The idea for this book arose several years ago during a series of conversations between Danny and Maggie, who have been best friends for many years. Early on in our relationship we established a pattern of close talks over vodka gimlets at our favorite neighborhood bar. We talked about work, we talked about haircuts, we talked about clothes, but usually after the third gimlet, we talked about men -- how to find them and how to keep them. If one of us went out on a date, we talked about the guy and what we did, but we never really talked about sex. "Did you get lucky?" was hardly a question we needed to ask, because if one of us did, we were probably on the telephone at three in the morning telling the other about it. We were like any other two best friends except Danny was a gay man and Maggie was a straight woman.

When Maggie began dating a man who bought, but was too chicken to wear, a bright yellow Versace jacket, and had silver service for twelve and several Bruce Weber photographs on his wall, we suspected he was gay. Only then did our cocktail conversations turn to sex. It wasn't that this guy kept turning her over and poking her in the rear. It was something less definite. "What does he like?" Danny asked. "What did he do? What did you do?" Whatever it was, there was something missing, and Maggie couldn't quite put her finger on it. She was feeling insecure because if this guy really was gay, then she felt she had no chance of making him happy in bed. Why? Because somehow Maggie knew that there must be something really special about gay sex because all these guys were doing it. It's not that he wasn't trying hard, it's just that he wasn't getting hard. It was like trying to stuff a marshmallow into a keyhole. She also knew that the idea of donning a pink bustier, edible undies and strawberry massage oil wouldn't cut it. It wasn't her style. "What can I do?" she finally asked in desperation.

Although she was conducting business as usual, the standard sex scenario wasn't working. The breakthough came one day after work, after a particularly exasperating night before, when Danny finally asked, "What exactly did you do?" So Maggie got down on the floor, assumed a position, and pantomimed the act as best she could considering that she was wearing a fabulous new Armani pantsuit. Danny was quick to offer advice based on his years of dating in the gay world. While the bustier and massage oil were good for a fleeting moment or a passing giggle, Danny knew that what Maggie needed was some expert technical assistance. It was time to learn a few inside tips.

In good weather, we would meet in the park for brown-bag lunchtime lessons. We could sit for hours after work in our favorite city park discussing dates, designers and dicks.

Cocktail conversations took on a new vigor and enthusiasm. What's more, all of our other girlfriends wanted to know, too. Women of all ages, places and walks of life demanded to be let in on the action. The numerous requests for demonstrations and assistance by phone mounted quickly, and were far more than we could handle. And while Danny was eager to share the wealth with women everywhere, it was getting out of hand. Women whom he had never even met, and friends of friends, were calling him at work and asking him to explain "the pearl necklace." They would report back on their successes. "Danny is all that and a bag of chips," said one satisfied girlfriend.

Sure enough, the aforementioned man with the yellow Versace went on to a healthy long-term relationship with a guy named Greg. Maggie went on to employ her newfound tips and became very popular. The key thing to remember is that it's not the act itself that makes an Oscar-winning performance. Sex is like good conversation: Anyone can talk, but there are some people who just have a winning way with words. It's not what you say, but how you say it. And who among us couldn't benefit from a few elocution lessons?

We remember one Super Bowl party consisting of two couples and us. The husbands went on a beer run while we stayed behind sipping margaritas with the wives. No sooner had the car started when one of the women commented that sex had changed since the kids arrived. Maggie responded by saying how vastly improved her sex life was since she took up Danny's tips. Out came a curiously anatomically correct flashlight and a simple hand job demonstration that lit up their world. Stroking to the rhythm of Peggy Lee's "Fever," we soon had four flashlights and were all practicing in sync. "Oooh, what else do you know? Tell me, Danny." "Well, did you ever try squeezing his nipples?" he asked. The wives looked at each other with a vacant, almost guilty stare. And then they turned to Danny and said, "You mean men have feeling in their nipples, too?" Case closed.

It seemed as though the women all agreed on one thing. The early sizzle, when men were so eager to show off their sexual prowess, was long past. Women are taught to let men take the lead, which is fine. But as we all know, men, and their penises, have limited attention spans and need constant entertainment. Sure, men have sporadic flashes of genius. But for the most part, sex could be reduced to kiss, touch, kiss, touch, kiss, pounce... "That was great for me, was it great for you?" The familiarity of lying side by side with a couple of smooches and caresses is fine, but a little variation to perk up Mr. Stiffy is always a welcome change.

Everybody knows the basics. Taking up these techniques while you're dating will surely lead to a quick proposal of marriage. Introducing these tips if you're married or in a long-term relationship will, undoubtedly, lead your partner to suspect you've been getting special coaching on the side. Tell him that you have. Tell him whatever you want. But think of this book as your personal trainer, at a fraction of the cost, and you don't even have to leave your house.

Copyright © 1997 by Anderson/Berman, Inc.