Dear Lady X,
I loved reading your sexy e-mail, and I hope I’m not going too far if I say that I am one of the many men you’ve made hard over the past few days. I didn’t know what to expect from this experiment, but since it started I have hardly been able to think of anything else. But please be reassured: I give you my word that I will always remain discreet, and I promise again that as desirable as I find you, this is not some secret plot to get you into bed myself. I promise to remain at a distance. So with that out of the way…“dare” it is!
Good news. You’re ordering delivery for dinner tonight. Chinese, Indian, pizza – whatever you’re in the mood for. Hell, extra cheese if you’d like. Easy, right? Here’s the catch, and please follow these instructions step by step: explain your husband that you feel like ordering out, and then you make the call yourself. Continue reading The Delivery Man Experiment
When I got 
Dear X,
Dear Mrs. X,
“Why not.”
I shouldn’t have done it, but last week I opened my wife’s computer while she was in the shower. We’re both sex nuts, and the bedroom has kept us together through ten years of marriage, but we hadn’t even approached a kiss in weeks. Worse, somehow I didn’t mind. Something had gone wrong, something I couldn’t begin to put a finger on. She’s still one of the sexiest women I’ve ever met, dressing like a classic movie star – garter belts even, holding up exotic silk stockings whose swirling patterns I used to study, all hidden underneath some prim skirt by a French designer. She’s European (it hardly needs to be said), and we live in an exotic place under palm trees across the Atlantic Ocean that I’ll choose not to mention for the moment. Mostly, though, she has preferred not to wear anything at all. She tends to cavort around the house naked, relishing her body: blond hair, always red lipstick, pale skin with tits made for some mermaid bursting from the sea in a Renaissance painting, a round smooth ass, pussy showing pink through a few blond hairs, then firm legs down to bare feet with red-painted toes. She’s the sort of innocent thing on the surface who inspires dirty thoughts, and as far as I can see, she hasn’t aged a bit. But she’s stopped cavorting, and we’re hardly even talking. Her body’s becoming a memory. So what’s gone wrong? I opened her computer hoping to find out.