Lessons from a stripper

One of the most intelligent and insightful human beings I encountered was a former stripper named Shay. I didn't have many friends with ovaries in b-school, and hanging out with the boys all the time is tiring. I was desperate in my search for some real female friends, and there didn't seem to be an app for that that I was aware of.

And so I binge-signed up myself for activities were I believe would give me a good chance in meeting other women: yoga, salsa, and well, pole dancing.

I met Shay in one of my pole dancing classes. We had to share poles, and when it was her turn to spin, she chuckled when she touched the pole and yelled, "Who's the idiot who put friggin' lotion today?" I blushed, oops. I always forgot that rule. Moisturized skin is bad at gripping the pole.

After sharing a pole, she approached me and asked if I'd like to share dinner after class. When we were walking to the pizza place, she asked if I intended to be a professional dancer. I told her no, with the false assumption that "professional dancer" meant one of those backup dancers in Philippine variety shows.

She actually meant something more R-18. Shay shared that she was a former professional dancer who is now a housewife married to a self-made businessman. She met her husband while working in the UAE.

"Speaking of, I need to let the Mr. know I'll be coming home later." At that, she took her phone and talked to her husband in fluent Arabic.

When she put the phone down, I became more fascinated by her. I asked Shay if she knew other languages, and she confirmed that she is also fluent in Spanish, French, and currently working on her Hebrew.

I asked her how she could speak the languages fluently. "What school did you enroll

to for learning languages?" I asked.

"Ha-ha," she said in a you-must-bekidding way. "The only thing you learn in language course is to respond 'un peu' or "un poco.'"

"So how?"

"Dating them," she answered with a wink.

That first meeting got me instantly hooked on her. While this essay certainly isn't going to turn into some mild gay erotica —

I was certainly captivated, trying to figure out how I can bottle up her sex appeal for myself. I made sure I shared poles with her for the rest of my life (or the rest of my stay in Philly).

Shay was fond of how I follow her like a little puppy, like a naive apprentice that she's decided to take under her wing. She pretended like she was my big sister to this little girl, never mind that a Cuban and a Filipino looked nothing alike, her bronze skin and afro hair juxtaposed by my Asian skin and almond eyes.

I learned from her a lot of things I wouldn't have from the more conventional types.

She taught me how to get the signature soft, fragrant stripper skin after incessant prodding: one-part Johnson & Johnson's baby lotion and one-part vanilla perfume. I was a little disappointed, expecting strippers to have a more rigorous regimen, like a 10-step Korean skincare process. But on the one night I recreated her concoction, I received so many compliments that night I thought I had discovered the closest thing to a love potion of sorts.

She taught me the hack to wearing heels all day long: a magical cream called Emla, which is essentially a topical numbing cream. (Apply liberally!)

She taught me to stop relying on face value to determine pedigree or intellect. Instead she taught me to look at the deepness of their gaze and verbal cues. And if I really just wanted to know which guy in the room is most willing to max out his ATM by the first hour, "just check his shoes and his watch."

She taught me the most important thing men (and women) want: your present presence. That when you're sat across a human being, you owe them your full attention. That you should not be lost on your own thoughts, or on your smartphone, or on the next table's conversation, but you are fully hearing and seeing that person across you.

"Most of the time it's not the sex clients are really looking for. It's a human being wanting to feel that they mattered to another human being," she said.

She taught me the most important lesson on our last meeting together: the beauty of vulnerability.

"Let me be honest with you. You're not very likeable," she said. Her statement hurt my feelings, worsened by the suspense as she took a long pause to look at me. "You need to take off this mask, say less of your bull," she said.

She wasn't done in bruising my ego. "To be likeable, see, is not to be perfect. Far from it. People don't like perfect; they mistrust perfect. You need to be vulnerable to be liked, to be trusted."

"And how do you become more 'vulnerable'?"

"Get your heart broken?" Shay shrugged. "Or better yet, start sharing your story to someone. You're too selfish. You never tell anyone anything."

"In fact," Shay said, before taking a long draw on her cigarette. She puffed, and looked at me with a mix of hesitation and pity. "I don't really know you at all."

She taught me to stop relying on face value to determine pedigree or intellect.