In the beginning, every serious romantic entanglement is an electric, superconducting, steamy, fleshy hump festival. New sex partner = new sex, and new sex = lots of sex. That's sex math. You're in the kitchen making pasta sauce—bam!—you're having sex on the floor. You're parking the car in the garage—bam—you're having sex in the car. But inevitably, invariably, it wears off. Soon all your conversations, once so filled with erotic promise, are about bills and barfy kids and how that swollen knee makes your leg look like Jackie Gleason's.

Then, one night, she's sitting next to you on the couch, perfecting her mock-Piers Morgan accent, when she stops and says, "Man, I really want a Slurpee." Meaning, of course: "Will you go get me a Slurpee?" But by now you're way past the white-knight stage of the relationship, so you don't budge. And then it occurs to her.

"Will you get me a Slurpee if I give you a blow job?"

And everything goes silent for a moment. Then she raises her eyebrows and does that blowie-pantomime thing with her tongue inside her cheek. The one she hasn't done since, oh, month four of the relationship. With a single gesture, an arousing new world has busted open. You are—let's face it—whoring, but with a safe, committed partner. In no time, you're trading tricks for trips to the dry cleaner. You're making dinner for the kids, and later that night you're coming twice.

The negotiation process quickly becomes its own thrill. But know the terrain, boys. Example: Your woman proposes that you pick up a box of ice cream sandwiches, a copy of _W _magazine, and a bottle of Essie nail polish (Lollipop color) in exchange for a three-position sex session. Analysis: That's not a good deal. Renegotiate. For that price, she'll also put on those thigh-high black stockings. And trust me, this is fun for her, too. A gentle spanking in exchange for taking out the trash during a rainstorm? A brief experimentation with a ball gag for two weeks of laundry? All this can be yours.

Sex bartering has been a part of my married life for so long that it's hard to believe there are couples who haven't thought of this yet. Now when I see a father at the water park with three young children and no mother in sight, I no longer think, "What a cool dad" or "How sad—widowed so young." Instead I think, "That guy's getting fucked for hours tonight." One of the biggest "deals" my husband and I ever "closed" was over a handbag that I wanted after our second child turned mine into a paint canvas. Among other things, I agreed to a Brazilian wax. Yes, I could've just bought the bag and skipped the bartering (and the wax). But what the hell fun is that?

There are, of course, ground rules. Number one: Only agree to sex acts that you're both actually interested in trying. If she doesn't really want to do the reverse cowgirl, dangling a pint of Cherry Garcia is not cool. Resentment will creep in. Number two: No reneging. Back-outs are the first sign that your "deals" are no longer in kinky air quotes, that the whole game has turned bloodless and one-sided.

Sexual heat in a marriage is a funny thing; sometimes it roars back when you least expect, and sometimes you have to light your own match. Last month my husband and I were out to dinner, and our waitress giggled and flirted with him the whole time—I could practically see her ovulating. And yet watching her eye-grope him snapped my libido wide awake. Our deal later that night was simple and unspoken: He could have whatever he wanted, and all he had to do in exchange was spend the rest of his life with me.

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