School psychologists aren't supposed to write books about sex. Doing so would be considered “unethical” and “a fireable offense.” Lucky for you, ethics was never my strong suit.

After spending years trying to spice up my sex life, I gave up and took to my journal. Perhaps my gorgeous, cold, number crunching husband simply wasn't capable of the kind of passion I'd come to expect. After all, my ex-boyfriends—a tattoo artist turned US Marine turned motorcycle club outlaw, a baby-faced punk rocker out on parole, and a heavy-metal bass player—were every bit as tattooed and testosterone-fueled as the leading men in my favorite romance novels. If I couldn't have that kind of passion again in real life, I could at least write about it. Right? Nobody had to know. It would be my little secret.

Well, guess what? My husband read that shit.

And guess what else? He upped his fucking game.

Drunk with power and under the dubious advice of my best friend and colleague, I began testing the limits—crafting journal entries specifically designed to manipulate Ken's behavior. For the most part, he responded beautifully… except when he didn't.