That left me in a quandary. Everytime I do a touching, romantic entry about Barb, she says it embarasses her to death. This despite the fact that she joined THE WONDERING JEW's notify list because of a touching tribute he did to his wife.

I mentioned this to Barb, and she said,

"It probably did embarass his wife...but I liked it."

Besides, she loves older men with silver in their hair.

No, it better not be about Barb. But who else...?

I've written about Eric extensively, Brian pretty much so. I've written of my dead son Jamie, my dead father, my living mother, my brother and sister.

There is one love that I've been too...ashamed...to mention.

Yet they say confession is good for the soul.

I've loved with a consuming passion every since I was young. It was a crush that did not die away, but matured as I got older. Oddly, when I first knew the object of my attractions, it was not the bottleglass figure that attracted me, or the fact I could see right through them.

Later, they lost much of their figure, becoming round and cylindrical. Yet my passion didn't die. It was more than a passion---it was an addiction.

Thousands of men share this addiction. It is a mark of the imperfection of all human relationships that many men---and some women---crave this release, no matter how happy at home.

At first, it was whenever I could get my hands on them. Later, I rationed it out. Three times a day might seem excessive, but I found if I didn't have it at least that many times, I became irritable and out of sorts. A man has needs, and oddly, this thrice-daily ritual/release hasn't diminished with age.

The taste of the beloved...it was eagerly looked forward to each day. In the morning, it made my morning complete and brought a smile to my lips and a song to my heart.

At noon, I would slip out and embrace my beloved, and consume her, shamelessly using her.

At night it made the darkness complete and rounded the day.

Desire has no shame, knows only need, not convention. We are all slaves to our desires, sometimes.

It didn't help to know I wasn't the only one; many had flirted with her, although she had few more faithful devotees than I. True, I had to pay. Yet, for the pleasure she gave, the price was more than reasonable.

Three times a day, though? After a while it began to mount up.

Days when, for various reasons, I couldn't indulge with our consummation of need, I would get a headache, and get irritable, and snap others' heads off. I was like a junkie, deprived of his source.

Some felt that such an addiction was the sign of an adolescent. That an adult graduates to other tastes, to other pleasures. That only an adolescent gets locked into such a ritual without varying it.

Yet, time did not stale her...infinite variety.

My wife knew all about it, of course. You can't hide things like this to married people who share their lives. She, suprisingly, would be somewhat understanding, but she did not truly sympathize with how often I would have to indulge this passion...and the cost to the family.

"Just once you can go a morning without..."

I'd snarl in return that I had to have it, like a little child.

So we'd stop, and I'd get out, and go in, and clasp my beloved...

Lift up her top...

And pour the Coke down my throat.

I miss the hourglass figure of the glass bottles Coke once came in, and yet the cylindrical can it comes in now is still welcome. And yes, I know it's the caffeine I'm addicted to. Still, it has remained a constant love over the years. Neither coffee, nor Pepsi, nor Mountain Dew has replaced Coke's place in my heart.

Coke is it.