I may need to release a sex tape.

I met with my publicist about taking things to the next level, whatever that may be. Nobody wants to live in a cubicle for fifty hours a week. To avoid that corporate trap, I need to sell more books. To sell more books, I need more exposure. A logical person would surmise that increased sales should come from higher quality books. Untrue. I have one word for you: Snooki. You didn’t hear me? How about this word: JWOWW?

“OK, here’s what needs to happen: You need to leak a sex tape.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m fifty. Have you lost your mind?”

“Look what it did for Tommy Lee, Paris, and Kim.”

“I don’t have half the penis Tommy Lee has and the other two, while closer to me in genital size, happen to be beautiful women.”

“None of that matters. It’s all about exposure and publicity.”

“Well, I’m not exposing anything.”

“It can be done tastefully to help your image.”

“Really? My image is so poor that a sex tape would actually improve it?”

“Well, you are known for dating and dashing as well as picking on poor, defenseless dogs and chubby gals.”

“But …”

“You also poke fun at cougars, bikers, Bostonites, and religious fanatics.”

“Technically, they’re Bostoners. Heh, heh.”

“Hush. So, to combat all of this negative energy, we accidentally release a sex tape featuring you and a fifty-five-year-old woman from Boston.”

“I’m intrigued. Continue.”

“You met her at a café while on a city bike tour. She recently moved to San Diego with her chocolate Labrador.”

“God help me.”

“He will because you two go at it in her bedroom beneath a crucifix mounted above her headboard while you wear your bike helmet and her dog lies at the base of the bed watching.”

“Why the helmet?”

“She’s going to be a little rough with you and the crucifix will fall and crack you in the skull.”

“Well, can she at least wear a nun’s habit then? I used to have a thing for The Flying Nun.”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere.”

“I want her to call me Reverend Lance and get nasty without saying any dirty words. We need to be cognizant of the Motion Pictures Association’s film rating. She can be like, ‘Oh gee whiz, yes, freak me, baby. Give it to me. Don’t you love my fragrant tulip? You’re making me tremendously not dry. Your banana is so unripe right now.’”

“What have I done?”

This could work, I began thinking. Still, this dish, like most, could use more topical spice.

“What if the woman is a college woman’s basketball coach and I have my way with her in the locker room? Then, an assistant coach hears the moaning and slapping. The assistant makes all sorts of racket, trying to get us to stop but we’re too busy with the pump soap, hair pulls, and all. Afraid of the fallout, the assistant runs from the locker room and calls Kris Jenner.”

“Kris Jenner?”

“Yes, of course. Kris just happens to be in the middle of a torrid lesbian affair with the coach. Kris storms into the locker room in a jealous rage—OK, with a dog—and demands an explanation while spraying Chloe and Lamar’s Unbreakable fragrance to clear the scent of sweaty old-people sex.”

“Why haven’t I learned not to tempt you?”

“Have the camera crew ready by six. I’ll go shave my balls.”