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I opened the drawer of my desk and for the umpteenth time glanced at the cut out ad from the Chicago Reader. The short personal ad been burning my mind for weeks and I was almost certain that by now I would be too late responding to it. Not that I thought I had much chance in the first place. Ads like that probably got thousands of responses and to make a contact and be actually picked out of a pool of hot-blooded testosterone, well that would be almost like hitting a jackpot, wouldn't it?

I put the small piece of, by now crumpled and its ink smudged, newspaper in front of me. I tapped my fingers against it for a minute and sighed. Just thinking about trying my luck with the woman who was advertising sent my stomach in a spin of funny feelings. Butterflies, punches and hot coal-like sensations intertwined and made me lightheaded.

It wasn't just the fact that I had never done anything remotely similar in my life. There was also my wife, stunningly beautiful and impossibly greedy Danielle, who for a few years now had withheld any sort of sexual contact with me, save for the rare occasions when she wanted something. There would be an odd blow job - poorly performed, I might add - when she cast her eye on a particularly expensive piece of jewelry, or even a hurried fuck when she wanted to vacation in some remote and overpriced location, which just happened to be all the rave at the moment. Every time we had sex in the past five years, and I am embarrassed to admit that I could count those on the fingers of my two ...

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