His marriage wasn't working. While Don was doing overtime, his wedlock was on welfare.

What happened? When did it happen? He didn't know. What he was sure of was the effects - it felt like a computer virus had been injected into their union some time in the past, and now, BAM!, their relationship was toast.

Vera. Sweet, giggling Vera. Vivacious, voluptuous Vera. He remembered the first time he saw her tanned legs in Geometry. From the tip of her skirt, above her dimpled knees, to her dainty feet, in those delicate sandals, he was smitten. The blood drained from the big head to the little one. He couldn't do a theorem to save his life when she was around; his parallel lines were always intersecting.

She sat next to him in study hall, too. She was reading about amoebic fission in her biology book; he was studying her perky breasts in her pink blouse, imagining higher forms of reproduction. With a cracking voice, he suggested they go to a movie. Together.

The date was successful, and they went steady for the rest of high school. Brave, because he was almost drunk, he proposed during the last dance of their senior prom. Madonna was singing "Like A Virgin" - it became their song.

Seven years later, they were six days a working, five hours a sleeping, four credit cards a billing, three jobs a filling, two leased cars a driving, and one huge mortgage a paying. And there was no fucking partridge in the pear tree.

No kids, either. Why? No time, and no money right now. If Vera stopped working, even for a short time, their lifestyle would go down the tubes into bankruptcy.

It got so bad that Don didn't want to come home anymore, and Vera looked like she didn't care when he did. Make love? He couldn't remember the last time. Last week? No. Last month? He didn't think so. Last year? It couldn't be that long ago. Could it? If their mattress could talk, what would it say? Nothing, probably.

The Revelation came on Sunday - after church. Don went to Barnes & Noble to get a double fix. One from the super-caffeinated cappuccino, the other for his miserable excuse of a life. He scanned the Self-Improvement aisle, searching for the book that would make him instantly happy, handsome, healthy, and wealthy. While he was bending down to examine the bottom shelf, his pen fell out of his pocket and rolled into the neighboring section. Relationships.

There, Fate provided another who felt the way he did, understood the problem, and offered solutions. For only $9.95, softcover. He encountered the Messiah of Marriage, Dr. John Gray.

Dr. John. His writing was so intimate that he felt like he could call him that. Dr. John was his friend, his buddy, his pal. He also had a penis entrusted to him, and yet he understood those who lacked that prized possession. And he made it seem so simple, as plain as the one eye on a male erect member.

Men and women were from different planets.

Of course! Forget the Garden of Eden, with Eve being yanked from Adam, a spare rib, so to speak. It made much more sense that two alien space ships collided, millions of years ago, and were forced to crash-land on Earth. There, the different civilizations commingled, out of some morbid sexual curiosity.

Outwardly, the male and female children looked like they originated from the same species. Inwardly, the alien differences remained. Men would always think like Martians. Women would never stray from their ancestry on Venus.

Don devoured the book. With the reading, and the Revelation it produced, the tree of his heart sprouted fresh roots and grew a new branch for Vera. He stopped, during odd moments at work, and called her.

"Hi, honey."

"Don?"

"I just called to say hello, and see how you were doing."

He would call at least once, sometimes twice, each day.

After dinner, he held her hand. "Honey, how was your day?" He showed genuine interest in her answer. He learned from Dr. John never to try to solve Vera's problems, but to let her 'ventilate' her feelings.

At night, he held Vera in his arms until she fell asleep. At long last, they had learned to communicate.

But in the sexual department - nothing.

What good was all that understanding if they still didn't function in a physical sense? A new testament was needed. And Dr. John delivered it, inspired by You Know Who. It was called, aptly enough, "Mars and Venus in The Bedroom". Only $22. Don chose the hardcover edition, this time. He had a feeling this problem was going to take long and careful study, and he wanted a copy built to last.

"Oh yes!" Don smiled as he read. Dr. John had done it again. There were his answers, on page 58. The multivitamins that would cure their anemic sex life.

Twenty Sexual Turn-On Phrases.

Don wrote them on the palm of his hand, in indelible ink.

After dinner, after tv, while holding her under the bedcovers, he whispered Number 1 in Vera's ear.

"You are so beautiful."

Don decided that Dr. John must have given serious consideration to the timing of each phrase, so he maintained the order.

"No, I'm not. I'm ugly and fat." Vera had gained a few pounds in their seven years together, but then, who didn't.

"No, you're wonderful." Don ad-libbed. Then he glanced at his palm. "You are my dream come true." It was hard to say Number 2. It felt, well, a little over the top.

"Don, what's come over you?" Vera felt it, too.

"I love you so much." Number 3 felt a little out there, too. Number 4 - "I love sharing my life with you." - felt the same. He searched Vera's eyes for her reaction.

She looked pleased!

Don nibbled on Vera's ear, and as soft and low as he could say it, added Number 5, "You turn me on so much."

Vera's breathing became deeper. She looked like she was feeling passion, almost against her will. He caressed her shoulders, and then her arms. He ran his hands along the curves of her body, with patience and skill.

Don remembered Dr. John's urgent warning. It wasn't enough for a Martian to get excited, he had to talk about it. Venusians loved to hear words.

"Your breasts turn me on." And they did. Number 6 was easy.

Dr. John stressed that sex and love are directly connected in Venus people. They were not in separate compartments, like in the Martian.

"I love touching your soft skin. I love holding you in my arms. I love your breasts. I love your legs." Don sensed the genius of Dr. John. The list had indeed been well thought out. Numbers 7, 8, 9, and 10 practically flowed together. Don glanced at his palm for his next lines.

"Your breasts are perfect. Your lips are perfect. You feel so good." Yes, Vera felt perfect, and was perfect, and Numbers 11, 12, and 13 felt perfect on his lips.

Don said a silent prayer of thanks for the Prophet of Pairings. Dr. John knew when a man became aroused, the more perfect a woman's body felt to him. The last thing on his mind was how fat a Venusian's thighs were.

Vera was melting in his arms, like cheese on top of a hot burger. He gently peeled off the long night shirt she wore to bed, and removed her bra. He kissed her breasts.

"You feel so hot." Number 14. "And you taste so delicious." Number 15.

"Oh, Don," she cooed.

He removed her panties and touched her intimately. "You are so wet." Sixteen.

Don stood up and removed his pajamas. Vera had her arms outstretched, her body and soul offered to him. When he embraced her, she said, "I am all yours. All my love is for you."

Hey, wait a minute! Those were his next two phrases. Don's timing was thrown out of kilter. He didn't know whether it was right for her to say his phrases, so he repeated them in her ear, just in case. "I am all yours, too. All my love is for you, Vera."

When he touched her G spot, their house of cards came tumbling down.

"You're not doing it right ... I don't like that ... Ouch! That hurts ... Don't touch me like that." With each comment, Vera looked more annoyed.

"What's wrong, honey? Talk to me, Vera."

He searched for another spot in her body alphabet. "That tickles," was Vera's response. "Not like that," she added.

Vera slapped his wrist. She actually whacked his wrist, like a Nun with a ruler.

Don didn't make it to Numbers 19 and 20, which were "I love having sex with you. I long for you." Something very distressing and unexplained was happening. All his study and reading were going for nought. He mumbled an excuse, and left their bed. He went to his closet and looked under his underwear for the magic book.

It was gone! He searched under his socks. Nope, not there, either. On the top shelf, perhaps? No. Dejected, and limp, he returned to their connubial bed.

Vera was propped up on her pillows, her bedside lamp on. She waved the missing book at him with raised eyebrows. When she passed it to Don, it was opened to page 55.

Ten Sexual Turnoffs - the antidote for his twenty turn-ons.

Vera opened her hand. On her palm, she had her own crib sheet written. She was up to Number 7. Thank God, he thought, she didn't make it to Number 10. It was a killer. "What are you doing?" (To be used when he was inside her).

Then Vera surprised Don down to his toes. She giggled like the sweet, sexy girl he first knew in Geometry class, and pulled him down on top of her. What she whispered next in his ear was not in Dr. John's book, but it sure made Don's pony gallop.

There was some kind of Venusian logic at work. Don didn't question it. He went along for the ride. It became a blessed night, replete with renewal, and a feeling of forever-after. Their problems were over.

But fourteen years later, a different set of obstacles was waiting to rip them asunder. Luckily, Dr. John was right there for them, offering wisdom and advice, with a new religious series:

"Parents Are From Heaven, Teenagers Are From Hell."

$25. Hardcover? Definitely.

THE END