And I'll Pass on the Steamers

It had been, just as the announcer had promised earlier that evening it would be, 'a night when Tinseltown's sexiest and most famous stars come out to shine!' and by the time the Oscars were over, O. and I could barely keep our hands off each other.

'Well . . . ?' she asked with an evil grin.

'You mean . . . ?' I asked.

She nodded slowly, her hand on my thigh.

'Hunk and Starlet,' she whispered in my ear.

Ten plus years into our marriage, I am proud to say, O. and I continue to have a wonderful, varied sex life, the result of hard work, open communication and above all, honesty — not just with one another, but honesty with ourselves, in here (I'm pointing to my head), and in here (now I'm pointing to my heart). Ten years, though, is ten years, and so recently, just to spice things up a bit, we've been experimenting with a little fantasy role-playing. Nothing too out there, of course, just the occasional
Master/Slave, Mistress/Slave, Stewardess/Passenger, Doctor/Nurse, Nurse/Patient, Publisher/Writer, Kommandant/Jew, Egyptian/Israelite, Marine/Muslim, Police/Suspect, Warden/Prisoner, Prisoner/Prisoner (ouch), and Prisoner/Prisoner/Prisoner (thanks for pitching in, Phil).

Everyone should have a Phil friend, the guy you can call to help you with just about anything.

As you go down the roll, searching for your Phil, you can skip "Biff." I -- and I can't stress this enough -- am not your Phil friend. Stop emailing me. (You know who you are.)