Hello, out there in Internet Land. This is Mother Debbie, again. In my little corner of the World Wide Web, I'm your sounding board, advisor and provider of motherly advice to those mothers' sons who are in the less endowed crowd. You know who you are. You're not jocks. You have only a weenie. You are not very sexually experienced. You have a mild mannered, unassuming personality. You are trusting, altruistic, optimistic and always looking for the good, rather than the worse in people, especially in the women in your life. You may have been labeled as a "wimp," "sissy," or "mama's boy" by your family, friends or others. You may be the one who's been taken advantage of, even if it was done with love, by your girlfriends, fiancÈe, wife, or mother-in-law and sometimes by your own mother, sister, aunt, or other relatives. You may have been lovingly coerced into accepting a very subordinate or cuckold role in a relationship with the woman you love. If this is your situation, write and tell me all about it. Maybe my advice can help you make a decision, or offer you solace for a decision you've already made, or one that was made for you.

Well, let's turn to today's case. It's a little out of the ordinary. I call it:

"A Woman Who Loves Men"

Dear Mother Debbie,

I know you usually do not answer letters from women, but I just don't know where else to turn. I have thought and thought about this and I am really confused. Charles and I married three years ago now and I really love him. Some people would say we are perfect for each other. Although it looks like Charles will never make partner at the law firm where he works, we certainly don't lack for money thanks to a very large trust fund left by Charles's grandfather.

Some women call me Charles's "trophy wife" behind my back and titter about the difference in our ages, but I know they are just jealous of me. Charles bought us a very nice house in Potomac and he loves buying me jewelry and pretty clothes. I love the way I look in short skirts, high heels and slinky blouses. I'm a petite blonde, but some my gossipy neighbors say I'm quite a "handful." I'm not sure exactly what that means; certainly they aren't talking about my D cup titties, which are much more than a handful.

I love to dance and with the hot clothes Charles buys me, you'd think we would be out partying all the time. Well, we do go out frequently, but there's the first problem. Charles is short and a little heavy and isn't a very good dancer. Moreover when we go out, he usually falls asleep by about 9:00 PM or after one beer, whichever comes first. When we get to a club, I usually find a nice quiet corner for Charles, give him a beer, and wait a few minutes until he starts to nod. If it looks like he is having trouble getting off to sleep, I help him get off by playing with his precious little weenie until he makes a mess in his pants. That always does the trick. Thereafter, I spend the night in the arms of a series of young men who can whirl me and twirl me and make my little skirts fly up to show off my pretty panties, when I wear them, or my prettier pussy when I don't.

And that brings me to the first dilemma: Antonio. I love to dance with Antonio. I met him in a downtown Latin club a month or so ago and I can't get enough of him. He is so tall, and trim. His curly raven locks glisten in the reflected strobe lights of our favorite boits. When I know I'm going to meet Antonio, and that's just about every time I have Charles take me dancing nowadays, I definitely leave the panties at home. Antonio also likes me to wear the highest heel, thinnest strap, open-toe sandals possible, which Charles gladly buys for me. At Antonio's suggestion I've started shaving my pussy. He says people like to see how wet I get whenever I'm around him. He loves showing me off and I love being shown off by such a hunk. He excites me so much when we salsa or merenge that when her folds me into his arms during a slow dance, I come all over the bulge in his tight pants pressed against my cunny. Finally around 3:00 or 4:00 AM before I reluctantly awaken Charles to take me home, Antonio sits me in a dark corner and I let him finger me to orgasm after orgasm. I think I'm in love with Antonio.

But I love Charles, too, and there is a lot more to life than dancing and partying. Charles's firm is an important contributor to local cultural institutions: museums, universities and the like. Naturally we get invited to lots of lectures, private readings, author receptions and that kind of thing. I really enjoy these events because I kept up my reading after high school and can hold my on talking books, or drama, or public affairs. Poor Charles has trouble following this kind of conversation and soon gets bored and sleepy. Generally a glass of white wine is just as good as beer for getting him drowsy, so that and a little wank will have him snoozing peacefully in some out-of-the-way place while I titter and repartee.

And that brings me to my second dilemma: Rutherford. As you might guess, he's English. He's the book reviewer for the "Post" and teaches modern history at Georgetown, so he gets invited to all these literary soirees. He is tall with salt and pepper hair, a thin mustache, and a bow tie, his trademark. Even if I didn't understand what he was talking about, I could listen to that rich Oxbridgian accent for hours. He is so witty and charming that women flock around him, but their husbands don't allow too much of that. I'm luckier, so more often than not, at the end of an evening I'm left with Rutherford, listening to him hold forth on something terribly intellectual. His brilliance excites me and he knows it. When we are alone and he sees how wound up I am, the dear will interrupt himself and fish out his lovely thick cock. He lets me suck it while he continues to expound some pet idea, but usually not for very long. I can have him filling my mouth with his delicious cream in minutes. And then - I love his English sense of fair play - Rutherford will throw up my skirt, bury his face in my puss, and lick and eat me to a series of explosive orgasms. It's the mustache rubbing against my clit that does it! I think I'm in love with Rutherford.

But I love Charles, too, and there is more to life than dancing and talkie cultural events. We love going to concerts at the Kennedy Center. Music thrills me. It doesn't matter whether it's Bhrams or Mahler. I respond very physically to the power of a full concert orchestra especially when Andre is conducting. He's my third dilemma.

Andre is Thai and when I see him on the podium in his adorable little penguin suit, his lithe body moving with the music, I get so wet. When Andre is leading the orchestra, I definitely DO wear panties, having learned the hard way, ruining several gowns and the upholstery of more than one seat in the Concert Hall.

As you can probably guess by now, Charles, wank or no wank, is snoring before Andre has turned the first page of the score. Fortunately, they turn the lights down quite low and the music of the orchestra covers up my squeals as I finger myself while watching my divine Andre. By the end of the concert I have usually soaked a maxi-pad.