My porn

Men tend to fantasize about that of which they are not getting enough at home. You'll find them melted into the padded rail on the stage at Jugs-o-Rama. You'll find them slipping into and out of shady places that cater to people with outlandish fetishes. You'll find them slipping their wedding rings into their pockets, then slipping into a singles bar (forgetting that women still look for the tan line on thie ring finger).

It often leads to problems at home. The wife catches the man in the middle of watching "Kittens--Purrs and Moans." The wife gets a call that her husband's car is sitting outside of "Chicks With No Clothes On." The wife develops a complex. It can destroy a marriage.

I got caught last night.

I was alone, the room was dark, and the screen was tantilizing me. It was pink, sometimes a deep red, not too much fat. I was salivating.

I tried to pretend like I was only flipping though the channels, but my wife knew my agenda. I tried to pay her disdain the respect it deserved, but my eyes kept drifting back to the screen. I couldn't turn off the TV.

Finally, she snapped. "Sure, you give me your attention when a commercial comes on. But as soon as the beef is back on the screen, I'm nothing!"

My wife caught me watching Beef Porn.

Emeril Lagasse can be a great enabler. Last night's "Emeril Live" was all about beef. The sirloin, the t-bone, the chuck, the round, the flank (oh, the sexy flank). At one point, he cut slits in a giant roast and shoved huge cloves of garlic into the holes. I perspired.

Background: My wife stopped eating red meat when she went to a vegetarian training camp. She was in her teens and very impressionable. I can't blame her. Brain-washing is a time-honored technique. I've done all I can to de-program her. Nothing has worked.

And I have slipped into the life of Beef Porn. Several butchers have caught me stealing quick touches of the ground chuck (so sexy underneath the plastic wrap!) in the middle of grocery stores. When my wife goes out of town--though the guilt kills me--I fire up the grill and have a medium rare porterhouse, all alone in my home. I hide the big t-bone (after I suck the remaining marrow, of course) and hope my wife won't notice the juices on my collar when she does the wash.

I'm considering some kind of therapy or beef counseling. There must be some sort of 12-step program for this kind of thing. First step: Admit you have a problem with Beef.

I can only hope my marriage survives.