Dear Dr. Ruth,
Since we inherited this antique four-poster bed from my crazy Uncle Cyrus, my husband has been acting strange. Our sex life was perfectly normal. Now, he’s insatiable and demanding.
Tuesday, he woke me up, flipped me over and shouted, “Spread your legs, you wanton slut!” Yesterday, he grabbed my copy of March’s Better Homes, rolled it up and tried to insert it you-know-where, while attacking my clitoris with his tongue.
This isn’t the man I married! I’m sure the bed is haunted.
* * *
Sounds horrific. You poor, poor woman. Sell me your bed.