For Mature Eyes Onl----Nah, Go Ahead.

All right, I admit it. I've had sex.

Look, I thought it would be just the one time---and I swear to God, I tore up my voter registration card the morning after---but tragically, it hasn't stopped. And we need to talk about this right now. Because frankly, I worry about myself. Yes, I worry about myself and my, shall we say, FREAKISH PERVERSIONS.

Just between you and me, things were getting a little bit stale recently with my dear wife Pippagail. (You've all met Pippagail. She's had a tough week, poor thing, she got sucked into the de-humifidier again.) Anyway, things were getting a little stale between us in my den of torso-related delights, and I really wanted to recapture that erotic spark with my wife, I really did, so I cashed in her life insurance policy and went out to find myself a hooker.

I saw Esme on the corner of Baltic Avenue and Marvin Gardens. She tilted her head just so and said, "Looking for some action, bobcat?" I crossed my arms in a jaunty way, adjusted my voice to ultra-suave mode, and said, "Well, good madam, if by 'action' you mean exchanging sexual favors for a forestated amount of American currency, I'm practically Indiana Jones."

So, yeah, she turned out to be a cop.

The next night I found Pinky.

Cop.

Night after that, SusieBelle. TOTAL cop. (She was actually sitting in her police cruiser when I propositioned her.)

But finally I found Zwee. On our first night, she introduced me to a little bondage, which was.....well, most delightful.

Most delightful.

That led to some amusing experiments with....oh God, I know I shouldn't tell you this, but there was grape jam and bottled hydrogen involved. Soon I found myself subscribing to some of those fetish magazines, you know, like Celebrity Thumbs. Then for some reason I became excited by bumping my lawnmower gently into Yield signs. Shortly after that, I found I could only perform if I was being watched by a picture of Maya Angelou. My descent into the abyss was swift and sad.

One night I came home to find Pippagail at the door in lingerie. I said, "That's great, honey, but would you mind if tonight, while we make jiggly love, you dip a set of bagpipes into A1 sauce and lick them clean while singing 'Eleanor Rigby'?"

I need, um, what's the word.....oh yes: HELP.

I'm just defenseless chum now to my fetishistic desires. I'm afraid to walk down the street now for fear of passing a saddle repair shop, any store that sells watch batteries, or the.....ohmyGod....Christian Science Reading Room.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh........those straight-backed plastic chairs......mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.............

(Oh crap, I just realized my fifth grade teacher is reading this. Forget I said anything.)