Almost every man started off this way. They called for verbal stimulation but wanted a visual appetizer first. Some men asked me to describe my hair, my eyes, the shape of my lips, the color of my nipples -- one man had asked me to describe my knees. Both of Arthur's previous calls -- each a week apart -- had begun this same way.

"I'm wearing a silk blouse. Buttoned all the way up to my neck."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"No pants? Skirt? No underwear?" He sounded pleased.

"Nothing. I'm naked underneath the shirt." And it was true. I'd found, on the phone, it was easier to tell as much of the truth as I could. The blouse I was wearing had a designer label sewn into the neck. I used to wear it with a certain olive green suit I had, or with plain black slacks. But since I'd started to dress -- or rather undress -- for my calls, this particular blouse had become one of my favorite outfits. The washed silk felt like breath on my skin, and when I became aroused, my nipples pushed out against the cloth and I liked how it looked.

"Naked," he repeated slowly, as if he were tasting the word. "For me? You knew you would be talking to me?"

"Yes," I said, knowing it was what he wanted to hear.

"Rub the silk against your skin. Tell me what you feel."

"I'm rubbing it against my breasts. Slowly. Against my nipples now. Against my stomach. Between my thighs."

"Does that excite you -- to rub it between your thighs?" he asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Say the words," he insisted. "Spell it out. Turn me on."

"It makes me excited to feel the fabric on my thighs because I know I'm getting closer and closer to coming and it's going to feel exquisite when I get there."

And it did.

That was my secret.

There I was. A 38-year-old woman. Married for 14 years. With a decent career. Attractive. Devoted to my stepson. Loyal to my friends. On good terms with my parents. Committed to charitable endeavors. Exactly who I appeared to be. And yet there were these new secret things about me -- my indecent hunger, my fearlessness -- no one I knew would have even guessed.

"Tell me what it feels like. When you're excited. Go slowly. Be explicit." His voice had dropped into a lower register.

Sometimes I pictured the men I spoke to as colors. Arthur was dark crimson. A hidden color. Leaking, spreading out, staining.

"It starts deep inside my stomach. Flutterings. Opening, closing. Pressures building. And then there are sparks on my skin. Like lighting skimming the surface. Right now, I'm imagining that the silk between my legs is your tongue."

"Do you like that?" He sounded genuinely curious.

"Yes, I do. I love it," I answered.

M.J. Rose is the author of Lip Service, the first e--published novel that was chosen as a featured alternate by the Doubleday Book Club and Literary Guild. It was also the first novel discovered online and picked up by a major publisher -- Pocket Books. Her next novel, In Fidelity, will also be published by Pocket Books.