Ok, perhaps that’s a bit histrionic. I suppose I’m more accurately called plump, and I’m not exactly an octogenarian. But in our youth and body-obsessed culture, it’s hard not to feel like a whale or an over-the-hill caboose at 30, let alone 40.
And yet, one night several years ago, at a club in Hollywood called Jumbo’s Clown Room where women hang from poles nightly but do not strip, my life was transformed. As far as I was concerned, this was a pantheon of goddesses. These women seemed to defy gravity in a way I’d never seen. They would hold poses that required the strength of a brute, all the while smiling like a siren. It was addiction at first sight – a scratch for an ancient itch – a longing to be what women really are: as powerful as we are beautiful.