“It was just a Zumba class, Honey”
Add this, if you will, to the pantheon of history’s filthiest matrimonial lies, right alongside “I was just standing next to my secretary/Mrs. Hot Shorts from next door/the arresting officer when she sprayed herself with perfume,” or, “I have absolutely no idea how lipstick got on my jockey shorts,” or my personal favorite, “Don’t worry, I’ll pull out BEFORE, I promise.” Not that I have any first hand knowledge of these, as Mr. Slattern is a model of propriety and rectitude. But one hears things.
Now, unless you live in the great state of Maine or its environs, the story of the prostitution ring operating out of a Kennebunk Zumba studio may have escaped your notice. I happened upon it only because I was “up home” last week closing up shop at our little hideaway, the chateau debris by the sea, or as we like to call the process, opening up the rodent hostel for yet another festive winter season. So amidst the washing, stowing and folding, imagine my delight at stumbling upon the coverage of this local cause célèbre in the daily local newspaper. Apparently the instructor, one Alexis Wright (which I strongly suspect to be an assumed name) had been trading sexual favors for cash, which is bad enough, but to make matters worse, she had not been declaring the income, and so like Al Capone, was busted for tax evasion, in addition to over a hundred charges of prostitution.
All of this is sad and tawdry, but here’s what has me flummoxed. What woman in her right mind believes her husband when he announces he has lately got a yen for more exercise and has decided to join a Zumba class? For those of you who are not familiar with Zumba, here’s my favorite description:
…a dance class spirited with Latin and international beats, a mix of rhythms, resistance training and hot and spicy aerobic conditioning. Zumba’s combination of interval training and body sculpting in an easy-to-follow dance format will have you shredding calories and grooving your body into super shape.
Let us, for the nonce, skip over the obvious question of how, exactly, one goes about “shredding” calories and focus instead on the hot and spicy grooving. Look:
Now, can you possibly imagine a group of middle-aged, heterosexual Maine men – even in as cosmopolitan an area as Kennebunk – gathering in a group to do this? Neither can I, though it certainly is entertaining to try. For some reason I get an image of Fred Flintstone trying to rhumba with Charro, and once that picture comes to mind it’s mighty tough to shake it.
This brings me to my second question. What could conceivably be running through the mind of a man who is paying a woman for sex? Now whether it’s a lap dance or the full Lovelace, it is well beyond the realm of possibility that the woman is having any fun. If she were, there’d be no need to tip. And yet, somehow certain male brains seem capable of processing this experience as “I think this young, gum-snapping, surgically enhanced gal likes me,” or at the very least, “I’m prepared to believe she doesn’t despise me or find me pathetic.” Wrong on both counts, buddy. Unless you’re a Brad Pitt lookalike with stack of C-notes the size of a Winnebago and a Lear jet parked outside, there is no way a sex worker of any stripe is going to find you hot, or even lukewarm. Not possible.
So why do it? I guess you’d have to ask someone from the published list of johns (who range in age from 34 to 65, every single one of whom should have known better). Maybe they’d say it was the spicy aerobics that got them all overheated. Or perhaps it was the prospect of illicit relations with a winsome, sweaty fitness buff. Who can say? In the end, who really cares?
In any case, ladies, if your better half ever evinces an interest Zumba, I’d suggest consulting an attorney. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Posted on October 19, 2012, in Friendly Advice, The Slattern Speaks and tagged Alexis Wright, Brad Pitt, Fred Flintstone, Humor, Kennebunk, Maine, Zumba, Zumba prostitution ring. Bookmark the permalink. 36 Comments.
Now I’m stuck with the image of Fred Flintstone getting a therapeutic genital massage and it’s traumatizing. I’m going to have to throw down some of your family cough medicine to rid myself of it.
Just try and imagine Wilma instead of the Zumba girl. Oh no, wait, that’s worse. Now I need a hot whiskey.
Maybe it was “word of mouth” that lead many in the community to believe this young lady was able to convert men into being die hard Zumba people. 😉
How could I possibly have missed that joke? Asleep at the switch again.
I got your back. 😉
What could conceivably be running through the mind of a man who is paying a woman for sex?
The Answer is…….. they are seeking the fullfilment LUST and the ILLUSION OF CONTROL that man have over their junk ( we are very concious over our “property” ) ,sexual partner ( emotional blah blah she loved me ) and TIME ( we also fear getting old and ugly ).
Yes, I know its pethatic but you can tell that to the the world’s oldest profession–Prostitution.
As long as there are demands there will be always supplies.
Yes, I’m a man,so I know what I’m talking about.
And No,I’m not that desperate.
Very enlightening. Thanks for stopping by!
A post that weaves rodents, prostitution, and the Flinstones takes skill. *bows to you*
Right back at you!
I gotta say, Wendie, when I read about that story I thought of YOU. And I wondered what you thought with the Maine connection and all.
No kidding? You heard about this in China? I guess it’s the magic of the interwebs. Huh.
I subscribe to CNN, NYT, WA Post & WSJ and can get past the censors with VPN. Would watch the debate tonight, but supposed to be “working”.
Colorado is a no fault state. 50/50 to the penny so that hooker had better be hot.
You may only get half of the assets, but you’d have 100% of the dignity.
You had me at “rodent hostel!” Too funny. I suppose sweaty zumba sex is somewhat “classier” than storage locker booty calls. Somewhat. But I’m with you…anyone who actually pays for sex must realize that these are the actions of a pathetic loser. Really? You can’t get anyone to do you for free?
OK, I’ll bite. What in the name of God Almighty is a storage locker booty call?
Haha. You obviously don’t watch Storage Wars. Every now and then they refer to a locker that had a prostitute operating out of it. Obviously, her clientele were not in to “ambiance.”
Holy good God, what next?
I can think of lots of better ways to get your name in the paper. Wow. Lives wrecked. Was it really worth it, dudes? I wonder if any of the members of the classes knew what was going on and if they did, did they not care?
One hundred counts of prostitution! Hard to imagine there was much else going on in that class, unless of course the “instructor” had a time machine.
How did she proposition them? “I don’t think your penis got enough of an aerobic workout today, Mr. Jones. Can I help you pump it up?” (Yes, that was Alexis inviting the 65 year old to shake his old thang in her groove thang.)
I think it was more of a come hither look than an actual proposition. Probably VERY subtle. 😉
Or as subtle as you can be while gyrating with your legs spread.
I Zumba with my wife. Admittedly very poorly(The dancing gods did not grace me with rhythm). It is a good way to get up and get moving, and if it makes the wife happy, then I win! 🙂 We never have any good prostitution scandals in Wisconsin, I feel cheated somehow.
Any man who can say he Zumbas with his wife is aces in my book.
Remember when massage parlors cropped up all over Maine, in the late 80’s or early 90’s? They advertised “genital massage therapy”, so the state had to pass a law banning hand-to-genital contact (in exchange for money, I assume, although the Bangor Daily News didn’t mention the fine print) in order to close them down. Zumba classes, genital massage therapy, hey, that’s good old fashioned Yankee ingenuity!
Ayuh, ’tis. ;-/
Yup, I asked her to be a bit kinky, She left her leg warmers on. We heard about it up here in CT. This blows the image of the straightlaced Mainer right to Hell.
Maine takes straight laced well past the usual limits and careens right into straightjacket. Every. Single, Time.
this has been plastered in our newspapers as well. funny shit. Stupid stupid and again, stupid. And very sad.
At some point you have to choose between laughing and crying, and I think we know which way it goes around here.
OMG, Charro! I love you.
I’m so glad someone does.
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