Is it looks? You seem like an ok person. Why would I care about how you look? I think I should be insulted."The invitation: "No. I don't think you are...shallow. And no, it isn't looks. But that's the only clue I can give you. I hope you won't judge me harshly. Perhaps we can converse this way."That started an e-mail conversation. I liked her. I think she liked me. Then one day the conversation took a wholly unexpected, on my part, turn."Dear Secret Admirer, Ok. Since it's not looks, send me a. My wife seemed to immediately enjoy what was happening to her. I had never seen my wife with another woman before and it was fantastic to watch. It was much better than watching an adult movie too. Once when my wife had a little too much to drink she admitted that she had experimented sexually with a girlfriend in high school a couple of times but that they both decided that they liked boys better. Amanda knew exactly what she was doing too and she put my wife right through the roof three times. Ari ordered me, under pain of arrest by the Secret Service, not to be anywhere near the Press Room, and the agent nearest me damn neared died laughing. Ari got hit with all sorts of questions and could barely keep a straight face throughout it. He was hit with the expected questions about what the ‘Experience’ involved (“You’ll need to ask the First Lady that one.”) along with questions about whether the White House was getting complaints about how I played with Stormy (“Yes.”) Some fellow out. But I am the other side of you, and we can’t be on centre stage together. Can’t abide. And so this clean-and-dirty secret has to hide. You come and go, and I carry this show. I should be old enough to know that I’ll get snake-eyes on the final throw. It was the looks, from you to me to you to me and always longer than strictly necessary. Like a fish in a dish with your hook in my mouth, I took you all the way in. You pierced me and you crawled inside, curled up with me like original sin. Now.