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Volume CCXXXIV, Number 51    October 21, 2004 

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You'd expect the sexual memoir of a borderline bulemic ballerina to be unreadable. But you wouldn't necessarily anticipate that even the reviews would be unendurable.

Exhibit A: how about Toni's interview in Salon with Rebecca Treister?  No one can say that Rebecca refuses to dig deep. Bentley writes in her book about the 298 times she's had anal sex, although perhaps not each one specifically. What do inquiring progressive minds want to know? Asks Rebecca: What about the, uh, ****?

And if you survive that question (never mind the answer), Ms. Treister, who doesn't sound as if she's been driven down the dirt road, goes on to describe how Bentley saves various souvenirs of these encounters. Our idea of a souvenir is a Grand Canyon coffee mug, not something that was fished out of hers by her boyfriend Dick Cheney, whom she refers to only as "A-man."

We could plunge in further, but we should let author Bentley squeeze out the last word. Having flogged a memoir devoted entirely to her lust for buggery, she had the temerity to close up tight when Treister asked her: At the end of your book, you have only had anal sex with one other man. Now, years later, have you had other anal relationships?

Bentley's response: I would rather not talk about my personal life.

Make that two of us.

The ranks of the unreadable are stuffed with advice to gals about guys (see Spy No. 38 October 2003).  But for sheer ability to turn old rope into royalties, you've got to hand it to He's Just Not That Into You.

Why don't men call, especially after you've given them your best Toni Bentley imitation? The authors claim that some women believe the phenomenon is caused by sunspots, electromagnetic interference or their failure to laugh at his fart jokes.

Greg and Liz know the answer: if he wanted to see you again, however you interpret that verb, he'd call you. Well, duh.

The more interesting question is why women view their role as waiting by the phone for the tall investment banker who doesn't call while turning down the imprecations of the short balding shop teacher who does. If you want to move the product, girlfriend, keep in mind that the telephone also works for outgoing calls.

You also might want to keep in mind that a man aggressive, confident and rich enough to pursue and boink you probably is able to repeat the trick a few hundred times before he finally decides to build Ms. 345 her dream house in Greenwich.

That will be $11.97, please.

Come on, admit it: you and all the other tossers love Maxim.  It's not the stupid jokes or the hot babes, exactly.  It's the fantasy that the guys who write the stupid jokes get to bang the hot babes.

Sadly, like most other fantasies, unless your name is Ben Affleck or Usher, it's not true.

So we are told by Dave Itzkoff, a dorky but clever Princeton grad in his memoir. We don't associate "dorky" or "clever" with Princeton, which is maybe where his troubles started. But it turned out those well-oiled bimbas posing in their thongs for Maxim weren't going to put out for the guy who could put a funny caption under their picture.

Something's gotta be wrong with that. After all, when the bimbas "write" what they are looking for in a man, they invariably say a good sense of humor. It turns out when some six-foot blond says that, she's the one with the good sense of humor, because grungy low-paid magazine editors like Itzkoff don't stand a chance.

Itzkoff's book, at $16.97, is actually a cheap way for a dork to have his fantasies shattered. Usually, what with drinks, dinner, limo and cover charge, it costs more like $200.