"They" will only let me write this if I change the names. And times, dates, and all distinguishing characteristics.  Otherwise, "they" will come around and I'll be wearing a concrete hip scarf.

I am a belly dance teacher in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne.  One night, one of my students brought her son with her.  Not a big deal, because occasionally my ladies can't find a babysitter and will bring a child along.  This son was 25.

I don't often get men in my classes.  An elderly Chinese man once, who said it was for his wife but came to the class himself.  A husband or two who want to see if I am running a white slave trade. At one neighbourhood house, we share the house with a Toy Library.  For the first week of every term, the mothers bring the toys.  They must go home and report: "Hey, did you know there's belly dancing in the crèche room at the neighbourhood house?"  For the next four weeks, the dads bring the toys, and have a good look at us.  After that, when they've discovered we aren't wiggling in the equivalent of our underwear, the mums start bringing the toys again

I insist that all men in my classes work, not just look.  Strangely enough, the husbands worried about wife kidnapping don't come back and, after one class, the Chinese man said he didn't think it was for him.

Chloe's son, Travis, said that he coached a local basketball team, and that he was having trouble.  They were all young men with a bad attitude.  They thought they knew everything, could do anything, and that their girlfriends were there for their gratification.

"Can you show me something I might not be able to do?" Travis asked.  He preened.  "I am pretty fit."

I layered a full body undulation on top of a shimmy.  Travis blinked.

"Can ya do that again?  I missed the fine points."

Shimmy, undulation, followed by a rib cage circle. Travis swallowed.  "When can you come teach my boys?"

We arranged a time, a place, and fees.

Thursday, 6.30pm saw me fronting the basketball stadium in Waverley Valley (names changed to protect the macho).  I had my boom box, my CDs, a bag of veils, and a hip scarf.  I was ready for anything.  So I thought.

I am used to teaching in scout halls and back rooms of neighbourhood houses.  The stadium was huge.  Travis greeted me and introduced me to the boys.  They were all aged between 18 and 23. They were all between 6'3" and 6'10".  I am 5'2".  Helen, welcome to the land of the giants.

I gathered them into a loose circle with me as the apex.  They eyed me in my leotard as they stood around in basketball gear.

"Aren't you kinda short?" asked Billy.

"Aren't you kinda round?"  Neil chimed in.

They all had fists on hips, with a "you can't teach us anything" vibe.  This was going to be a challenge.

Travis took them through the warm up he'd devised for them, and then I took them through mine.  I could see they weren't impressed.  I think I heard "tame" and "poofy".  It was tempting to take them straight into something complicated, but I realised I didn't have to act like a jock.  I started them on shimmies.

They were wearing baggy basketball shorts.  As it turned out, when they confessed later, most weren't wearing underpants.  The satin of the shorts outlines things.  I was much shorter than any of them.  My eyes were level with their waists.  A shimmy involves wobbling the knees back and forth in a small, rapid way that makes the lower body shake.  I got quite an eyeful once they all got going.

"Oh Lord," I thought.  "Only another six weeks of this."

Then we tried hip circles.  A man's pelvis is tilted forward more than a woman's.  Most men exaggerate that tilt.  'Advertising,' a Pilates teacher once suggested.  Picture if you will a group of young men sliding their pelvises around in a circle whilst wearing slidey, silky basketball shorts.  I wondered if I was teaching them belly dance, or readying them for careers as strippers.

They didn't seem to care.  They circled their pelvises at each other.  For the next six weeks, it didn't matter how much I emphasised technique, modesty or subtlety.  Each week, they'd grind their hips around at each other and me.

"Yeah, baby!"

"Check this out."

"Whoo-hoo!"

Travis stood on the sidelines, shaking his head.  This was supposed to be giving his boys a better attitude?  He decided to join in, just to discourage the more raucous guys from trotting out their worst dirty jokes.  Oh, puh-lease!  I've had three years of teaching belly dance to women.  There's not a dirty joke I haven't heard.

The boys applauded Travis as he attempted a figure eight with the rest of them.

"Hey Coach, get into it!"

Followed by barking noises.  My ladies had never done that.  They'd detailed the effects of belly dance on their sex lives, and asked me to help them get pregnant, but not actually barked in class.  Well, I'm always up for new experiences.

At the end of the first class, I thought we'd do some veil work.  All my veils, at 2.5 metres, were too short for their arms.  We made do, but I jokingly suggested they'd have to buy their own veils for next week.

The boys flipped the veils around their heads, whipped each other with them, and trailed the veils over their crotches.  I made a mental note to wash all my veils.

It was the end of the first lesson and I was limp.  I felt like I'd been trapped in a room with 12 jaguars.  We did a cool down stretch and then came the usual request.

"Can we see you dance?"

"Yeah, just to make sure you can do it."

Sigh.  I don't normally dance for an all-male crowd.  But each of my classes wants to see me put it all together.  After all, they were learning piecemeal.  Shimmies, circles, figure eights, hip lifts.  How do you put all that into a dance?

"And we don't want any of that belly dance music crap," said Billy.

I fossicked in my CD folder and gave them a belly dance to Pink's "Get This Party Started".  Sort of a belly dance/bollywood funk fusion.  There's a first time for everything.

They were quiet afterwards, muttering to each other, obviously discussing the merits of seven weeks with me.  It didn't look good.  Travis' eyes were darting between me and his team.

Neil turned and squinted at me.  "Where exactly would we get these veil things?"

My mouth dropped open.  "Oh...er...at Spotlight.  About three metres of chiffon should see you right."

"Chiffon, huh?"

Next week, they all had veils.

"My mum hemmed mine," Billy said, waving a bright red veil.  It matched his basketball shorts.

"Me too."

"Me too."

"I did mine myself."  They all turned to look at Warn.  He shrugged.  "I did Textiles in high school."

These big, strong, tall men were standing around comparing the sewing efforts of their mothers.  I called the class to order and we got to work on some hip drops.

"Just picture yourself squashing a giant tomato into the ground with one side of your bum.  No, Billy, you're not sitting on the tomato with your whole backside..... Neil, stop kicking Billy's backside.....Warn, put down the veil, we'll do that later."

These were grown-ups?

For seven weeks, I taught them belly dance.  They reported going home and demonstrating for their mothers and girlfriends.  They got ticked off when their mothers could do rib cage circles and they couldn't.  They learned to hip lift without looking like sex workers.  They did snake arms that didn't make them look feminine, but didn't make them look like gorillas either.  They even learned a short choreography. 

In the final week, I took my life into my own hands and gave them a lesson with sticks.  Sticks are used in folkloric belly dance.  I handed out pieces of thin dowling to my boys.  Instant sword fighting, hitting, and tripping.  For men who could handle a basketball like it was stuck to their fingers, they all launched their sticks around the stadium with monotonous regularity.  Not one could twirl their stick for more than a few seconds without some mishap.  It was a hard-hat area.  I wanted to go home where it would be safe, and phone in my instructions.

The seventh lesson drew to a close.  They cheered and gave me a present. They'd shopped for it themselves.  All of them trooped into a sexuality boutique and bought me a t-shirt.  It was tight and black and had 'You've Been A Bad Boy.  Go To My Room' printed on it in luminous white.  They were thrilled with their choice.  I couldn't actually think of a place I could wear this, but I thanked them profusely.

Then they crowded around me.  Surely they didn't want another dance.

Neil handed me a basketball.

"Okay, let's see you shoot a basket."

They started chanting.  "Helen, Helen, Helen!  Oi, oi, oi!"

The basketball hoop was a long way up there.  It took me 17 shots before I got the ball through the hoop.  The boys carried me around the stadium, cheering.  They were pleased I'd done it, and pleased they were better than me at something.

I went home with a lot of fun memories of my time with them, and settled back into my normal teaching routine, Term Two coming to a close.

Four weeks later, I got a call from Travis.

"The boys want you back.  And I want you to come back.  Their coordination's improved heaps."

Thus, for the next year, I had a semi-permanent teaching job with my troupe of boys.  They learned veil, sticks, and walking shimmies.  Their girlfriends reported their men had better attitudes. And they won most of their games.

In Fourth Term, I found five of their mothers in my other classes.

"Anyone who can teach my son to undulate must have something going for them."

At the end of the year, Waverley Valley Under 25s hosted a dinner on my behalf.  The boys performed a dance.  They borrowed my coin belts.  It was a proud moment.  And funny.  Warn's mother tried to tuck money into his hip scarf.

The good thing about being a belly dance teacher is that I have as much fun as my students.  You can't ask much more of a job.

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