 
e've got a new column idea
for you, Paps," said Mr. Berber.
"It's going to be called 'Smartass
At Large'. You'll be exploring the
city's hottest night spots trying to get laid."
"What's the catch?" asks me. "A gal like myself, well ..." I gave him a cursory
once-over. "I could get laid right
here. Right now."
"That's ... an interesting point, Paps," he said, growing crimson. "But an article
about that would not excite the
senses of our younger readership. You see, for reasons that I myself am struggling to
understand, The Whitely is
desperate to earn the affection of the Grunge Generation. Our cover stories on Spring
Fashion and Winter Getaways
just aren't doing the trick. Seems we're going to have to go ahead and run a humiliating
sex column."
Sex column? Hey ... he's serious. "Let me get this straight. You want me. To go pick up
these grunge guys. Show 'em the time of
their lives. Then recap the event for them, using ... words? Not pictures? Just ... writing?"
He nodded sheepishly. I sighed and shook my head. "I can only be thankful that I
live in a day and age in which
things like this can be done responsibly." You see, safe sex, to me, is kind of like, oh, like
driving. No one intends to
get in an accident. But you equip it with an air-bag anyway, in case you, you know,
change your mind. At any rate,
that's why, every morning before I leave the condo, I hose down one of those ribbed
female condoms with non-oxynol
and slap 'er into the ol' honey-spot.
He thanked me for that little sermon and sent me off to make ready. You know,
when a complex person prepares
herself for an evening of slut service, the results can be dynamic. The lady in me selected
heels, pearls, fur: nice. I then
added cap, leather, tattoo, quick piercing: that would be the rebel in me. Then I was given
a finishing spritz of Liz
Taylor's Passion® by the white trash in me. And we headed into the night to harvest
young stud.
I swept dramatically into Sorry Charlie's, turning heads left and right. I sidled
seductively up to my first victim and
popped out my retainer. "Say there, grunge-puppy," I purred. "You know, when a fireman
dies, they give him a parade.
But when a woman dies, all they give her is a funeral."
He gave me the ol' amorous eye. "What am I, your shrink?"
Fine: scratch the intellectual approach. Time to blast with both barrels: I cranked
the winch on my WonderBra a
notch, accidentally ground my hips against his (in no way intending to make him feel
uncomfortable) and cooed, "I'm
wearing a condom."
Oops: Mr. Uptight. "Well," I would've said to him if he'd made the
mistake of being there to listen, "Aren't you just
god's gift to gays." Zinger. Well, it was late and I was getting tired, so I decided to call it
a night, but not without first
trying to get laid at Jake's, Ginza Tavern, Farrell's, Westlake Shakey's, Butch's Guns, and
Wayne's Chevron.
Pretty much the same story. Sheesh. Is every joint in town a gay
bar? Oughta be a law ... hmm. I started outlining
an article.
The next morning I swept dramatically into Mr. Berber's office. The whole
editorial staff was there: all the better. I
plopped down and put my feet up on his desk for a second. "Lemme put it this way:
there's a lot of guys this morning
with big grins on their faces."
In fact, some of them -- like the guys in the room -- were even laughing: that's the
power I have over men. Berber:
"We're sorry, Paps. Kind of an April Fool's joke."
I checked my watch. "Uh, it's not April Fool's Day. Oh ... I get it. That's the
joke." And I matched 'em hee for haw.
Berber: "I mean, think about it. Sending a 52-year-old woman out into the grunge
community to try to get
laid. I have never heard of a more ludicrous idea."
I chuckled, nodding. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, don't misunderstand me. We're keeping the column. But we're going to have
Melissa ghost-write it. And then
we just sign your name to it." The beautiful Melissa? Then Berber looked out at
the reader. "In fact, that's what we've done with
this column. You see, Paps, ever
since you took off for New York City two months ago and stuck us with all those 1-900#
charges, we've been wondering how to
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