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Summer Sex |
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Four in 10 American teens will get pregnant before age 20.
Female dolphins have been known to masturbate by rubbing their genitals against coral. |
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If you want to be a Portland sex symbol, you've got to learn the moves. |
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You are not the kind of person who would be here, at the Rose Garden, at 9 am on a Saturday, doing the splits on the highly buffed basketball court. You are not the kind of person who is awake at 9 am on a Saturday, but here you are, and you're actually nervous, which makes you hyper-aware of the Coolio song blasting from the PA. The lyrics--"One, two, three, four/Get your woman on the floor"--have suddenly taken on a whole new meaning. Yet no one forced you to be here; it was your idea to try out for the Blazer Dancers. When you saw the audition announcement you realized this was an opportunity to delve into the Blazer Dancer mystique. No doubt many Portland men--and some Portland women--go to bed each night with visions of the Rose Garden's vestal virgins prancing in their heads. But how to explain that fantasy? You can see how heterosexual men could get worked up about Catholic schoolgirls (they're so young! so innocent!), female construction workers (they have that tomboyish appeal) and dominatrixes (they come with their own fetish items), but cheerleaders? The only thing they have in common with those other symbols of female sexuality is a uniform. But after days of studying the flyer, you called the Blazer Dancers Hotline and asked for an information packet. Five days later, a large white envelope arrived in your mailbox. Inside were an application form and two release forms. One was a liability waiver, in case you were injured during the audition, and the second allowed the Trail Blazers the right to film the try-outs. Also in the packet were three sheets of Blazer Dance Team Rules, several of which you noted with interest: 1. If you're interested in dating a pro basketball player, you don't want to become a Blazer Dancer: "fraternization between Blazer Dance Team members and the Trail Blazers players, coaches, management or visiting team players, coaches or management may be misunderstood by the public. Consequently, such fraternization...[is] not permitted." 2. Blazer Dancers get paid minimum wage plus one guest ticket and free game parking. Compare this compensation to the average NBA player's salary. 3. The dancers can forget about cashing in on their local-celebrity status: "posing in the nude or in a manner deemed in poor taste and other activities which are detrimental to the Trail Blazers' image...will result in immediate dismissal." The packet also included a description of what the judges would be looking for--"dance ability, enthusiasm and showmanship." After years of dance training and regular gym attendance, you are OK with the first requirement, but the latter two are potential stumbling blocks. What if they ask you to name your favorite Blazer? Or, for that matter, to name any Blazer? You consider what might happen if you actually became a Blazer Dancer. When you told a friend that you were going to an NBA cheerleader audition, she laughed and said, "That's great! It's so '60s--like Gloria Steinem impersonating a Playboy bunny." Well, sort of. For one thing, Gloria was committed to the whole gutsy-girl-reporter schtick. You, on the other hand, are less and less certain with each passing day that you'll go through with it. But at 7:45 on the appointed day, you hit I-5 south. Pulling into the Tualatin High School parking lot at 8:05, you know immediately that you're in the wrong place. There are about five cars in the lot and there are no audition notices anywhere. Perhaps you got the date wrong? Mystified but also relieved, you're about to head home when you notice a long-haired girl wearing Lycra bike shorts pulling into the parking lot. She, too, has come to the wrong place at the right time, she tells you, and she also reveals that she's "been up all night making a movie for a church group...." A call to the Trail Blazers' job hotline informs you that the auditions have been relocated to the Rose Garden. You make it there by 8:40, as newly christened Contestant No. 105, and face about a hundred scantily clad women (and one man) clustered in groups of two and three, talking and stretching. Looking closer, you notice that although lots of them fit the cheerleader stereotype, almost as many look like the women you see daily on the Stairmaster at the gym. At 9 am, Blazer Dancers coach Dee Dee Anderson, who resembles a slim Valerie Bertinelli in jeans, a brown leather vest and cowboy-style boots, calls everyone to attention and introduces a gorgeous, dark-haired former Blazer Dancer (let's call her Monique), who will teach everyone a combination to perform for the judges. At this rate, you think happily, you'll be out of here before noon. Anderson introduces her fellow judges: a couple of Z100 DJs, a Jantzen representative, a woman from a company called Silver Stitches and, finally, a male Blazers official, who gives a pep talk that ends with him exhorting everyone to enjoy themselves: In an unfortunate slip of the tongue, he actually says, "We want you to show us a good time." Monique gives a silent warm-up. Just as your hamstrings reach a taffy-like consistency, she takes the microphone to teach the first combination. "OK everyone, we're going to learn something we call a 'novelty' routine. This is a good one to start out with, because it's got that music Portlanders like"--she rolls her eyes--"and that kind of vibe they just love--y'know, that '70s thing." The music is, in fact, a Sha-Na-Na-ish concoction, and as you practice the faux vampy moves over and over again, the opening words--"Come on, pretty baby"--permanently lodge themselves in your brain. Being almost the last person to arrive, you are also one of the last people to audition. Split into groups of three, the contestants before you take approximately an hour, just enough time for you to work yourself into a mini panic attack. In your trio is the church girl, who's a bit heavy but looks like she's had cheerleading experience, and a stunning blonde woman of supermodel proportions who speaks with an unrecognizable European accent and can't dance for shit. You manage to finish the combination without missing a step. DeeDee returns about 20 minutes later and begins reading off the numbers of those who've made the cut. It's a long list, and you find, to your surprise, that you want your number to be on it, even though it's past noon and you haven't had breakfast. So you're pleased when you're allowed to join the other first-round survivors on the gym floor for more stretching and the audition's "technical" segment, which is full of jumps, turns and high kicks. You feel as though you've been thrust into an episode of Fame guest starring Paula Abdul. But you note with satisfaction that the supermodel has been banished. After lunch, you slip into the ranks for another warm-up, this time led by a current Blazer Dancer, let's call her Vanessa, the first of the day's teachers whose outfit does not expose her midriff. She's also the first teacher to remind everyone to "project:" "Always dance for the guys in the cheap seats--they paid their money, they want to see your smile." When Vanessa says this, it doesn't sound sleazy; it's more an expression of noblesse oblige. Later, she compounds this feeling when she demonstrates a hip roll that ends with an emphatic toss of the head: "This move is like, 'I look good! But you"--here she gestures to an imaginary ogling man--"don't even think about it. Not in a million years.'" The second round takes less time than the first, because about a dozen dancers have gone AWOL--no doubt cowed by the pre-lunch pirouettes. Once again, you're in the final group, and while you're waiting for your turn, you realize that you've been brainwashed: You are thinking of ways to exude cheerfulness, cuteness and peppiness, because you really want to be chosen (you've come this far, dammit!). This audition is like a microcosm of society. Everyone around you wants to be a Blazer Dancer, so you do, too. Your Ivy League degree, the fact that you can mow your own lawn, the time you spent volunteering as a Big Sister: All this means nothing compared to the chance of a minimum-wage job shaking your ass in front of a bunch of sweaty sports fans. Then you remember that if you make this cut, you'll have to come back at 9 am tomorrow and do it all over again, this time competing with current Blazer Dancers who want to return for next year. The idea alone is exhausting. So when your number isn't called the second time, you feel more relieved than anything else. You lean back in your seat and listen to a fellow rejectee with an expensive-looking manicure talking on a cell phone to what sounds like a babysitter. Surveying the second-round draft choices, you can't picture them displaying the regimented polish of the Blazer Dancers you've seen. Though some of them are good dancers, none looks capable of captivating an arena full of fans. It's probably the nerves. And then it dawns on you that this is the key to the cheerleader mystique: the assurance, the slight snottiness. Vanessa's "not in a million years" comment comes back to you and you finally understand these women's sexual appeal. Always just beyond the viewer's reach, the Blazer Dancers resemble no one so much as dominatrixes. Except they've replaced the whips and leather with pom-poms and pleated skirts. You go, girls. |
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