Lying on my bed--the same bed my husband and I slept in each night--I shut my eyes against the intrusion of everyday objects surrounding me: the silver-framed family photographs on the dresser, Paul's stained silk tie coiled on the chair waiting to be sent to the cleaners, and the still-unread morning newspapers. I concentrated on the man on the other end of the phone who expected me to create an illusion with words so he could climb out of his mind.

"Do you have a fantasy you want to explore today?" I asked, feeling the slow build of excitement I expected at the beginning of each call. How far I'd come since I'd trembled and tripped over those words the first time I'd spoken them.

"Yes." His voice was refined, cultured. Cautious.

"Tell me," I whispered, seeing the dark inside of my eyes.

"Not yet. First . . . describe what you're wearing."

Almost every man started off this way. They called for verbal stimulation but wanted a visual appetizer first.

Copyright © 2000 by MJ Rose