Bizarre sex trivia about me: I once slept with a professional psychic to see if he could tell the difference between a real orgasm and a faked one.

I was cocktail waitressing at the nudist resort, you see, and he came and did a show there once a month. (As a side note, isn’t there something odd about a psychic appearing at a nudist camp? It’s just strange somehow.)

He was a nice-enough looking guy in a forty-something, Nathan-Lane kinda way. (A heterosexual Nathan Lane, I should say.) Meanwhile, I was nineteen years old, I had a tan all over my body, and I was cutting a swath through the available cuties of both genders that summer. I was deep in my sexual-experimentation phase. (Or as my friends and I refer to it: one’s slut phase. Almost everyone has one.)

I thought, What would it be like to sleep with a guy who’s psychic? (Or at least, who says he is.) So I worked my section through his little show, punched out, went and sat down next to him at the bar and said howdy.

Looking back, I’m sure my approach was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. I say that based on my experiences being hit on by nineteen year olds. The very young are often beautiful. But they are rarely terribly subtle.

However, he didn’t seem to mind. Men are often so forgiving about that, aren't they? So when the bar closed, we went back his place.

It wasn’t a terrible sexual experience, but remember what I said about wondering if a psychic could tell a real orgasm from a fake one?

Apparently not.