Adventures in Bed

Drape a sheer scarf over the lampshade to create a sultry mood."

"Watch an erotic flick like 9 1/2 Weeks to inspire action."

Blah, boring, blah.

I've ignored such tips for revving up my sex life because, well, come on. I've sowed oats much wilder than those found in Kim Basinger's kitchen, doing the deed in public and making out with two siblings in one night -- and they were not brothers.

But if these schemes are as contrived and silly as they sound, why do the experts keep recommending them? Do such simple suggestions have the power to send couples to their happy place faster than you can blurt out "French maid costume"? WH wanted to find out, so they sent me on a sex-charged adventure to test five intriguing but possibly overrated scenarios and report back which ones are worth trying -- and which you should ditch faster than a vibrator with dead batteries.

Do it double-blind

The last time I closed my eyes for too long during sex, I set fire to a pillow, leaving me with the knowledge that a Brita pitcher is not a good fire extinguisher. So I was hesitant about both me and my husband wearing blindfolds. But I bit the bullet and bought a pretty pink satin number for myself and a manly black one for my masked avenger

We started in the living room. But moving to the bedroom proved more challenging. I began breaststroking through the air like a charades player miming "blind Captain Nemo" until Dan took the lead and we landed on the bed, fumbling with our clothes. I headed south, arriving at what I thought was my Marco's polo but was actually his thigh. He reoriented me by planting my mouth at his navel. But I felt disconnected. Only when we kissed did the act feel familiar again. Then Dan sighed, "Oh, I wish I could see you." Way to make a girl feel good!


Meet my man in a bar and pretend to be strangers

I arranged for Dan to meet me at a lounge up the street from our condo at 11 p.m. so we could play "strangers in the night." At 9 p.m., I joined some girlfriends at a wine bar to down a whole lotta Riesling -- liquid courage necessary before I could don...The Wig. Unbeknownst to Dan, I'd decided to show up in a cascade of chest-length, sunshiny waves and tousled bangs (versus my normally pin-straight, dark blonde ponytail).

The key to picking up your partner at a bar is playing it cool so as not to ruin the mood. But upon spotting my mark through the haze of hair, I was so drunkenly excited for him to see me in all my Shakira-like glory that I stiletto-jogged over and lunged for his lips, all 6 feet of me nearly tripping over the barstool next to him. A party next to us tittered, and I realized they probably thought that, with my Amazonian height and Barbarella wig, I was a hooker or a transvestite.

Dan, poker face firm, extended his hand.

"Do I know you? My name's Billy."

Billy, I learned, had founded a nonprofit to save abandoned puppies. I was Candy, a manicurist.

We bantered back and forth for a while, painstakingly staying in character. It was frigging exhausting.

An hour in, we broke character and I admitted a dire craving for French fries. We hit the Hoagie Hut, then went home. I used up what little energy I had left climbing the stairs.