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cream all over my face, then gave me their fingers to lick. I knew exactly what Leonard wanted and started sucking him just before he let loose in my mouth. I swallowed, then rose and led my new playmates into the shower, where we got clean, and then dirty, and then clean again.
    Maybe I am lucky after all.

STRIP TO MY LOU
    Allison Wonderland
    I t’s Saturday morning and my stomach feels sticky. On top of that, my legs feel listless, and on top of that is my husband Lou. Not only did he start without me; he finished without me, too. It isn’t like Lou to be so thoughtless.
    â€œThe early bird gets the sperm,” I grumble, rousing from slumber.
    Lou laughs. “Thank you for the lewd awakening, but that sticky stuff isn’t mine.” Lou reaches for the plate beside my hip and punctures a flapjack with his fork. Gently, he glides the griddle cake across my middle, dabbing it in the syrup. It’s a little like the gel I squirt on bumpy bellies when I’m performing an ultrasound, except it’s warmer and…hotter.
    Lou nibbles on the fluffy batter, smacks his lips, licks the maple off my midriff. When Lou makes me breakfast in bed, well, Lou makes me breakfast in bed.
    â€œYou’re quite the dish, Blaire,” he remarks.
    â€œYou’re quite the sap, Lou,” I return.
    He sticks a kiss on my belly button. “Thank you, beautiful.”
    â€œOh, what a beautiful morning,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. My husband calls me beautiful all the time, as if it’s my name. I pout about it, pretend it’s just a pointless, predictable platitude and when is he going to tell me something I don’t know already? But the truth is, when Lou gets mushy, I get gooey, and by this point my insides feel remarkably similar to that syrup he’s slurping. I shake my head, flipping my frown like a pancake.
    â€œThat’s the spirit,” Lou applauds, clapping my thigh. “Grin and Blaire it.”
    â€œI suppose that’s easier than having to grin and, uh, bare it.”
    Lou smirks, shudders, shrugs. “Not really. Stripping is no different than undressing.” He nestles his chin against my navel. “There’s nothing to it.”
    I stroke his shoulder. “I’d be nervous, too,” I commiserate. “Hell, I’d be petrified.”
    â€œI am neither nervous nor petrified,” Lou insists, but his voice resists, sounding high but not mighty.
    â€œYou could’ve fooled me.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œNo, dear, you didn’t.”
    â€œYou’re right.” I knew he’d relent. “It scares the pants off me.” I knew he’d lament.
    â€œThat’s the spirit,” I cheer, fisting the air. “Undress for success.”
    Now before anyone starts thinking nasty thoughts, I need to point out that my husband is not a striptease artist, amateur or otherwise. He’s a triple threat: actor, singer, dancer. A true talent, only don’t tell him I said so because the man will turn redder than a spanked fanny. I don’t know why my music man doesn’t like to toot his own horn, although it might have somethingto do with the fact that he has me to toot it for him. (So much for not thinking nasty thoughts.)
    Anyway, The Full Monty opens tonight. It’s a musical about down-and-out steel-mill workers convinced they’ll be in the money if they’re in the nude. Lou is one of the star strippers.
    â€œMy diamond in the buff.” I touch his cheek. “I’m so proud of you.” I mean it, too, and he knows it, his face pink against my palm. (See, what did I tell you?) Lou’s an awful lot like Bashful the dwarf, only taller. But when he’s onstage, he comes to life like Pinocchio. And, hey, as long as Lou keeps his performance anxiety confined to the theater, I’ll continue to support him a hundred percent.
    â€œUm, tonight, at the show, I should mention… Well, just please