boys were wearing vinyl pants or suits. Many ladies arrived wearing boas, including Rose. She came with Daryl, who was there to cheer her on. Girls were already on the platforms dancing when she arrived. She picked a seat on a red velvet couch right next to the bikini clad dancing girls and deliberately studied their moves.

"You can get changed in the back when you're ready," I said. An hour later after careful observation, she changed into this black lace catsuit with a black bra and thong underneath it. She looked hot. When she came out, a lot of men were staring at her. Not in a who-does-that-old-broad-think-she-is? way, but in a who-is-she? way.

I guided Rose to the platform and helped her up. Once she was there, she squinted at the colored lights for a millisecond before her exhibitionism kicked in, and then gyrated like nobody's business. Blue and red lights showered her body as she danced. Running her hands over her black lace catsuit, she did the wave. Then, slithering sensuously, she held the wall and stuck her ass out, a move I never taught her, but was a classic. Several people gathered around to watch. She definitely looked like an older woman, but she was so sexy that it made me wish I had an army of older strippers dancing on platforms around the room surround sounding us in experience and sensuality. A few men and women went up to tip her.

"She is hot!" my friend Paul said.

"There is no way she is seventy-one," my friend Val said.

"You go girl!" her friend Daryl said.

She slid the catsuit down over her shoulders to her waist. Then she pulled her bra straps over her shoulders, holding the boa over her breasts. She popped the bra and threw it into the cheering crowd, eyes glinting mischief. With much finesse, she lifted the boa up in the air revealing her toplessness and rose tattoos. More cheers, applause, and dollars thrown her way. Rose was a hit.

After her dance, she covered her deflowered breasts and thanked me profusely for the opportunity. I could tell from the sweat on her brow and the glow in her face that she was buzzed from all the excitement. Several people asked her questions and complimented her bravery. When she got dressed, she thanked me again.

She later told me that before she got up on the platform, she was in a state of terror. But made herself do it anyway. A total stripper trait. Only, she did it without drugs or alcohol, unlike my old dancing days. The reaction from the crowd, she said, was unexpected, but inspiring. She went home very satisfied and eager to do it again. She also told me that she had made twelve dollars that night. Unfolded them on her living room couch and stared at them for hours. Rose said she didn't think she could ever spend them. Not in a million years.

Remembering Susan...

Holy Crap. Summer is two thirds passed.

No time to blog what with all the corporate video work, family stuff, little trips here and there and finally.....

I am so close to finishing the film, I can taste it. While it is tasting good, it is a bit daunting to finally put it out there.

It has been five years since I started it and have been blessed with getting extremely talented, dynamic people to be in it as well as to work on it.

I can't wait to showcase the stories of these inspirational women who I have had the honor of training with and getting to know as friends. I know they will be in my life forever and for that, I am grateful.

On the other hand, I am nervous about revealing my own personal story since I "went there" and am being completely honest about some events that happened in my life that most people don't know about. Also, about certain feelings that I have that I am not proud of.

Yes, almost all of my work contains autobiographical elements, but it's still difficult to separate myself from the story enough to put it out there...if that makes any sense. I suppose the amount of time that has passed while putting together the film is helpful in this regard.

My last film, "Stripped," took seven years to make so I suppose I am getting faster as a filmmaker.

I was forced to revisit that film and that time in my life last week. One of the girls in "Stripped" went missing the day after I interviewed her. That was 15 years ago. Her name was Susan Walsh and all of the cop shows, Unsolved Mystery shows and even talk shows did stories on her disappearance.

Susan was a writer who was stripping to pay the bills, support herself and her son who was twelve at the time. She had just lost twelve years of sobriety because she found it too painful to "dance" without the alcohol. She was also bipolar, off her meds and flirting with extremely unsavory characters - drug dealers and people who claimed to be in "the mob." Basically, she was on a downward spiral that ended the way most downward spirals do. The fact that they never found her body has always bothered me.

There is a new show on the Discovery Channel called "Disappeared" and they wanted to do a story on this 15 year old cold case so they called me in for an interview. I have not had to talk about this in a very long time. In one way, it was great to remember my experiences with Susan, how smart she was, what a talented writer she was, and how funny she was. On the other hand, I could feel her pain of having to work as a stripper when she was completely over it. My theory is that you can have your journey with that kind of work. You use it until it uses you. When it starts to use you, you need to get the hell out. Otherwise, bad things happen. In this case, it was a really bad thing.

During the two hour interview, I realized that while time has passed and the pain of losing her has subsided over the years, I could still feel her spirit and remember the way she draped her body over a chair when she sat, how she gingerly lit her cigarettes or laughed shaking her hair out of her eyes. In a strange way, it was kind of like a visit with her.

Documentary films are time capsules filled with people and events. While they suck as a business, real stories keep drawing me in. I don't know what I'll be interested in next. Right now, I still love boxing, female fighters, teaching little girls how to box and getting to know all the personal stories of those involved in the fight biz.

Being attracted to the extreme has its setbacks, but the rewards of getting to know the people in these subversive worlds is priceless.