I need a life coach

Ah, yes, I need a life coach. Certainly, I do.

So, I'm sure you're wondering what's going on in the life of Simon Winky and Jane. Well, you might know that Jane is now Jane Winky. Yup, we did it; we got married. I'd say that I said, "I do," but I didn't. I said, "I will."

I will. I will. I will.

Right now, I'm traveling for work. The boss has me all over the frigg'n place trying to either drum up business, make sales, create partnerships, whatever. Sometimes, I just want to stay on the plant floor, you know.

A couple of weeks ago, I was back in Miami at the scene of the crime, back where I'd met Alex. Perhaps you remember her, the dancer who danced to Cocker's "You can leave your hat on."

I was sitting in the darkened hall, watching. Like a good voyeur. Janet is the waitress; pretty; personable; the take-home-to-moma type. Not a hot bod, but a young lady who would turn heads on the street, at least at home in Durham.

I asked her about Alex. "Curly hair?" she asked. "I haven't seen her in months. She was talking about moving to New Orleans. I don't know if she did, but I haven't seen her." And then, she gave me a real smile; teeth. I'm hooked, and I wondered if it showed.

The dancer on stage was wearing FM boots. Do you wanna make love... or do you wanna have sex with me? blared from the loudspeakers. She ground away, lit by hot blue lights.

I wasn't surprised Alex wasn't there. I'd told Jane before I went south. I'd told her I was going to look up Alex. I'd also told her that dancers don't last long in places like this. High turnover. A life so good it begs for motion. Sure. I remember she told me she was trying to stay ahead of her parents, trying to hide from them. They'd hired dicks to track her town and she'd have to bug out in order to stay ahead.

I wonder how a child gets that way with parents. A hell of a relationship. And what's of real interest to me is that these folks -- she for sure, and her parents by description -- are bright. Not like it did much good, huh?

I imagine some night a private dick coming into the club, sitting in the shadows, his hat pulled down tight over his eyes leaving his features in the dark. When she comes by for a lap dance, she can tell he's a PI. And then, he calls her by her real name. And she knows her cover's been blown and she has to cut out. She goes backstage under the pretense of dressing for her next dance, but in reality to gather her things and then duck out and get in her late model Volvo and drive off, leaving the PI in the club's darkness.

I'm drawn back to the here-and-now. The dancer onstage is tall and looks like a southern belle; I was a twitter as she moved lusciously on the stage. And then when she took her top off and her huge, massive, doctor-augmented breasts come into view, I lose all interest. "Why?" I ask myself. Why would she do this? Big boobs. Little boobs. As long as they're natural. I've never seen a pair of augmented breasts which compare to those that the Good Lord has provided. Particularly on a young woman.

Well, it takes all kinds, eh? For every body type, there's a guy who wants it.

And what do you want? Me, I want a naked body pressed up to mine.

No more strip clubs, at least for a while. As a newly married man, it's probably not a good idea to spend a whole lott'a time in clubs. Of course, as a married man, that means I'm not getting laid. You know, married people don't screw. Okay, well, we have a couple of times. The most memorable of the first week of marriage was in the kitchen, Jane bent over the counter, me taking her sloppily from behind while the baby napped in the living room.

Ah, this is the life, eh?