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For the first 15 years of our marriage Harvey and I had never done anything, sexually speaking, worthy of a confession. That is, nothing to confess to each other, nor to a priest, not even to an old trusted friend in a drunken gossip session. We got married when he was 22 and I was 24. Both of us kept in shape, even after our two kids were born, and even during the stress of getting our careers in gear. I won't bore you with the details of our jobs, but I will say that both of us in our late 30s got at least a full six weeks of vacation each, and we usually managed to coordinate them. We maintained a marriage rich with the experiences of traveling and other cultures.

Even before we got married, neither of us had done anything really worth writing an erotic story about. Harvey had been in two relationships, the second one lasting about two years before they went to different universities. I had been in exactly one relationship with a fellow I'll name Joe, as in "average Joe," and he lasted from the last year of High School to his first job with an oil-drilling company in Australia, of all places. I met Harvey, we fell in love, and we settled into a good, caring, rock-solid relationship.

Funny thing... the culture - or lifestyle - that changed our lives came in the form of a couple that moved in next door to us in a new subdivision we'd moved into a year earlier. The lots were big, and the developers had left a lot of trees and shrubbery in place, so each new set of owners had a good start on maintaining their privacy. The only ...

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