There's a movie called "Defending Your Life" in which Albert Brooks stands before an afterworld jury and defends the various decisions he's made in his lifetime on earth. A suitable title for this little treatise might be "Defending My Lifestyle," as it places me before a jury of readers and challenges me to explain how an average family man can so quickly embrace a life of carnal depravity. How I could spend an entire evening naked, on my knees, before a semi-nude woman, desperately hoping to be rewarded for good behavior with a sexual act that is so degrading that most men cringe to even think of it?

That it happens so rarely as once a month would not be perceived as pertinent to the jury. That it occurs strictly (with rare exceptions) at my behest wouldn't figure into a strong defense. What are most interesting, most spellbinding, and most shocking, are the actual acts that are performed. The why is discarded in favor of the what. The who is given over to the how. Yet since it is my defense, you must hear the why and the who to get to the what and the how. Suffer through it.

The example day in question could best be described as brutal. No moment was without turmoil. No decision had less than long-term consequences. I balanced between a rush of creative energy and outright despair. There was no hope that the simple ride home would dissipate these violent energies. I needed something else.

After a quick phone call to my wife Lynn I was able to relax a bit. Relief would soon be mine. She'd agreed to an evening together. And her parents would surely agree to take the kids overnight. We'd need an empty house for this adventure.

I made it through the rest of the day holding her promise to me as one would a life preserver. The day, the conflicts, the traffic, all receded into the haze as I focused on the upcoming events. How would it unfold? How would my wife react? I knew how I would act, simply because I wanted to throw the whole of myself into the role. But to get it hitting on all cylinders, both participants need to buy into the script. I was ready. Was she?

Before I walked in the front door, I exhaled sharply. The anticipation had my body and mind tingling. I was ready to start. But I knew from experience that Lynn might not start right away. She might make me wait, letting me suffer from my own expectations. It all depended upon how interested she was in playing this game. Whether she was doing this with me or for me. Two steps into the house I had my answer. Sort of.

As I hung up my coat in the closet, Lynn stepped into the foyer. I knew what was coming before she even said it. "Strip. Now."

Were you to take a quick look at my life, you would come away with a feeling of simple, predictable normality. I am the father of two, and have been married to the same woman for about 13 years. I own (with the help of the bank) one house, two cars, a time-share vacation home, and the various material goods that comprise "the good life." My wife is attractive, understanding and forgiving, an excellent mother and a fine person to share a life with. My job, however, I wouldn't wish on anyone. It's a pressure-cooker, requiring split-second decisions upon which thousands of dollars and many livelihoods might ride. A good week is one in which the number of jobs I destroy, the number of families I devastate, is equaled by the number of jobs I help create. Lately, the latter hasn't even come close to equaling the former. In my job I experience the same adrenaline rush every day that a police officer, fireman or soldier might experience, but without the attendant heroic feeling.

On the surface: normality. Below the surface: a seething cauldron of doubts, insecurities, plans and desires, all brought to a boil by intense stress and pressing responsibilities. It's the responsibilities that take the greatest toll. So many rely upon me for so much, and I've yet to learn the art of diverting the negative aspects. In short, I am emotionally connected to every decision, for better or worse. Over the long haul, it's made me anxious, testy, and not just a little bit frantic. I need decompression ­ serious decompression.

When faced with similar situations, some guys turn to alcohol or drugs. Some engage in contact sports, or work out until they're quivering puddles of sweat. Some spend weeks in the company of other men, hunting, gambling, drinking and competing. Some paint letters on their chest and stand outside in freezing weather cheering on their favorite football team. Some get into fights for the pure thrill of it. Most are trying to build up an adrenaline high , so they can burn off their troubles as their body burns off the adrenaline. They're taking control of their emotions by channeling it through their bodies.

That doesn't work with me. I need less adrenaline. Less competition. Less involvement. Simply put, I need less control. This is the best way that I've discovered so far.

I quickly pulled off all my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. The wrinkles or dirt on my wardrobe would be of no concern to my wife. She was most interested in what was under the clothing.

"Turn around and let me see you," my wife ordered. I did as she wanted. When I returned to my starting position I just stopped and waited. I knew I'd never hear any comments of appreciation from her.

"Now get it going," my wife ordered.

I didn't have to ask what she meant. This was a common element of our repertoire. Grabbing my cock in my right hand, and placing my left on my balls, I proceeded to jerk off, careful to make sure that Lynn could always see what I was doing. I worked at it quickly, squeezing my cock tightly, because I know that Lynn likes things to advance at a certain pace. Soon I was sporting a proud hard-on, the first of what would probably be many over the course of the evening. Lynn had watched my efforts like an eagle, and I in turn had watched her watching me. It was humiliating to be made to perform like that. It felt wonderful.

Reaching out, my wife grabbed the shaft, hard, and pulled me along into the family room. She'd closed all the drapes this time, though sometimes she makes me perform in font of a partially open window. I noticed a half-empty bottle of wine on the table, along with a mostly empty glass, and felt a thrill go through me. Wine loosened her inhibitions. And when that happened, she took a much looser interpretation of the rules.