"Well, your alternative is to give up. So, do you plan to cheat on Aaron or just be sexually unsatisfied for the rest of your life?" he asked.

"But he's just not into it," I muttered, embarrassed enough that I'd spilled my steamiest X-rated fantasies to my therapist, who actually looked embarrassed hearing them. (Ironically my dreams about Dr. Winters involved being gently embraced by him, not man-handled. Let's analyze that.)

But I took his suggestion, raising the issue of my carnal cravings again. This time, my husband flat-out refused me, leaving me feeling totally, humiliatingly rejected. Deflated, I slunk back to my shrink and tried my old theory on him. "Isn't this the typical marriage compromise—you give up some sizzle for consistency, social acceptance and security?" I asked.

"No! That's ridiculous!" he countered. "According to the Torah, a man is obligated to please his wife sexually or he is not a good husband."

This from a WASP who was using my tribe's customs to argue with me. I went home and looked it up. He was right! A Jewish husband was mandated to make his wife feel fulfilled when she so desired. "Her food, her clothing, and her duty of marriage relations he shall not diminish." (Shmot 21:9). How funny—a reform Jewess who'd always resented rabbis and all forms of religious authority found the biggest champion of my libido in my own people's ancient laws. If they'd taught me about this in Hebrew school—instead of the Holocaust—I might have kept the Sabbath and learned to cook a brisket.

But I wondered how a woman fashioned her man into a passionate brute. You couldn't force your guy to be forceful, could you? My therapist requested some appointments alone with my husband. "Okay, let's try what you want," my mate announced when he came home from a psychotherapy session one night. I knew he was trying to compromise because he loved me. But I could tell he felt uncomfortable, even horrified that his perverted vixen of a wife had strong-armed a shrink into insisting he strong-arm me. Still, I wasn't giving up on my desires and I didn't want to look for sexual fulfillment elsewhere. Plus, I had an apparently Torah-given right to receive pleasure from my partner. So I led Aaron into our bedroom and told him what I wanted. Again. He acquiesced, passively, cracking jokes about castration and decapitation, taking me totally out of the mood.

"Shut up, don't make me laugh," I begged, explaining that he needed to deride me and take me against my will. After several minutes of orchestrating both the physical movements and the dialogue ("I want you to f**k me harder, Tarzan." and "Stop calling me beautiful, you idiot.") the whole thing began to feel too phony to get me off to anywhere. "Let's just forget it," I said, getting out of bed.