Outsourced

"I'd like to outsource our lovemaking."
I choke on my steak and reach for my wine to wash it down. "That's funny," I say when I recover.
"Or rather, I want to outsource my part in our lovemaking."
I look at her and she isn't smiling. I think that this must be a joke, a bad joke, brought on by the stresses of her job. Instead, there's a look of intent determination on her face. Her brow is furrowed. I've never noticed how her brow furrows. It must have come on gradually, I decide, something that only time-lapse photography would have revealed. The burden of success has etched her face. Her mouth, which used to curve into an easy smile, is now set in a firm, pink line. She's still beautiful, but the fullness of her face has eroded too, revealing a leanness that wasn't there years ago.
"I'm serious," says Leslie, my wife of several years. "I'm worried that the quality of our relationship is suffering."
"So you want to outsource sex?"

So begins Outsourced, a steamy (and cautionary) tale of work-life balance and outsourcing.