"Ann, do you think you'd have time to come down this afternoon and type a couple more interviews with our experimental subject? Our quarterly report is about due and I'd like to get a head start on it. Good for the image you know," he said dryly, pulling up his chair in front of his plate of bacon and eggs with a piece of toast, dripping with butter, lining the edges. "I know this is rather sordid literature I'm making you type, dear, but it's certainly appreciated," he said, crunching into his toast.

"Hey, come on, Carl," she teased. "Just because I'm younger than you doesn't mean I don't know anything about sex. In fact," she continued, standing over him and filling his coffee cup, "I find it rather interesting learning about these sociological theories of yours. I'm sure that sex research is going to be the thing of the future – maybe even more important than missiles and bombs even. Sure would make the world a better place to live if we all made love instead of war," she quipped, hoping he would catch the double meaning in her statement and the desperation in her fired loins that ached for fulfillment.

And part of that ache was the work she did for her husband! Ann had always considered herself a normal, desirous female with basic tendencies, but her husband's case histories of married and divorced men turned gay, of woman turning to each other for physical love instead of their husbands and confessions of incest and sodomy. God, it was better than pornography because it was all true and it had generated tingles of forbidden temptation inside her the likes of which she'd never even dreamed of! She'd even been tempted to experiment with some of the wanton tales that subjects – people just like you and me – had told the interviewer, such as which positions offered the greatest penetration, if they preferred a hard mattress to a water bed – things she'd never considered in her husband's missionary style lovemaking. For him, lovemaking was a fifteen minute affair.