By Laura Finaldi, News Staff

Pole dancing: A practice commonly associated with strippers and drunk 20-somethings at bachelorette parties. But now, apparently, also with uncoordinated, size six Italian-American girls such as myself.

At the risk of sounding exceedingly sleazy, I really don’t have a problem with people knowing I took this class. It’s not that I’m going to drop out of college and pursue pole dancing or any of the practices associated with it as a career anytime soon – but there’s definitely something that can be said for a girl who can work a pole like it ain’t no thang.

That’s all I was really going for when I signed up for my first-ever pole dancing class at Gypsy Rose Exotic and Pole Dancing Studio at 364 Boylston St., near the Arlington stop on the Green Line. My editor and I had decided to do a story about pole dancing for the section, and I thought, rather than just write up a report on the health benefits of this scandalous activity, I should instead take a more proactive approach and try it myself.

When I stepped onto the T on my way to class, there were no seats, leaving me with no choice but to grab onto a pole for support. It was almost as if the pole knew where I was going, thinking, “You and I are about to take our relationship to a whole new level, little lady.”

I was greeted at the door to Gypsy Rose by the biggest pair of testicles I have ever seen – in door knocker form, of course. The door was locked and the lights were off, so I hung out in the hallway with the balls for a minute or so until the elevator clicked and a tiny woman stepped out of it.

This was Wendy Reardon, the owner and “CEHo” (as a plaque on her desk so eloquently puts it) of Gypsy Rose. She greeted me with a kiss on each cheek and invited me into her small, dimly lit but very pink studio, which consisted of a waiting room area, a dressing room full of costumes for clients to use, a storage room for Reardon herself and, of course, the studio with all the poles in it.

We chatted for a couple of minutes. Reardon has not only glided her way from pole to pole across Los Angeles and London and written “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Exotic and Pole Dancing,” but she also has a Master’s degree in Medieval History from the University of Reading in England and, according to her website, occasionally gives tours of papal Rome.

She is small but fierce, and makes it clear early on that cooperation and willingness to take risks are a must in pole dancing. But first, let’s start with the wardrobe.

“Let me see your shoes,” she said.

Ah, yes. My shoes. My new-ish black pumps that I bought specifically for co-op interviews. They were at least two inches high (so edgy, I know). I brought them intentionally, as the website says to bring heels to class. Reardon, however, took one look at them and laughed.

“That’s cute,” she said, and promptly plopped a pair of white knee-high platforms into my lap. “Wear these instead.”

She directed me into the costume room, where she had everything, from platform boots to tiny shirts to bras and panties, with a guarantee that every item is washed after each use. After much careful consideration, I ditched my blue flowery tank for a zebra-striped half-shirt over my leggings. After zipping the white platforms up my legs, I stood up and examined myself in the mirror.

One thing was clear – my black shatter nail polish was no longer the edgiest aspect of my outfit. I felt like I should maybe apologize to my mother for looking the way I did. But I liked it, and felt empowered and ready to work the pole like I’d never worked it before (which I hadn’t).

Reardon got herself dolled-up, complete with hair extensions and a little military jacket to go along with the theme of the dance she was going to demonstrate for me to the song “War” by Edwin Starr. She led me into the shadowy dance studio, which looked like any other dance studio in the world, except with eight or nine poles stuck into the floor. Reardon had me sit cross-legged against the wall in the studio to watch her demonstration. I felt like I was in a movie about a young stripper, learning from the master.

“Now be warned,” she said as she leaned against a pole directly in front of me. “I’m going to look at you in a way that girls don’t normally look at you. Don’t worry – I like boys.”

She wasn’t lying. In short, her dance blew my mind. I was more than anxious to try it on my own, so we wasted little time getting started.

In my one-on-one, hourlong “Pole-on-the-go” class, I learned four different airborne pole swings. For the first one, I learned how to swiftly leap onto the pole and swirl down to the ground with both of my legs wrapped around it.

Wendy was a perfectionist. She stopped me every single time I leaned the wrong way, didn’t kick my leg back far enough, even if my toes weren’t pointed.

Once I had that one down, Wendy introduced a different move where I ended up swinging around the pole with my left ankle hooked around it and my right leg flat off to the side.

Then she had me try free-flowing, which is exactly what it sounds like. I leaned into the pole and just kind of hung there and swung in circles. By some act of God, I was good at that one right from the start, even though I felt like I was just dangling there.

For the last move, she made me hook the space between my left ankle and calf around the pole. Then, I had to swing around and step back, complete a full spin and whip my hair back in one fluid motion. I felt like such a boss once I finally got it down in one motion.

There was a lot of sweating and panting involved, but it felt phenomenal. My legs were burning from being kicked back and forth and repeatedly wrapped around the pole. I knew my arms would be sore, as they were what had been keeping me on the pole and not flat on my face on the floor during class. I felt like Jennifer Grey during the big dance scene in “Dirty Dancing,” except instead of Patrick Swayze holding me up, I had a pole.

One day later, my hands are still red. My shoulders are beyond sore and I have a welt on my wrist that will probably turn into a bruise by tomorrow. Was it worth it? Absolutely.

I always thought I would be too clumsy to dance on a pole and do it in a way that I could feel good about. But I can, and I did, and I would definitely do it again. I apologize in advance to my parents, who have no idea that any birthday money they send my way will probably be spent on pole dancing classes.

Anyone interested in taking one of Wendy’s classes can view the complete schedule and description of classes at Gypsyrosedancing.com. An introductory “Pole on the go” class is $30. Another studio, Boston Pole Fitness, which is located inside Gold’s Gym at 71 Landsdowne St., also offers pole dancing classes to anyone interested, with a single introductory class for $25.