IN TOUCH WITH HIS SENSUOUS SIDE

Apparently, while we were all asleep, hackers have accessed customer data from an internet site. What makes it unusual, or at least noteworthy, is that the site in question caters to married people who wish to cheat on their partners. Stolen: their names, their credit cards.
And their depraved fantasies.

I would have thought that such people would have been more paranoid about divulging any of that stuff.


"Hi, my name is John, I am thirty six years old and happily married, I want to be dominated by a big black woman wearing Nazi stormtrooper bra and panties in a vat of Jello. Wielding a purple velvet bullwhip.
I live in Baltimore. Lime Jello."


Apparently there are services catering to that demographic.
It's a growth industry.

It strikes me that many people are ambivalent about the state of marriage. This is probably normal, but in all honesty I never thought that it would become a fetish industry.
Infidelity cannot exist without matrimony.
Some people require both.

There is a "customer service" for everything in this world; dating sites are profiting immensely off marital cheats, and they're doing better than ever.

Perhaps this is the inevitable result of shrinkage in the secretarial field.


"MY WIFE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND ME..."

Back in the fifties, John would have a secretary -- let's call her Maud -- with whom he could stay late at the office, working on important files till long after the cocktail hour. Gradually they would learn more about each other, revealing details of their home lives, their hopes, their fantasies.....
Their hands, stained with mimeograph ink, would one day accidentally touch. And maybe after work, before boarding the train in different directions, they might have a cocktail or two at a discrete boite near the train station.

Things develop. It's ... spiritual.

Sometimes they "accidentally" kiss. Hot fevered lips that taste of fresh lime meet in the broom closet near the office women's room, before they hurriedly return to their individual desks lest anyone notice that both of them are absent. Their eyes meet, then for long periods they avoid looking at each other. Another quick smooch in the elevator.

Eventually they have to go out of town, perhaps a meeting with a client in another city (this is before the convention industry got off the ground, you understand), and they have adjacent hotel rooms. Drinks before dinner in the hotel lounge. While changing out of his Shantung silk suit into more casual slacks and a sport coat at six-thirty, John can hear the shower running in Maude's suite.

Next thing you know, one of them is covered in black shoe polish wielding a purple velvet bullwhip while the other one is squirming deliciously in a bathtub filled with warm green goo.

Both of their lives are subsequently richer and more satisfying.

No cellphones in that age, so no embarrassing selfies.

Just baffling bills for enormous amounts of jello.

Maude's husband suspects nothing.

She seems "happier".

All is well.



You know, I don't remember the fifties, because that was way before my time. But for some reason I miss it. It was a kinder, gentler age.
People were more normal.




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