I used to wonder: how is it that I have healthy relationships with respected businessmen, while others seem to trade cash and jewelry for sexual favors with rich, oblivious boyfriends? "Maybe they're just in the right place at the right time," I guessed.

Now, though, I'm thinking maybe there's more to it than that. Barry Bonds dated Kimberly Bell through his two marriages, and she's currently testifying in his trial for perjury. In his first trial she testified that, apparently as a result of steroids, his testicles shrank by half, but now she's saying it wasn't quite that drastic. They shrank and changed shape, but they didn't reduce by half. So far she's talked about his balls for twelve hours.

Which, you know, kind of boggles my mind. I've had my testicles nearly all my life, and the only word I can think of to describe them is "dangly." And "widely ignored." Well, and maybe "manicured," if it's near the 15th of the month. But this chick's hitting the thesaurus: thickening, shrinking, changing texture, getting lumpy. This isn't a testicular status report: it's a recipe for caramel corn.

Naturally I thought she was crazy, or a pervert. Does a regular person know that much about their partner's testicles? Not to my mind. It's like going to a concert: Really, if Tina Turner is doing her job, are you going to notice that one of the Ikettes has lost weight?

This got me thinking, though: maybe that's how Kimberly got herself an athlete. She's open to every member of his genital community while I'm the guy with the velvet rope around his mouth going, "You, c'mon in. You two? Get lost!"

I don't like being Puritanical, but it's the way I was brought up. My parents were Christian, which means I'm not supposed to be doing any of this. Forget those drunken weekends: God's already pissed off by what I do with Chuck Norris photos. It's like an earthquake has leveled Los Angeles, and the whole city is on fire. Everybody else is dragging big-screen TVs out of Target while I'm standing in the candy section saying, "Well, maybe it wouldn't be horrible if I took a box of Choxie." Which is stupid, because something tells me heaven doesn't have an express line for people who stole eight items or less.

Anyway, as always, all this pondering and ruminating has taught me a lesson. If I want to date those high-class guys, I need to learn to let myself go. Maybe I'd attract those high-powered dudes if I learned to appreciate animal passions, learned to abandon myself to the pleasures of debauchery, learned to love the smell of a man in heat.

Until then, who wants caramel corn?