A POCKET VAGINA IS A TERRIBLE THING TO WASTE: Kinda Interviewing Kinda Famous Women Who Kinda Read Blogs...

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, Calif. (ZP) -- "Lacy" has no problem with public displays of affection.

The moment she stepped out of her car, I knew I was in for it.

The click-click-click of high heels across asphalt, legs moving so fast that she kept one hand on her mini-skirt (not a panties kinda gal) as she dodged Saturday night traffic. The million-dollar smile, devilish and wide. The outstretched arms and lack of response to my usual Hey, chica! greeting.

For a tiny little thing, she hit me like a brick-filled semi, full speed, almost knocking me over in the process. Her handbag, one of those miniature cocktail-party things held to the shoulder by a spaghetti-thin strap, swung free and with equal force...

Right into the ol' scrotum.

"Lacy" is definitely a full-contact kinda gal.

* * * *

Actually, pretty much anyone who's ever seen her work knows how full-contact she can be.

And, well, you'll just have to trust me here, millions of adults, men and women alike, have seen her doing what many say she does best. When she retired, in her mid-20s, she was known for being completely uninhibited - men, women, even self-pleasuring PDA, complete with toys and other props.

Not almost famous. In her own words, kinda famous.

You know - the kinda fame that goes along with working the one legal job in the United States that earns the scorn of certain radical feminists and the goddamn Christian Coalition, even dirtier than those dirty rock albums the two sides tried to censor back in the 1980s, the multibillion-dollar industry that helped birth so many information and communication technologies, like DVDs and VHS tapes, even the World Wide Web itself...

Yup. That kinda famous.

* * * *

As we hugged, as she apologized profusely for capping me in the family jewels, three guys, old Hell's Angels looking dudes, walked up.

One of the men, a 60ish Latino, a mountain of a man, covered in indigo-blue tats and road leather, cleared his throat and stammered like a 15-year-old asking a supermodel to a high school dance.

He told her, point-blank, that he'd jerked off to her pictorials in various magazines back in his Soledad days - an accidental slip of the tongue. The Chicano's eyes hit the deck as he started to mumble an apology...

"Lacy" didn't hesitate. Out came her trusty silver-ink magic marker. A quick squiggle of her former nom d'erotique with a heart on the end, right across the skull-and-snake print, on the back of the man's shirt. She did the same for the other two guys, both of whom had also indicated they were fans of her work.

Three grown men. Life hardened and street weathered.

Scared to ask a woman they'd once seen naked in a magazine for an autograph.

* * * *

There was a miscommunication somewhere.

Apparently, "Lacy" thought we were to have dinner together. I'd eaten a scant two hours before, a monstrous spread at an Italian bistro, a bellyful of spinach walnut salad, stuffed yellow squash, and linguine tutto mare, enough to fuel me for a week.

So she ate. And I watched, sipping on coffee, at a late-night diner.

And we talked about everything under the sun. She'd dumped her most recent ex, a wannabe music mogul without a single "hot prospect" to sell to the real Slavemasters of the Pop Music Plantation. After four years of propping his sorry ass up with her g-strings and high heels and her residuals, she'd kicked him to the curb.

He'd promised her substance when they first met, but by substance he'd only meant dumb and cute. And she saw right through it, knew he was a bum from the first day he'd offered to move in with her (she never asked). He was a charmer, a snake-oil salesman covered in diamond-encrusted jewelry, someone who could spin records and ...

"So you're done with that chick?"

"What chick?"

"Tonya or whatever her name is."

"You read my stupid blog... today?"

It's been a while since I've actually been embarrassed by a blog post.

"Every day, dude. Not like I have anything else to do."

Honestly, I knew she read occasionally. We've chatted online several times - part of the reason we were meeting was, well, because she didn't believe I was who I said I was, and I had serious doubts about her authenticity.

Sadly, I'm just as weird in person, and she's, well, the face I found on way too many web sites. And, for the record, yes, I have a nasty slouching habit and, yes, her boobs are real.

But every day?

I don't know if I should be honored or scared to death.

* * * *

According to "Lacy," there are quite a few kinda famous people that she knows of that read this silly blog - actors and other entertainers, musicians and strippers and club regulars, and even some drag queens.

And I guess I should be flattered to learn that my friggin' online journal has been discussed, in detail, at The Viper Room and other nightspots, that somebody who was once nominated for a major film award listed this blog as her guilty pleasure in a radio interview somewhere out West a few months ago.

Hell, I'm still amazed that anybody reads this silly thing, that Australians and French and British folks lurk, that college undergrads and faculty and janitors and researchers browse through the HTML, even in passing.

And, hell, I was excited when I finally heard back from that Canadian grad student, this cat who I helped find chick flicks with Mandarin subtitles, simply so he could figure out how to ask a 21-year-old out on a date and have something to discuss. Turned out the date went well.

I dunno. I guess I find that more rewarding somehow.

Maybe it's because even kinda famous people, though nerdy, tend to have an easier time getting dates.

Um. Scratch that.

At the end of the day, we're all just like the Canadian guy, trying to figure out who we are and how to get where we want to go. Even kinda famous people.

* * * *

At one point, "Lacy" asked me if I was going to write about she and I hanging out, if I was going to turn braggart, start dropping real names, quit masking over some of my personal experiences behind layers upon layers of innuendo and euphemism.

She had some ground rules.

I could tell the whole thing made her nervous. I told her that, well, she'd have to do something that peaked my interest. And, no, I reassured her, no real names are ever used when they overlap with my personal life.

"Does this mean we're personal?"

"Yup. Honestly, I could give a rat's ass about names."

"Good, 'cause my agent thinks you're shady, and I'm not risking my fucking future."

My first successful, planned blogger interview negotiation. Went very well, I think.

And I guess I have to prove to her agent that I really have no interest in playing the gossip-rag blogger.

Vultures, in my opinion, should stick with eating roadkill, help keep the Blogosphere a personal experience or leave it to people more humane.

* * * *

"Lacy" shoved her hand into her purse, asked me to close my eyes and hold out my hands.

It had the texture of one of those keyboard wrist pads, squishy yet able to hold its odd mushroom shape. It had what felt like grooves for fingers, almost like a handle.

I opened my eyes.

"Dude, that's my pussy! Isn't it cool?"

A silicone vagina, one of those male masturbation devices found in sex boutiques. "Lacy" was so excited, proud. And I could sense that she was sizing me up, too, waiting for me to express shock or to lecture her or to toss the thing across the room and feign ignorance.

* * * *

And I think she was worried that I'd judge her, that the oh-so-educated librarian guy from the Public Ivy town would go all high-brow on her, that I was waiting to call her what so many oh-so-educated people call women who've done what she's done in her life.

In Higher Education, you see, there are way too many Academics who've earned tenure by figuring out new ways to package women like Lacy into clean, sterile, omnipotent research, to find scholarly synonyms for words like whore and victim.

Women in her industry are curio exhibits in theses and student newspaper columns, in rabid faculty commentary and seminary-rocking sermons...

C'mon. As if.

If I ever become that kinda Ivory Tower puppeteer, please shoot me for the sake of my immortal soul.

People are people. Why judge someone because they've been in dirty movies, or because they know some pretty important Hollywood types, or, well, because someone once thought it'd be profitable to market an exact, molded copy of their genitals?

* * * *

Realizing that, yes, this did indeed spark my interest, I shoved the latex toy, faux labia down, into the remnants of her Grand Slam breakfast, swirled it around...

And proceeded to lick leftover pancake syrup off of an artificial clitoris. There's a first time, indeed, for everything.

"Funny. It doesn't taste right. Like eating out Aunt Jemima or something."

I didn't think it was possible to make Lacy blush. Offline and away from the ol' blog, I'm much more crass, downright imbecilic, at times. Trust me, it catches a lot of people off-guard. I'm really a foul-mouthed motherfucker.

Apparently, even a librarian can make kinda famous people blush, make them duck and hide and laugh and almost choke to death on Diet Coke.

That's something to write about.

Being kinda famous, or even famous-famous, doesn't do anything for me. But tossing me a sex toy, based on your own body, in the middle of a wholesome American family restaurant, does wonders for writer's block.

* * * *

Now where's that fucking Ivory Tower?

I think somebody needs to turn that thing into The Ivory Dildo, complete with university logos and overpriced mortarboard tassels. It would go over like gangbusters, especially amongst alumni who feel their alma maters really fucked 'em hard in the cost and bullshit departments.

Hmm. I'm filing a patent tomorrow.

* * * *

By the time we hit the bars, she was all a-twitter, chatty, not some kinda famous woman who sometimes reads my blog but an honest-to-God human being.

After my kinda break-up with "Tonya," and her rather difficult break-up with Mr. Kinda Record Producer, I think we both enjoyed the downtime, the freedom that goes along with kinda not caring what other people think about one's own personal choices.

And for the record, there was no sex involved. Even if there were, dear reader, I'm not sure if I'd discuss it. Kinda not caring is not the same as being stupid.

But there was a lot of flirting. I really think I'm getting the hang of it, actually. And it didn't take "Lacy" long to figure out, well, there are certain places I kinda like to be touched while dancing close, not out of some desire to get laid but to feel more comfortable with myself, who I am as a human being. I think I'm a shitty dancer, really, but "Lacy" just wouldn't let me play wallflower.

And she said she was kinda interested in how I'd write the whole thing up on The Zenformation Professional, interested to see if I'd have the balls to say something open and positive about myself.

I'm supposed to say, I guess, somewhere, that she thinks I'm a very good kisser, seductive and charming. And not even for a librarian. Just as a guy.

And in all honesty, I still don't know how they managed to fit my head into the plane when I left California two days later.

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