Even at the tender age of 17, I was no neophyte to the ways of sexual intercourse. I knew the quickest way into a girl's Calvin Klein's wasn't by endlessly trolling the mall, but to venture where competitors are few and far between--church camp. After convincing our local pastor I would be a good counselor by spouting some ridiculous "I love Jesus" horseshit, I soon found myself leading religious sing-alongs during the day, and trading handjobs with Chrissie Mason at night. The daughter of a highly esteemed church deacon, Chrissie had a tight little body that would make the Pope kick a hole in a stained glass window. Though untrained in the art of sensual love, she showed an unbridled enthusiasm for being educated in carnal knowledge as I pulled her into the camp kitchen and banged her brains out while the children sang "Kumbayah" in the distance. She later wanted to get "involved," but I told her I was already involved with spreading the word of Christ, and dumped her. SCORE: Six out of a possible 10 stars.

2. Tess Gillingham
(Date of Intercourse: October 9, 1993. Location: Santa Barbara, CA)

While I'm certainly a proponent of youthful enthusiasm, nothing can beat the wizened experience of an older divorced woman. Actually, Tess was still living in the home of her husband, and was only legally separated--but that night at the bar, she was more than ready to become attached… to my lap. Her newfound freedom emboldened her sexual impulses, and we made love with animalistic abandon. In that one drunken evening I banged her in the alleyway behind the bar, on a bench in the park, in the backseat of the city bus, and on the hood of the husband's Maserati in the couple's driveway. In short, I was fantastic. Naturally, Tess wanted a relationship, but I told her, "You already have a relationship… with the man inside that house." Besides, her years of marriage had completely dulled her ability to give a decent blowjob. SCORE: Five out of a possible 10 stars.

3. Shonda Jackson
(Date of Intercourse: May 2, 1997. Location: Seattle, WA)

I'll say it: She's black. And I'm whiter than a saltine stuck in a snow bank. But our sexual coitus transcended any issues of race, and we humped with a ferocity that reduced her bed to a useless pile of blankets and twisted metal. She had more leg than a bucket of chicken, and dark, long coral nipples that served as an appropriate place on which to hang one's hat. Her labia was pierced with a tiny metal barbell, and I would ride her around the city on my loud, throbby motorcycle, enticing her with the vibrations emanating from underneath. Her mouth could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, and as frantically loud as our lovemaking sessions became, afterwards she would peacefully curl underneath my arm like a newborn kitten. But oh my god, what a NAG! "Humpy, I told you to wash those dishes!" "Humpy, why won't you lower the toilet seat?" "Humpy, stop smoking all my Newport Lights!" All I can say is this: If you are in possession of a Stradivarius, don't treat it like a fiddle. SCORE: Four out of a possible 10 stars.

4. Roberto Bellucci
(Date of Sexual Intercourse: February 17, 1995. Chicago, IL)

I know… I know what you're thinking. He's Italian. Nevertheless, I was swayed by his magnetic eyes, curly black hair, and an ass with the capability of cracking walnuts. Roberto was another in my "found object" series, married to a high-powered Chicago lawyer. But ultimately, a woman--regardless of her prowess--can only do so much to please a man. I mercilessly seduced Roberto, teasing him with a sensual deluge of flirty words and glances. Then--and as simply as that--I took him. This proud Italian stud so easily crumbled under the fire that shot from my loins. I treated him like my dark-eyed Italian bitch, and he loved it. He fell so very hard, and fell even harder when I left. From what I understand, he's a ruined man--the victim of tasting a paradise he could never possess. He currently lives in a homeless shelter in Des Moines, Iowa. SCORE: Three out of a possible 10 stars.