I've been married for more than 15 years. My husband's sex drive has diminished to zip. He's been to the doctor and except for possibly having low testosterone, there's nothing physically wrong with him. He says that he is attracted to me but nothing happens. I've tried living with this and masturbating but it's not the same. I thought if I lost a lot of weight that this might make a difference but again, to no avail. I care a lot about him and love him, but I know that I'm not in love with him. He is a good man (who splits the housework, etc.). No kids on my end.

Recently I began flirting with someone from work. We went out for drinks and he revealed that he has a girlfriend and a wife. He's attracted to me (we made out pretty extensively), but he says that he will probably not sleep with me. (The reasons range from he has no time to he'll be too attracted to me to he is a bad man to I'll be too attracted to him.) The other odd thing was that although we have been flirting like crazy, we really don't know each other, and in the middle of all of these confessions on his part, he said the L-word. (I was skeptical about this.)

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I am a 22-year-old guy. I studied abroad in Australia a year ago, and in the last month I was there I fell in love with a girl who lived near me. We spent nearly every waking moment of the time I had left there together. Since I have left, we have spent quite a large sum of dollars, words, and moments staying in touch with, and getting to know each other.

She is coming here for three weeks for Christmas. She has never seen snow or really known winter. She has never been to the U.S. or Canada, and I am taking her to Toronto, Boston, New York and Washington while she is here. But it is another first that worries me. I am a virgin. As a matter of fact, this is the first and only girl that I have ever even kissed. The only way I can explain it is that my parents had me in an all-male Catholic middle and high school, and I am very shy. Shy, and totally petrified now of the idea of making love. I obviously want to, and we have talked about it, though the talk was less about the pleasure of it and more on the protection and safety measures. Though we are both shy people, I think that we are both ready and there will never be a better or more romantic way, time, place, or person. Plus, I think she may be the one. To make matters more complicated, though perhaps a bit better, she is a virgin as well. So, it is something we are going through together.

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I'm not inorgasmic but I have never had an orgasm during sex/intercourse with a man.

I have always enjoyed "pleasuring myself," which I learned to do very young. I think I must have started masturbating intentionally when I was about 3. So the parts work, and I can rule that out as my problem.

And it's not that I'm gay, and am deluding myself. I know I'm straight. I did all the required experimenting and anguishing over it back in college. Not a dyke. So I am making these attempts at orgasm with the correct gender for me.

I am in reasonable -- not great -- shape. I don't have any problems bending and twisting into the normally requisite sex pretzels.

I've been married to my husband for 13 years. The sex was terrific when we got together and persisted terrifically -- but with no orgasms for me. Then about six years ago he lost interest in sex. Two years ago, I handled that problem by taking a lover.

My lover is amazing in bed. The chemistry is mind-bending. He's a devotee of long foreplay, making out, oral/genital stimulation, etc., but still I can't orgasm when we are having sex!

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I have cross-dressed all my life. I am not gay, nor am I interested in experimenting. I was married for 18 years and hid my dressing for about 10. My (then) wife sort of accepted the fetish and even bought me clothing on occasion. We divorced when she found another man to be more interesting, and despite all her promises to keep my secret, everything came out in court.

I've been alone now for about 10 years, and the desire to cross-dress comes and goes, but I really would like a woman in my life.

What percentage of women might accept my fetish for what it is? How do I bring up the subject before either of us has some sort of emotional commitment to a relationship that might not work?

Likes Dresses

Dear Likes Dresses,

Flirt, don't blurt!

I don't think it's very romantic or sexy to provide a prospective love match with a list of your erotic likes, dislikes and fetishes. You want sparks to fly or at least flutter during the buildup of discovering each other. Is a fetish one part of your personality that gets expressed in this process? Or is it an oddly shaped room in the attic of your house that needs pointing out to a prospective buyer?

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I have been married for going on two decades now. Three kids (one out of the house), solid marriage, good sex. When we have it. Which is, of course, the problem.

It is a cliché to say "I love my wife." But the fact is, I do love my wife. A lot. We've been through a lot together, we enjoy being together, and we're a great team. But even though I'm past 40, I have a pretty active libido, and she quite frankly doesn't. Add that to the fact that the kids suck up a lot of time, and I have a lot of frustration.

I don't want to have an affair. For one thing, I don't want to mislead another woman into thinking I would ever leave my wife, because I just won't. I don't want to. What I do want is to have sex a lot more frequently than I am having it, and I want to experience somebody new. I want that first excitement that comes from undressing a new person for the first time (or even 20th -- it doesn't wear off all that quickly). What kind of clothes they wear, their underwear, how they kiss, how they smell, what gives them pleasure. While my youth certainly didn't rival Casanova's, I was fairly active, and this lengthy period of inactivity is difficult.

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I've never had this problem and I'm hoping you can help. I'm extremely attracted to my man, and vice versa. We are incredibly sexually compatible -- except in the kissing department. His kisses range from being just tolerable to being an outright turnoff. What's weird is that on the rest of my body, he kisses me perfectly. But when he kisses my mouth it's different. The problem: He has no tension in his lips. Loose lips creep me out.

He used to lead with his tongue and a way too open mouth. I got him to stop that. But he still kisses sort of like a toddler. The upside? He's eager to learn. So eager that it's endearing. So I ask him for more pressure, and he uses his whole head. I try kissing his hand, his cheek, his chest, using the exact pressure I'm looking for. Then I ask him to do the same to me. To just fit his lips to mine, using his muscles to introduce some tension. But his mouth is either too open, too closed, or too loose.

In his defense, I happen to know that he never really got a chance to practice just kissing before he first became sexually active as a young teen and he has to undo years of habit (he's a widower).

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As a sex advice columnist, a woman and an Asian-American, I am hoping you will have a perspective that can help me.

I am 33 years old, and have sowed far more wild oats than I ever planned to. When I was younger, I used sex to replace many things that were missing in my life, and it took me many years to realize that I could confront my feelings and needs in healthier ways. I am now at a point in my life where I want to settle down and move on to a fulfilling and permanent relationship.

One of the biggest problems for me emotionally (I now realize) was the fact that I lost my mother at a young age. She died when I was only 7, and though I was raised by loving and wonderful parents (her parents), it left me with deep-seated issues of abandonment and hopelessness. My mother was born in Japan, and though she was Irish, she grew up speaking Japanese. She did not move to America until she was 16, and my earliest memories are of speaking Japanese at home, because she always felt more comfortable with that language.

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My fiancée and I have a good sex life. We live apart and can only be together sporadically until we're married. She started using a vibrator, and now I'm having difficulty getting her off. I want her pleasure to be from me. We've experimented unsuccessfully with oral sex for her. Are there intercourse positions where she could orgasm? How do I get good enough at the oral sex to defeat the vibrator?

L

Dear L,

Vibrators should come with a warning label and their use should be rationed. It is politically incorrect to say one word against these dangerous pleasure machines, but vibrators can and do ruin love affairs. And yet they do not have to. Vibrators serve a useful purpose on special occasions, or when you're learning how to have orgasms, as some women must. But they are overused to the point of "self-abuse" in some cases. It's as if the body gets jaded from overstimulation.

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Like so many wannabe brides who have the white dress picked out (and a subscription to Bride's) before they have a clue whom they'll wed, I aspired to a lifestyle of carefree sex with theoretical men and, just like those women, I daydreamed about decorating. I was halfway there -- living with a boyfriend, yearning for my own place -- when I began turning tricks.

I had no idea what to expect from my first customer but I was shocked when he proposed marriage: "Tracy" -- or whatever I was calling myself that night -- "will you marry me?" I abruptly told him: "No! I can't marry you!" We were very much at cross-purposes. He wanted to know if that meant I was engaged. I simply didn't believe in marriage and I was under the age of consent, something he didn't know. For me, thoughts of marriage led to bureaucracy -- How old must you be to sign the paperwork? -- or ideology: Was marriage the foundation of capitalism? As bad for you as processed flour?

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At a sex-worker conference in May, I couldn't help noticing how unusual a "regular guy" can look in a room filled with male sex workers who are still acting boyish (even into their late 30s), and far more likely to be interested in gardening and decorating than baseball.

At first, it's disorienting to hear Sterry talking so candidly about the lost inner prostitute -- a youthful persona he left behind after a year of turning tricks while in college. He's not a veteran of the sex trade like some of us and he's new to the hookers movement. So Sterry probably has no idea what people are saying behind his back. Because most of his customers were women, he defies a few stereotypes, including those of the sex-workers' movement.

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Except that it's not. And it puts him way to the left of those (including President Bush) who have pandered to the Christian right by urging Congress to invest in abstinence. Recently, Bush announced that he would propose a $135 million investment in "just say no" programs for teens who might be tempted to experiment, not only with sex, but with, gasp, condoms.

This Republican marketing strategy offers abstinence to crusading wing nuts, safe sex to public-health wonks and a combination of both to ambivalent parents. On this issue, at this moment, the administration is almost like a well-run American brothel offering a diversity of wholesome blondes, smoldering brunettes, ethnic beauties and spunky redheads. Something for everybody.

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Jeff was a mild-mannered middle manager at Citibank, wore bangs and a beige suit, always smoked a joint beforehand, and liked to go twice. He wasn't a big spender, but he was reliable.

Marvin, in his 60s, lived alone in a high-rise on Whitestone Boulevard and paid extra for the cab. He also gave me a nominal "tip" for letting him take close-up Polaroids of my pussy. I wasn't ashamed of my profession by any means, but when people say that "every woman has fantasized about being a hooker" -- well, I knew this wasn't what they meant. A middle manager who goes twice and a retired bachelor in Queens who collects homemade beaver shots.

Desperate to find a reliable escort service, I began combing the ads and discovered that the other agencies were even tackier than Jeannie's.

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In the quiet Canadian city where I grew up, anyone who had ever lived abroad or who hung out in Toronto was considered cosmopolitan. Professor Andrews qualified on both counts. He took lots of trips to Toronto, which struck me then as glamorous.

It tickled me to know that grown women were actually falling in love with this charismatic radical chic author-professor, while I knew the real G. Frasier Andrews. And I knew they'd be horrified if they found out what he had done with me. I was having a giggle at the expense of all those grown-ups who said, "You're too young to have sex. You aren't ready for it." I sensed that there were things they would never be ready for.

While my parents knew I was on the Pill, I made sure they didn't hear about my adventure with our neighbor. My mother created -- and enforced -- a 10:30 p.m. curfew but had no idea what I got away with in the middle of the day.

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Well, I opted for an impromptu sleepover -- at Matt's place -- after hinting that I "just want to cuddle." In preparation for a night of sexless bonding, I showered and changed into a pair of white cotton panties. My Not Tonight Gear is actually more expensive than some of my workwear. Sexy understuff is as rare as bottled water these days. And there's always a special at Bloomingdale's or the local lingerie boutique. But you hardly ever see good seamless Swiss panties on sale. Good-girl undies, like the girls they were designed for, get harder to find every day. One of my millennium resolutions was to pamper my lower body in all its moods and phases, so I've invested in high-quality off-duty cotton panties. In white, of course. It's a mistake to stint. You don't spend a whole lot of time in your work panties -- they're off before you know it -- but your off-duty unders have to stay on, sometimes overnight. The $60 panties I wore last night are comfy and loose but properly fitted. With a demure embroidered flower on the right hip.

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In the cab on the way to Carnegie Hall last night, I felt my temperature rising as I checked the clock on my cell phone. As usual, I had not given myself enough time to find a taxi -- a bad habit that I mostly indulge in with boyfriends and rarely with clients. I closed my eyes to block out the Valentine traffic jam on Second Avenue.

I opened my eyes at Park Avenue and 57th. Two girls in smart black suits got out of a limo in front of the Four Seasons Hotel -- where I would be tonight if I were working. Maybe I could somehow escape from this Sinderella Spiral and become, like Jasmine, a sexually active spinster -- a woman with a past, a future, and no serious boyfriend. A woman without nosy future in-laws who ask awkward questions. A woman with less to lose! All the pieces of my life can't possibly fit together for much longer. Something's got to give -- but what?

When I got to my destination, Matt was waiting in the lobby, looking a little shy -- and rather adorable in the tie I gave him for Christmas, the one with small yellow giraffes on a bright red background. He's mine! I thought, with a sudden surge of confidence. His face lit up when I approached.

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Etienne is back from a short trip to Paris. "Realizing this is intolerably short notice," he began in a wheedling voice. "I hope you still remember who I am? What a week! Could we perhaps ... this evening? Allow me to forget this gruesome week ..."

After almost ten years -- he's one of my oldest customers, by which I mean longest -- he still employs these coy icebreakers.

"Be here no later than six!" I cautioned him.

I have to meet Matt at seven, but didn't tell him that, of course. Never let a guy feel he's being rushed. And never let him know why! Just in case he does feel rushed.

"Bien sûr," he purred agreeably. Etienne has lived on East Sixty-seventh Street for more than three decades, but his accent remains strangely intact. One of his many style decisions.

Saturday, 2/12/00

Etienne arrived last night, carrying a chocolate-brown umbrella with an engraved brass handle in the shape of a swan's head.

"Very handsome," I told him. "Did you find it in Paris?"

"It keeps me dry," he said with a humorous shrug. "My children gave it to me for Christmas."

Etienne's son is an eye surgeon, and his two daughters are teachers. I think he once told me that the oldest daughter is married to a guy at Salomon.

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"My sister thinks we should come up with a date," Matt was saying.

"Why?" I asked. "Elspeth's not the one who's getting married."

"I know, but she wants to plan her year --"

"Can't she plan her year without planning our wedding?" I shot back. "Why is she always interfering?"

As an older sister myself, with two brothers, I know that a younger brother must put his foot down in order to gain a big sister's respect.

He changed his tack. "Well, anyway, I was thinking, if you aren't ready to set a date, why don't we move in together?"

"Move in?" I was floored. "Where?"

"Wherever you want. I mean, we could move into your place or my place and see how we like living together."

I couldn't hide my dismay. We've only just begun discussing the engagement, my shrink and I. And Matt wants us to move in together! How will I keep seeing my clients? Oh, what was I thinking when I said yes? And what now? Can a girl march down the aisle and just say "Whatever!" instead of "I do"?

"Why do you look so surprised?" he asked playfully. "We'll be living together when we're married, you know."

"I know that," I snapped. "But -- but -- my place is too small for a couple. My bedroom's tiny. Where will you put all your suits?"

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Every girl has a favorite customer. Plus, a john whom she barely tolerates in order to meet her weekly quota. In between the two extremes are bread-and-butter guys -- the mainstay of a call girl's business. You plan for bread-and-butter guys, cultivate them, seek them out. But you never plan to have a favorite john.

Allison's favorite was Jack.

Last summer, he practically went into mourning when she decided (for the umpteenth time) to quit the business. Jack didn't want Allison to know he was seeing other girls, and he mostly saw her friends so he could mope about how much he missed her. To have a regular who's so easy -- a quick blow-job-with-a-condom -- and so devoted! We all sort of envied her. Who wouldn't? Jack seemed like the perfect client.

Until he got a call from Tom Winters, a twisted IRS agent who was auditing Allison and calling everyone she knew. Winters wanted to prove that she had vast reserves of hidden wealth; he couldn't believe that she simply had no savings or real assets after more than five years in the Life. Winters was curious about Allison's lifestyle -- her apartment, her prices, even her body. (He asked one girl if Allison had had a lot of expensive plastic surgery. Yes, paying cash for major cosmetic work leaves a major trail, if you're being audited for undeclared income.)

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Who is Nancy Chan? Ever since Nancy Chan's diary began running in Salon, I've been asked by readers and relatives, by prospective and former boyfriends: "Are you Nancy Chan? How much of Nancy is really you? How much of Tracy Quan's life are you revealing?"

I'm unable to give a completely straight answer because, well, I am like Nancy in some ways. Fact and fiction are often blurred in Nancy's life, and in mine. Like Nancy, I ran away from home during my teens, and I know what it's like to take pride in a job while keeping it a secret.

When the original series ended -- with Matt slyly inserting himself into Nancy's apartment to deliver a surprise marriage proposal -- I received hundreds of e-mails from readers wanting to know how Nancy would handle being a full-fledged fiancée: Could a girl like Nancy really give it all up for a guy when she's at the top of her career as a call girl? How big was that engagement ring, anyway?

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The current uproar over early puberty strikes a personal nerve because I remember that I felt happy rather than traumatized when I was told that my breasts were beginning to develop. I wasn't in the first grade, like some of the girls described in a recent New York Times Magazine piece by Lisa Belkin, "The Making of an Eight Year Old Woman. " I was 8, still reading storybooks about imaginary pre-sexual children -- but I was quietly excited to hear that I was on my way to becoming a woman. And I continued to enjoy those books -- "The Secret Garden," "What Katy Did" -- while waiting for my breasts to grow large enough for a training bra.

Unlike some women who remember early puberty as traumatic, I welcomed these changes. I remember hoping I would eventually be well-proportioned enough to grace the pages of Playboy magazine. Flat-chested and curious, I tried to understand the formula for womanly beauty by studying the exact measurements of Playboy models.

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