As my fair wife has enjoyed Zumba classes, I’ve been actively following the Kennebunk, Maine, sex scandal where comely instructor Alexis Wright is accused of doubling as a prostitute.
Me, I’m more offended by litterbugs than prostitutes or the men who employ them, but I’m naturally interested.
Wright, it seems, was a talented multi-tasker. She ran Zumba classes, kept the books on the business, had sex with dozens of her panting students, filmed and documented many of the encounters which police say earned her $150,000 over 18 months.
Man, where does she get the energy?
Her crime is a great advertisement for the wonders of Zumba and, I guess, sex with strangers.
I’m not sure I have the pep to tackle either activity. I get fatigued and my dominant daily activities are restricted to watching TV, bar time, and trying to keep this deadbeat blog fresh.
Maybe I need to take Wright’s class.
But that could lead to complications, it seems.
Kennebunk is in an uproar over the release of the names. Some say lives will be ruined. None of the stories say how much she charged and that’s disappointing.
How much it costs to have sex with your Zumba instructor is one of those things I for some reason think I’d like to know.
Valerie’s always been active in the local gym scene. She really enjoys it for things she can’t get from me at home which, I hope, means nothing more than exuberant dance music and cushioned floor space.
It’s kind of too bad I don’t go because it sounds like what happens at the gym is more interesting than what happens at my bar.
The gyms are full of attractive people who tend to be egotistical about their health and appearance.
At the bar, nobody gives a crap how they look and many of the most dedicated inebriates don’t care if they kick before halftime. They’re a very fatalistic bunch.
It’s not like that at the gym. Not only do they celebrate life, they often create it.
I’ve lost count of the times Val’s told me some married instructor ditched her husband for a shapelier model who -- whoopsie daisy! -- got her pregnant.
There was a time she thought aerobic exercise would be a fun couple thing to do. Once she even dragged me along.
And I’m being literal. We were handcuffed together.
It was about 1996. I was in the midst of a 1,000-story, decade-long run with National Enquirer. Editors there liked my momentary genius for lively first person story ideas. Check out my greatest hits here at www.chrisrodell.com.
It was 1996 when I was inspired by the story of a Georgia girl who was such a recalcitrant truant a judge ordered her handcuffed to her mother. Of course, within 48 hours the woman was back in court saying if she wasn’t liberated she’d either kill her daughter or herself.
The story made national headlines.
I at the time was engaged to Val, a situation the romantics believe is the very height of dewey-eyed affection. How would we react to being handcuffed for 72 hours?
That’s how I ended up in gym class with her.
It was a great story. Being handcuffed to your financee had many elements of old escaped convict shows. With the exception of bathroom breaks we were together every single minute of the day.
I remember sitting there by the old phone station listening her yap for what seemed like hours with her mother, and how I got creamed at dart night down at the bar as we were unable to coordinate my throwing hand chained to her left wrist.
Eating was tough, too. At one dinner I nearly lost an eye when she jerked to stifle a sneeze.
But what I’ll remember most is our time at the gym. She looked as sexy as the babe from “Flashdance.”
I looked like I was dressed to gut a deer.
She was a tornado of motion while I mostly just stood there with my right arm flapping around like a one-winged duck.
We survived the story with our love intact and have never once since considered our marriage a ball ‘n’ chain relationship.
And that was the last time I went to a gym for an aerobic experience. I remember later that night having the first and last bona fide bondage sex I’ve ever had in my life.
The kinky recollection has me thinking it’s time for me to head back to the gym.
There are times when even us good boys could use someone who’ll whip us into shape.
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