Actor Jason Biggs, most know for staring in the America Pie movies, and his wife hired a hooker to have a threesome with them. Bigg’s wife, who recently posed for Playboy, took to her blog to talk about the experience that helped saved their marriage. Read what she wrote about the experience after the jump.

@Julie1205

So my husband and I got a whore. I’m hoping, unless you’re some sick depraved dissolute of a person, this isn’t the kind of thing you hear everyday. If it is, fuck you, I thought it was pretty gangster. So, ok, where do I begin? I wanted to do something special for his birthday, isn’t that how all these stories start? We were married for just over a year, and in Gemini years, that’s like twelve.

The adventure started when I called up my asshole friend, Chelsea and asked if she knew any “massage therapists”. Chelsea insisted that this chick would come over and with the proper amount of alcohol, do whatever we wanted.

That night, I made the arrangements. I set the mood, turned on some Enigma, and poured champagne. My husband, however, paced around the house like a lunatic, wondering if he was going to get arrested for having a hooker visit our home. The girl arrived at the proper whoring hour of 9pm. I answered the door in a see-through bra and undies. I led her upstairs to my bedroom where she set up her massage table. About thirty minutes in, I started to realize something was wrong. This girl wasn’t a prostitute!! This girl was a legit massage therapist! Fucking Chelsea set me up. The entire hour she wouldn’t shut up about my rotator cuff and various bulging discs. As the night progressed, I did manage to get her drunk. Only to trap myself with her! She couldn’t drive home and wouldn’t shut the fuck up about her pilot she thought we would be perfect for and how, “Can you believe, so many people assume just because I’m a masseuse, I’m down for sex?” YES! I am one of those people! After hours of nonsense, she left. Jason was ready to strangle me. I called Chelsea, who proceeded to laugh her ass off for twenty minutes straight.

The next day, I was on a mission. As fate would have it, we were already scheduled to fly to Vegas that weekend for our friend’s surprise birthday party. While my husband waited on our luggage, my iPhone and I camped out next to a couple grungy kids whose mother was several yards away feeding their lunch money to the Triple Ace of Fortune slot monster. They asked if I was interested in kidnapping them. I smiled, sympathized, thought about my own overexposed childhood, flashed them a pair of tits on cityvibe.com, and said, “Sorry, it isn’t that kind of trip.” They nodded and wished me luck.

As we scurried out of possibly the saddest airport on Earth, I honed in on a photo of a thin brunette with elbows for boobs and made the call. “Hello?” A cutesy voice chimed in instantly.

“Hi, um, Ava?”, I stuttered. Come on Jenny, pull your shit together, you are a bad ass renegade on the run.

“Yeah, well, my husband and I are in town tonight and we were wondering if you (we?) could get together”, I coughed out.

“Sure, what time were you guys thinking?“ she said plainly. Dude, this girl is a hooker right? I mean, she realizes that I am talking about sex acts? Her tone made me feel like I was hiring a fucking babysitter!

“Why are you not weirded out by what a freak I am?“ I thought silently.

“How about, four?” I said. I am a total loser!

Who calls a whore when it is still light out? Better question, who wants a whore coming to their room when they are stone sober and on their way to a family birthday party? I’ll tell you who bitches, me the renegade, that’s who!

“Sounds good. Why don’t you call me when you get to your hotel, give me the room number and I’ll be there.”

“Done”, I cooed and hung up.

We checked into the Four Seasons under the name Drew Peacock. About 50 people were in town specifically for this surprise party and nobody was to know we were there. As instructed, I texted the birthday boy’s wife, Jacklyn, to notify her we were in the building. In an attempt to preserve the surprise, Jacklyn instructed everyone to make sure their texts were cryptic enough to keep her husband from catching on. As I started to write, “The rooster is in the hen house” my husband tore the phone from my hands.
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