How a Suburban Couple Relaxes on the Weekend
by Alessandra Bianchi
It is 10 degrees and blowing a 30-mile per-hour northeast gale and I am staring at my husband’s butt. Not a full moon, just a discreet sliver of cheek on his upper right thigh—where his Calvin Klein tightie whities peek out ever so sexily from the unzipped side vent of his ski pants. Eying that little peek-a-boo of private flesh has become a weekly ritual this winter, and it’s just one of the many kicks I get from skinning: going up, in . . .
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