It was probably the strangest assignment I’d had in my 30 years as a detective for the New Orleans Police Department. I was called upon to investigate a series of injuries suffered by the readers of a women’s magazine, based in New Orleans, called Nymphopolitan, or Nympho for short.

Even the most casual observer in a grocery store checkout line could see where things were headed, months ago. The competition between Nympho and its closest rival, Bedbook, to attract the attention of young, sex-starved, female readers had become fierce. Each magazine tried to outdo the other with articles containing the most outlandish gimmicks imaginable to jumpstart men’s libidos.

It had started out harmlessly enough in Nympho’s October issue, when an article entitled “Sex, The Final Frontier” proposed that NASA discontinue the experiments presently justifying its space shuttle missions and replace them with studies evaluating the effects of weightless sex. NASA, of course, was flooded with applications, many from wealthy CEOs offering millions to take part in the experiments. “Not going to happen – not during the current presidential administration” was NASA’s reply.

After that, things took a turn for the worse.

In November, one young lady was hospitalized after attempting all of Bedbook’s “60 Hot Sex Tips”in one night.

Then, in December, a man and a woman had to be surgically removed from each other after Nympho’s  “Our Brand New Position that No One Has Ever Tried Before, It Will Blow Your Mind,”sent them to the emergency room, their contorted bodies locked together like ugly, twisted wreckage. (Of course no one had ever tried that position before, and for good reason! The human body was not designed to withstand that type of contortion.)

The last straw was Nympho’s January issue and its “Roller Coaster Sex,”which advocated sex in the wildest and most inappropriate places possible. “Safe sex” took on a whole new meaning when one young man was painfully injured in a particularly gruesome bungee-jumping incident (which rendered him permanently incapable of having children). The news media picked up on the story, and people began to take notice. Obviously, this was irresponsible journalism. But was it running afoul of the law?

I decided to go undercover to find out. I had noticed in the latest issue of Nympho that there were plans for a spin-off magazine aimed at senior citizens called Viagro. I posed as a writer applying for a job with the new magazine and made an appointment to see Brandi Wine, the editor of Nympho.

A background check of Ms. Wine revealed she had made a career out of selling sex since she was 18 years old, when she first hit on the idea of performing as an exotic dancer at business conventions (strictly off the agenda, of course). She would perform while wearing nothing but hundreds of Post-it^® Notes all over her body. Each Post-it Note was numbered in order of its erotic importance, with the smaller numbers covering areas such as the shins and knees, and the larger numbers covering those parts of the body that cannot be shown on TV. For every dollar thrown her way, she would remove one Post-it Note, in numerical order. She promoted herself as “The Hostess with the Post-its.”

This provided her a decent income for some time, until she finally attained an age at which people were unwilling to pay money to watch her strip office-supply products from her body. She then landed a job with Nymphopolitan, starting at the bottom in the research department, then working herself all the way to the top, and not missing any other position in-between. Now, at the age of 43, she was Nympho’smanaging editor.

I arrived for my appointment at Nympho’s headquarters and was promptly escorted into Brandi’s office.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wine.  I’ve always been a big fan of your magazine.”

“Thank you, Mr. August. This magazine has come a long way since the old days, when we were known as Good Homemakingmagazine. You might say we switched from giving out recipes for good food to delving out recipes for good sex.”

“It certainly has proven to be a recipe for success.”

“Yes, but as you know, our board has decided to target other sectors of the sex-magazine market…other than the young, sex-crazed, female sector, I mean. You may be aware of our first attempt, a magazine just for married men.”

“Oh, yeah, the one that had the same girl in the fold-out, month after month.”

“Yes, were you a regular reader?”

“Well, at first, I was, but after three or four months, the honeymoon was over for me, especially after she started putting on weight. It may have been a mistake to only sell lifetime subscriptions. Men don’t want to make that kind of commitment. I had to hire an expensive lawyer to get me out of mine.”

“In retrospect, it was a flawed concept. But we feel we’re on the right track with Viagro magazine, targeting one of the fastest-growing sectors of the magazine market: aging baby boomers. What fresh, new ideas do you have for the old-timers, Mr. August?”

“Well, Ms. Wine, I’ve just written the first draft of an article that I think will fit right in with your plans. It’s called ‘Mind-Blowing Sex for Senior Citizens – Six New Positions for Lovers with Arthritis.’”

“That sounds really hot, Mr. August! That’s sure to send those Oldies right over the edge!”

“Yes, and I plan to follow that up with another hot article, entitled ‘Tips to Snag the Retired Man of Your Dreams and Still Retain 100% of Your Social Security Benefits.’”

“That’s really mind-blowing, Mr. August! Do you mind if I call you Joe?”

“Not at all. I’ve also written something for Nymphothat you might be interested in, called ‘Thirty Stupid Sex Tricks.’”

“Stupid Sex Tricks?”

“Yeah, you know…say it’s your first time with a guy, and you’re a little nervous. I thought it would be a good idea to inject a little humor in the bedroom to break the ice.”

“Mr. August, I think you’re just the man we’re looking for. But that’s enough work for now. Why don’t you join me for lunch? There’s a place around the corner that makes the best barbecue chicken wings. You can watch me suck the sauce off my fingers.”

I immediately recognized that ploy as one of the “101 Mind-Blowing Sex Tips Sure to Drive Him Wild” from the September issue. This was getting really pathetic. I couldn’t allow myself to continue this brainless ruse any longer.

“Brandi, I’m not really a writer; I’m a detective with the New Orleans Police Department. Your magazine is lame and shallow, but it’s not a crime to be lame or shallow. I apologize for taking up your time.” I stood up and walked out of her office.

Brandi ran down the hall after me. “Wait! Mr. August! Please don’t go! Do you really know thirty stupid sex tricks? A girl can have sex anytime, Mr. August, but to have sex and a good laugh at the same time…that would drive any woman wild!”

She pulled me close to her. “Can’t you show me at least one?”

I grabbed her arms and pushed her silicone-engorged boobs off of me. “Brandi, I’ve got 101 stupid sex tricks. But you’re too flaky to ever see numero uno.”

I picked up a Post-it Note off the receptionist’s desk, wrote the number “1” on it, and stuck it on Brandi’s forehead.

“I’d pay you a dollar for that Post-it Note, Brandi, but I know there’s nothing behind it.”

With that, I walked out onto the busy French Quarter street, past the homeless person sitting on the sidewalk, having an animated conversation with someone who wasn’t there.  My close encounter with Brandi had got me thinking.  How many tricks (of the un-stupid kind) did I, in fact, utilize on a regular basis? Hmm…I never thought to count them before; I guess maybe there were a basic dozen or so in my repertoire, all of which worked and none of which required weightlessness, trampolines, bungee jumping, or any other circus-like theatrics. But, I guess, if someone wanted to mess around with 89 other useless moves, some of which involved a significant risk of grotesque and painful injury, that was their business.