Undressing in the Raw: My Pole Dancing Ritual Through Clothing

By Chloe Catarina

In the quiet stillness of a Sunday morning, while the world is sleeping and dew traces down blades of grass, I begin my ritual of fabric layering. This act of getting dressed stirs up a complex awareness, one that goes far beyond the fabric against my skin. Each piece of clothing I choose is purposeful and deliberate, yet heavy with meaning. I must find the perfect balance of exposed skin, yet tell a whole story with the threads that trace my body. Finding this balance is as much a calculated dance as the dancing itself. I must find this balance because my life depends on it.

Pole dancing is a contact sport, though one that requires skin to come into contact with a cold and unforgiving pole. If I wear too much fabric or the wrong type of fabric, I risk losing my grip and causing severe injury. The right balance of clothing must feel like an extension of myself and leave just the right amount of body exposed. This allows me to perform the moves without slipping or falling. The process of choosing my outfit is a crucial element of my dressing ritual. It's a reminder that what I wear isn't just about style, but about enabling my body to move and perform at its best.

As with most pole dancers, the more my confidence and skills have grown, the more the layers of clothing come off naturally. I trust my body and have learned that exposing more skin gives me better control, proving that there is security in rawness. Confidence in my abilities and my body translates into a deeper understanding of how to protect myself, physically and mentally, through the clothing I choose.

There was a time, not long ago, when I found myself grappling with the weight of an ending, an ending that left me questioning who I was beyond a nearly decade-long relationship. I turned to pole dancing in search of finding myself in this new chapter. The art form quickly became my refuge, a place where I could reclaim my power and learn how to stand on my own two feet again. I found that the uncertainty and struggle of learning pole dancing paralleled what I was going through in my personal life, but with every challenge I overcame, I uncovered a new, stronger version of myself.

Now, in the tangerine haze, I stand before a mirror that reflects years of hard work. I trace my fingers along the fabric of the clothes I have chosen for today: a red, tight-fitting bra with straps crisscrossing against my chest, matching bottoms that hug my hips and expose my legs as much as they can, and the most important piece, my cherry red 8-inch stilettos. I run my hands over the material, feeling the cold plastic texture of my shoes, the stretch of my bra, and the way my clothes hug my form like a second skin. Each piece of clothing feels like a declaration, an armor for a class that calls me to perform, yet one that is intensely personal, sculpting my own narrative with every inch of skin it leaves exposed or covered.

Pole dancing has taught me to see my body in a new light, to embrace its strength and imperfections alike, and to shed my chronic need for perfection. Before I started, I was unsure of my body’s capabilities, but now, these clothes remind me of how far I've come and of the power I’ve unlocked within myself. This practice has reshaped my view of self-worth and taught me that my body is not just a vessel, but a force of resilience.

The act of dressing for pole dancing is more than preparation; it is my battle cry to the world. My eyes follow the sparkle of my red stilettos up to the curves of my bare calves, up to my lean thighs, emphasizing their new extended length. I chose these clothes to expose a sense of myself and pull forth the power that I let rest within me. This is a place where power is forged, after all, through grace, strength, and control. However, there is an unspoken tension between pole dancing and the world. This art form, once buried in the underground clubs and stigmatized by its erotic connotations, has been fighting to transcend that history, to become something so much more. But the shadows of its origin still linger. Dressing for this class is, in a sense, a subtle rebellion, a refusal to allow judgment to define me.

In the studio, the sweet scent of vanilla candles mixes with the musk of sweat, pain, and determination from the woman before me, signaling that it’s time. I adjust the straps on my top, finger the lining of my bottoms, and wobble to a strong stance. I listen to my body and steady the rhythm of my breathing to settle my nerves. This tactile sensation makes me aware of the changes my body has endured through this art form. I am less soft in my calloused hands, I am stronger than I was the month before, my core is firmer, and my arms more powerful than they’ve ever been. The physical transformation may be subtle, but it is undeniable, like the phototropism of a young sapling bending to grow in the sun’s light. As I grip the cold pole, its metallic tang ignites the flesh memory of pain to grace, igniting the motivation within me to continue on until mastery.

In the sensual red glow of the room, subtle murmurs can be heard among my fellow dancers, my pole sisters, with the shuffling of their heels against the hardwood floors, now beaten and battered from years of battle scars. The cacophony of whispers, self-conscious laughs, and a mix of excitement and hesitation fills the air. Each woman who enters the room is dressed for the same paradox as me: to be strong yet look graceful, to perform yet seem natural. We are all bound by this armor, these clothes that mark us as dancers, as learners, as warriors. An ensemble of bodies learning to fight through the mental, emotional, physical, and societal turmoil to find their grace, their state of fluidity, and balance.

I catch the reflection of another dancer in the mirror as she adjusts her ankle straps, a thin line of sweat beading on her forehead even as her smile remains confident. She comes to a stance by her pole, her body patterned with spots in shades of various blues and purples. We smile at each other through the darkness. The interaction is fleeting, but in it, there is a shared understanding of mutual pain to power. The bruises are known as pole kisses. A reminder of the toughening up of our skin as we reach improvement. The act of getting dressed here is about stripping away—expectations, stereotypes, shame, insecurities, trauma, heartbreak, even the clothes themselves at times—but there is also a sense of donning something greater. A communal identity, a reclamation of space and self.

The air grows warmer as we gather near our poles and listen for the music to begin. The friction of my body against the cold metal is a reminder of the difficult intimacy that pole dancing requires. It’s a constant negotiation between vulnerability and control, between performance and expression. There is a faint but palpable energy that builds as we prepare for the class, an electricity that makes the air feel charged. In this room, I am both naked and whole, vulnerable, but not ashamed. This is where my body is allowed to be loud and quiet at once, where my choices in how I dress are part of a larger, more complex dance between self-expression and social expectations, self-doubt and trust, conformity and individuality, and pain and perseverance.

As the music begins, the bass pulses up against me until I can feel the melodies flow through my every move. As I twist and stretch my body into the shape of a move I’m still learning, my clothes—these flashy garments that reflect myself and the story I want to tell—become more than just fabric. They are markers of transformation. And in this moment, the act of getting dressed has little to do with covering my body and everything to do with revealing it. Revealing its strength, its fluidity, its potential.