Dear Penthouse,

I've read your letters all these years and have to admit that I was a bit skeptical about them. The women all had pneumatic boobs and wanted to sleep with dorky guys who all had eleven inch tools.

It's the same with these Elvira women. Where can you find a 25 inch waisted woman with maximally enticing cleavage, tottering around in five inch heels and big black hair, eyeliner... Where do these women come from? They don't exist.

That's what I thought. Until last night.

I'm hanging with Halspal, who's wonderful at bars because sitting next to him, any other guy looks like Tom Cruise. I figure, if I could get lucky any night, it's tonight.

Bingo bango, sure enough, this dame walks in. All heads swivel. Three guys buy her drinks before her lovely derriere hits a bar stool, which is right next to me. Halspal rolls his eyes and says something about having to get back to his writings (yeah, right) and Mary (yeah, right), and he toddles off, leaving me with Miss Hell-O! May I Buy You A Drink Too?

I'm sipping a Bloody Mary. She takes one look at it, throws the celery stalk at Dave the Bartender and tosses it down like little boys drinking milk straight from the gallon bottle. I'm impressed. The word guzzle comes to mind.

She coughs and spits, which does absolutely wonderful things to her decoulettage (I hope I'm getting these words right), since she's all bouncy in all the right places - there's some serious heft in her chest flesh, and let's leave it at that. When she recovers she makes this face like it was the nastiest drink she'd ever had. I'm like, OK, what's next? That was $3.50 totally wasted.

She grabs my arm and brings her mouth real close to my ear. "Let's get out of here," she says hotly. Her breath could use some Binaca. It smells like an open sewer, and frankly, this does not do wondrous things for the old libido, but she kinda grabs me and yanks me out of the chair and drags me out the door. The guys are whooping and hollering, thinking there goes one lucky schmuck.

We're in the back alley now, and I'm opening the car door for her, and this chick begins doing a serious number on my neck. I mean Good Lord, girl, let's wait until we get back to my place, at least. But no. She's sucking on my neck for all she's worth, right there in the trash filled alley.

I appreciate her enthusiasm, though, and finally South America begins to wake up, if you know what I mean. I move in to grab her a little bit firmer. Hey, if she wants it right here in the alley, who am I to say no? And she has a killer body. Absolutely killer. Long legs, narrow waist, bazooms to die for.

She's far too enthusiastic about the neck action, however. This Hoover on heels is beginning to draw blood, and the more she does the more I'm thinking exactly how long it is I'm going to have to wear a turtleneck sweater, because at this rate it's going to be until next year. But I'm trying to FOCUS. FOCUS. God. I just wish she'd stop with the neck, and perhaps think about applying that wonderful vacuuming motion to other parts of the anatomy.

Major turn off #1 happens when her left arm falls off.

OK. I can rally around that. Left arms are overrated. We can get beyond that.

Major turn off #2: Right arm falls off.

This is when I throw her into the car. Hell, if she's going to be a quadriplegic (which is going to be any second now) it might as well be in my bedroom, so time is of the essence.

We roar off. Get about two blocks, a leg falls off. She's making growly animal noises now. This girl is not looking good any more.

Another block. Another leg.

Another block. I open her door, toss her to the curb, get back in the car. And head to that ladies' strip club in the city, the one where the Chippendales do their thing. It'll be packed with women tonight. I have this unaccountable need to suck on somebody's neck.