Douglas Brown is used to working the late shift. After all, he's the guy who spent 101 straight nights having sex with his wife and wrote a book about it. He also has a day job as a Denver Post reporter.

I bring this up only to explain some key logistics. The Rocky offices are on the floor below the Post, which means we share an elevator. Lately, I've been imagining the worst possible encounter: The doors slide open to reveal someone who looks like Brown's photo on the book jacket - if a bit more emaciated from all that nightly exertion. And here's our conversation:

"Uh. Hi."

"Oh! You're that horrible woman who eviscerated my book."

"Uh. Well. Eviscerate is probably too strong a word. I said some nice things. For example, I really liked the jacket art."

"But you called my wife annoying."

"I said that about your wife? Er, could you press the button for the lobby? Now?"

In short, I'm nearly as worried about writing this review as I would be if my husband suggested 101 straight nights of sex.

Given Brown's provocative topic, it's no surprise that Just Do It: How One Couple Turned Off the TV and Turned on Their Sex Lives for 101 Days (No Excuses!) quickly became a hot commodity: It was snapped up by Crown faster than you can say kiss and tell, then optioned for a film.

Then, in a twist even more surprising than some of the pictures in the Kama Sutra, it turns out it isn't the only book of its kind. A memoir from a couple that planned sex every night for a year (365 Nights: A Memoir of Intimacy, by Charla Muller with Betsy Thorpe) was released the same day as Brown's. What are the chances of that happening? About the same as Britney Spears buying underwear the exact week Paris Hilton takes her vows as a nun.

But my task today is not to reason why. It's to reason why not. So enough foreplay. Let's get down to business. For a look at 365 Nights, go online to a recent column by the Rocky's Mary Winter. Meanwhile, I'll focus on Brown.

Brown's "sexathon" started on his 40th birthday. The reporter who covers sex topics for the Post had just returned from a conference where he'd learned about Danish men who form clubs to commiserate when they've been deprived of sex for 100 days or more.

"I've got an idea," Brown's wife, Annie, tells him. "Why don't we start our own club, only we'll reverse it? Instead of not having sex for one hundred days, let's have sex for one hundred consecutive days." (Did I say annoying? This woman is downright insane.)

Brown hems. He haws.

Aw, just kidding: He jumps at the chance. "What a most excellent day!" he thinks. And soon, the cavorting commences.

Brown buys a silk robe that looks like it belongs on Thurston Howell III. Annie acquires panties with "100 Days" spelled out in rhinestones across the backside.

He buys Chinese herbal aphrodisiacs; she buys a few tasteful sex toys. He books a night at the Brown Palace; she books a weekend at an ashram in the mountains. He pops a Viagra; she schedules a Brazilian wax.

If I'm starting to sound a bit numb to the joys of this sex, I'm only trying to give you the book's flavor. There are flashbacks to their 14 years together, a few times when their kids interrupt at awkward moments and one memorable stint when Brown gets the flu and they soldier on anyway, into the sex storm of their own making.

But for the most part, the dramas are little, the repetition big: They get busy. Every night. Even when they'd rather read a book instead of give birth to one.

I'll say this for the author: Brown clearly adores his wife. In his telling, Annie is as cute as the cutest little button. She wears cute nighties, looks cute reading her laptop at the coffee shop, is "sexycute," "as cute as the day we met."

The couple rarely fight. On a daily - "sometimes hourly" - basis, they e-mail each other "ILYSM" (I Love You So Much).

With so much mutual adoration going on, spending time with these two is like being stuck on a bad double date as the other couple necks in the back of the car.

As for the sex scenes, well, I've had more erotic moments watching The King of Queens. Brown tries to walk a careful line. As a result, his narrative isn't detailed enough to sizzle - or sanitized enough to avoid some mighty cringe- worthy moments. There's a lot of this:

"We lay facing each other, between the sheets. Annie stroked my arm.

" 'We nailed it,' she said."

Let's just say that by Day 35, I would have rather watched depilatory infomercials than spend another night with the Browns. Still, I have to admit that Brown arrives at some interesting conclusions when all the acrobatics between the sheets - not to mention atop the exercise ball (don't ask) - are through. The couple's bold experiment, he insists, changed their relationship in significant ways.

While sex sometimes became a chore, he writes, they were always glad they made the effort. The sexathon spurred them to spend more time together and plan fun getaways, improved their communication and made the act itself more enjoyable.

And let's not forget the most important discovery of all: the joys of lube. "Why hadn't anybody told us about its sublime majesties? We had entered middle age entirely lubeless!"

You probably won't be surprised to hear that, after digesting such a mixed bag of revelations, I haven't thought much about what sex did for the Browns' marriage. Instead, I've been worrying about this elevator thing.

Brown, I'm afraid, might have trouble appreciating the position I'm taking on this account of his many positions. But as a critic, it's my job to be honest, even with a guy who seems decent and loving.

No wonder I can't stop imagining our surprise meeting - and that awkward moment as the doors close and I stammer to disavow any knowledge of this piece.

Ah well. We women are used to finding ways around unwanted encounters with men. In this case, a simple prophylactic should do the trick:

Forget the elevator, I'm taking the stairs from now on.

thornp@RockyMountainNews.com or 303-954-5419