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LEG SHOW December 2001 I lead a secret professional life and, because of this, my ability to spot a sexual kindred spirit like you is greater than it would be if I were more open about what it is I do for a living. Let me explain:
And that’s when my secret life started. My husband is a businessman in a relatively conservative field with clients worldwide. While he celebrates and encourages my business, he and I both know that it’s best left out of most conversations. But time and time again I find that men who respond to me in a way that has sexual undertones, possess a basic sexual thrust (excuse me) that is counterpart to mine. Nearly every man who responds to me (and, lucky girl that I am, a lot still do), I learn at some point, is a kinkster like me. I’m the antenna that receives your music. Some examples: Last winter I was sitting in a first class seat on a flight to meet my husband in a distant city. The man next to me was persistent about engaging me in conversation. His business card said he was a member of the Secret Service for Bill Clinton. He was young, handsome, and obviously wielded power in his professional life. But, as we talked on the long flight, he was like a kitten in my hand. When the conversation got around to being about sex (hmmm, as it so often seems to), he was as I thought: sweet, warm, decidedly submissive. He had a strong older-woman fantasy life and told me at least five times how sexy he finds women “just like” me. Another example is a man I see once a year in Switzerland when we’re there for my husband’s business. An affair-of-the-heart he is, and each time we see one another, we bond anew. He knows I am happily married; he knows nothing of X-tra Talk. But I recently read his autobiography and I discovered that—bingo!—he is likely as kinky as the day is long.
You are the same as men I might have the luck to chance-encounter day to day. But there’s a vital difference: You know my secret life as a purveyor of pornography. We already have the connection—and you know that we do—even before you meet me online or through the venue of Leg Show. Last winter I conducted research among my mail-list clients, now numbering 8,000. From the research I learned that you’re married (70%), educated (44% have graduate degrees; 77% have graduated from college), and live your private lives in a shroud of secrecy (37% of you have never told your wives; 26% have never told anyone until we spoke), all the while maintaining utter conventionality on the surface. Just like me! Only you know the depths of your secrets. For me it’s like wearing beautiful French lingerie under my clothes; it really doesn’t matter that the world can’t see it—it’s there and it gives me a certain joy and quiet power to know it. (I know you know the truth in this analogy, bad boy.) Last year I started an advice column on my web site under the safety of a pseudonym. Quickly I found that men were posing questions of a rather serious nature. Indeed, I was delighted and amazed by the need “boys who need it bad” have for advice. I pitched the idea of this same sort of advice column to Dian for Leg Show readers. She said she’d do it if I’d write it under my own, real name. I started the Dear Jane column in October. I love communicating with you through this medium; given enough letters, I would write advice all day every day! There’s intimacy in doing so and, I do so love intimacy, as it’s accessed through dress-up, spanking, a bit of bondage, clever role play, and other imaginative sex. I dispense advice not as a Dr. Ruth, but rather as a kindred spirit. I love researching answers to your technical questions and adore counseling you. It’s like a secret club; only members will understand the place from which your sincere questions and my playful, passionate answers spring. 
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In 1993 I started X-traordinary Talk! as a hobby, as a way to deliver teasing, kinky fantasies to men with fetishes. In May of 1995, when Dian featured me in an interview/pictorial in 
Not all men respond to me, of course. A handsome man at a sandwich shop I was in last week in San Francisco never looked up from his paper. I don’t care about men like him. He’s not one of “us.” He’s an outsider, utterly uninteresting. When the magic connection is there, though, it is as plain as my lips are red. In a business-social situation, a man smiles at me and I can tell almost immediately he’s “one of us.” It’s not my curves, my hair, my eyes, or my laugh that excites these men. In these areas I’m not particularly more special than other women. What these men—these special, imaginative, sexual creatures—respond to is a quality that rests silently within me but evidently shines outward. It’s like a special language between them and me. A turn of phrase is our code. A teasing smile is our response to a quip. The light behind our eyes tells me that he is mine, if I want him. And I always do, of course. Because to be married is not to be a stone, after all. However, even though my heart lusts just like Jimmy Carter’s, like him, I don’t act on the desires. It’s gift enough to me to know that you precious boys exist at all. I acknowledge and affirm you and you me; we are opposite sides of the same wonderfully rare coin.