By Erin Richter
Updated March 30, 2001 at 05:00 AM EST

The Art of Exotic Dancing

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  • Movie
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My future as a stripper looks dim. I’ve just demonstrated some moves I learned from this saucy instructional/exercise tape, The Art of Exotic Dancing (2001, Philadelphia Films, 60 mins., unrated), and a colleague has started humming the theme from Sanford and Son. I’m not sure whether that’s more a comment on my technique or on the kind of junkyard strip joints he frequents. Either way, exotic dancing has turned out to be more difficult than I ever imagined.

My bumpy bump-‘n’-grind start can’t really be blamed on this informative how-to vid, which trumpets itself as being ”for everyday women.” I’m an everyday woman, and as such I’m alone in my living room, awkwardly standing in front of my television and a full-length mirror, as instructed. Contemplating whether I should move the phone closer in case I get stuck with a muscle cramp, I meet my on-screen classmates — women of various ages, shapes, sizes, and motivations — all of us nobly searching to empower our inner sex goddesses with the help and encouragement of 23-year dancing vet Laurie Conrad.

We start off with the basics: seductive walking. Physically the easiest, psychologically the most demanding. Staring at yourself with your best come-hither gaze is challenging work for all but the most dedicated narcissists. And there’s only so much strutting back and forth in front of a mirror I can do before the uncomfortable image of The Silence of the Lambs’ preening psycho-killer Jame Gumb creeps into my mind.

We move on to trickier tasks that demand my full concentration (I even work up a sweat; those ladies sure do earn their stacks of singles). We gyrate through a myriad of hip rolls (”stationary,” ”revolving,” ”squatting,” and ”kneeling”), hit the deck with some slithering floorwork (boy, my carpet needs vacuuming), and then we conclude with a mini G-rated striptease with the aid of a man’s dress shirt (take that, Demi Moore).

But my newfound headiness dissipates the moment I remember I’m alone, and that doing all of this in front of a prospective paramour would take something this well-meaning vid can’t teach in an hour: the right frame of mind. And until this aspiring g-string diva masters that — or tosses back a few drinks — the ”g” will stand for giggling.

Episode Recaps

The Art of Exotic Dancing

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  • Movie
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  • UNRATED
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