Recently, I gave Bob a present of a year’s worth of monthly hour-long massages. Last year, I gave him a gift certificate for just one hour. So I know he liked the massage therapist - I mean the massage.

He told me she’s beautiful, and he added that he has a choice of whether or not to wear his underpants. I kept quiet. I had made a silent vow that I would never joke about anything even remotely sexual. That’s because I love Bob and the last thing I’d want is for him to be concerned about what might happen should a beautiful woman put her hands all over his naked body.

Here’s the thing: I kept my vow. He brought up the subject. I swear.

We were sitting on our couch when he mentioned his underpants. “Should I wear them or not?”

“I don’t know.” A tiny bubble of a giggle emerged from my throat. “I’ve done my very best to avoid where this is going.”

“What do you mean?” he said, playing innocent, I’m sure.

“You know what I mean.” I said, wasting words, since I knew we both knew what we meant. I’d hate to be a man. I would worry all the time about, well, how do I put this so my editor doesn’t cut it? Got it. I’d worry about having a physical response when I’m not supposed to, and everybody in the universe noticing it. With my luck, it would happen at the movies during a love scene with JLo and George Clooney and all of a sudden, the film would stop working; the lights would come on and there’d be a huge spotlight just on me while hundreds of people turned in their seats to stare.

Don’t you find it truly remarkable that I could so vividly concoct a worry that couldn’t possibly happen to me in the first place?

For Bob’s sake, I said, “It would be a natural reaction if you responded physically. I’m sure it happens all the time.”

He called from his cell after the massage. “How’d it go?” I said.

“Don’t you want to know?”

“I just asked!”

“I mean about my underpants.”

“Sweetheart, if you want to tell me, go ahead.”

“I didn’t wear them.”

Although I had been responding maturely, my 10-year-old persona was beginning an appearance and by the time he came home, it was in full bloom, unfortunately.

“So,” I said, “did she see anything?”

“I was covered with a sheet up to my waist.”

“You didn’t answer me,” I said.

“What are you? Ten?”

I nodded. “Just tell me.”

“She’d lift the sheet to massage my legs.”

“And  . . .  ?”

“I had my eyes closed. I don’t know if she saw anything.”

“So, were you OK? I mean – ”

He cut me off. “Nothing happened. Let’s stop talking about my underpants.”

“You started this whole thing.”

“I know. But if I think about it too much, it could happen.”

“You mean all men go through this? Like with women doctors?”

His face grew red. “Yes.”

“What do you do to stop it?”

“I think about something else.”

“Like what?”

“Do you realize what an infantile conversation this is?”

“Of course. Like what?”

“Baseball or something. Let’s drop it. OK?”

“Drop what?” I said, knowing where this would go and taking full advantage of it.

“My underpants!” Upon realizing my set-up, he stormed out of the room, then did a quick turn around, and came back laughing. We hugged and then, well, let’s just say he didn’t need to think about Babe Ruth.