Try Guy gets sexy at pole dancing workshop

This is not your average Firehouse. (Flirty Girl Fitness)

This is not your average Firehouse. (Flirty Girl Fitness)

Jordan Whelan, QMI AGENCY

, Last Updated: 12:19 PM ET

With the risk of self-deprecation, I must admit that when I first heard about the phenomenon “Fifty Shades of Grey,” I thought it was tales from Joan Rivers’ gynecologist. Author E.L James successfully galvanized yummy mummy’s everywhere who were apparently sexually deprived enough to turn to their local Chapters Indigo for what is essentially a user manual for men. So to experience the inner sanctum of Fifty Shades I head to a workshop at Flirty Girl Fitness, a woman’s only lifestyle studio in downtown Toronto.

The pain of reading a chapter of that subgrade drivel will pale in comparison to the inevitable ripping of my gonads as I slide down a pole doing my best “pouty princess.” Anna Stonestreet Smith, a former NFL cheerleader and complete knockout, greets me at the entrance as I’m brainstorming what I assume will be the requisite “safe phrase.” I picked “ouch.”

With two last names I assume Stonestreet inherited her husbands, which judging by the way she pops, locks and gyrate, I would have assumed was “the happiest man on the continent." We warm up to Cabaret while “feeling it,” which is essentially kicking legs, smacking out butts, and doing the splits. It is painfully obvious I am the only man who has tried this class as none of the moves are tailored towards external genitalia.

“How can strippers do this,” I ponder. “I can barely do them and I’m not under the influence of any pharmaceuticals.”

In our regular routine we shimmy to Christina Aguilera’s latest single “Your Body” while incorporating BDSM - think kinky - style moves. We are encouraged to spank ourselves but not to leave a mark in the process. I’m so far gone in my delusion at this point I’ve had several “moments” with myself and am willing to incorporate a wooden spoon to commit.

Discarding our dress shirts, we use chairs to mount invisible partners, hopping in, hopping back and mimicking slaps to increase their arousal. “He’s definitely not feeling it,” I explain. “I really thought I was a total love machine.”

While the moves aren’t too taxing I find it hard to keep up with the fast pace. I would fair much better in an extreme beginner class with our teacher being Sesame Street’s “The Count.”

Needless to say I’m no natural with the maneuvering.

My “angel” is not touched by anyone. My “butterfly” never left the cocoon. My spread eagle “peak a boo” does however live up to its name sneaking up and terrifying everyone. However unintentional, the BDSM inspired class did manage to successfully teach me both degrees of humiliation and pain.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to slip into something a little more comfortable, like an ice bath.


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