I should have outgrown my need to tease a long time ago.
It started in first grade with my friend, Linda. Standing in line, we’d flirt with the upperclassmen. By upperclassmen I mean fifth-grade boys; by flirting I mean winking and rolling down our knee socks. Later, I turned heads walking through the high school cafeteria letting my hips do the talking. When a cute cafeteria-spectator tried to cop a feel, our date ended with him calling me “frigid,” the high school males’ term for frustrated. I took it in stride. After all, I was no ho.
A tease is the farthest thing from a ho. Hoes do it for money, sluts do it for free, but a tease doesn’t do it, although everyone thinks she will.
After college, I crashed like a shipwreck onto the shores of striptease. YAY tease! But striptease had transmogrified into lap dancing. I hated pounding steak, I just wanted to sell the sizzle — all for the near-spatter. Years later, I thought, “If I don’t get out of this business, I’ll be eighty, and brought out only for bachelor parties. I bet most men find an eighty-year old tease annoying.” So I hung up my G-string. But at thirty-something (that would be thirty-twelve) I’m still so incorrigible that now I tease — oops! — teach a class called TEASE. I guess it’s my way of passing the torch.