Love and life and sex and slobs.

I am a people-pleasing problem-solver. Really. Ask anyone who knows me. In fact, if I don't know the answer to your question, I'll be happy to make one up for you. For the past three years I've been putting this special talent (uncertified by even the shadiest of professional certification organizations) to use by writing a sex and love advice column.

Here's just a small sampling of some of the wisdom I've gleaned over the years:

? Men who get so drunk that they shit themselves in your bed are not men who should ever be invited back.

? The bass player who says condoms are the devil (even though he has herpes) really doesn't have your best interests at heart.

? Dating a 40-year-old sociopathic closet case who lives with his dad in New Jersey is always a bad idea. When this same person informs you he finds female genitalia "dirty" and "repulsive," you should flee the premises.

? Revenge fucks never work. A young lady I know tried it with an unrequited love's roommate. It netted her a surly, club-dicked Lithuanian who wore support hose to bed and refused to speak to her once the deed was done. Oh, and the unrequited love monkey?he never did come around.

? Throwing some undeserving mook a pity fuck always, always, always comes back to stalk you.

? The alcoholic boyfriend who absconds with the money you gave him to help pay for your birthday dinner and spends it all on beer instead? You should definitely dump him.

? While fascinating, the story about how your daddy never loved you or the time you were gang-raped and left for dead by a troop of Eagle Scouts should not be told on your first date. If not for your date's benefit, zip it for the sake of the diners at the next table. Save the tragic tales of woe for at least the second or third outing.

? Foreplay is more than just jamming your finger up a girl's poop chute. You should work up to that?maybe try kissing her first. Possibly even try to work in a little boobie action.

You may have noticed that every one of these points is a negative example. Because see, that's what most of the advice game is: How Not to Be. For example, unless they're truly psychotic, a woman will be creeped out?not even the teensiest bit flattered?if you show up for your fourth date with her name tattooed across your knuckles. Sounds fairly obvious, but it happens. And men who, after schtupping you senseless, rock back and forth muttering, "I love you, I love you, I want to have your baby," are best avoided. (Not that you'll know until after he's had his dick in you, but still.)

The overwhelming majority of people write in with questions they already know the answer to. Example: "Is it still considered cheating if it's with my sister?" Or they're seeking affirmation for their bad behavior. Example: "Okay, but what if my sister is a dead ringer for Christina Ricci and walks around wearing only a thong and carrying a bottle of baby oil?"

At least questions like those are more entertaining than the drek I get from the dullards. Example: "How can I meet a girl/boy/chick with dick?" (Answer: I don't fucking know or care.) Or this perennial: "Why do women hate nice guys?" (Answer: We don't. We just hate you.) Then there are the readers who ask me out. No matter that they have no idea what I look like?these fellas are just positive a date with a sex columnist is gonna get real freaky real fast. The bulk of this mail comes from prisoners. In bleaker moments, it's comforting to know that there are several dozen felons thinking fondly of me in the privacy of their cells.

It makes sense that nobody's going to write an advice columnist because they just love their boyfriend soooo much they can't stop smiling or because their girlfriend is such an amazing lay they can't imagine ever wanting to fuck another human in this or any future lifetime. I don't hear from them, nor do I want to. I reach out to the miserable and maladjusted, and I'm proud to count myself among them.

Being a sounding board for the lovelorn?especially when most of your love life resembles an advert for America's Most Tragic First Dates?can get a bit depressing after a while. But the upside is that horrible dates gone psychotically wrong make for good material. Some day, I'll meet a stable, libidinous, sweet, monogamous, brilliant chap who'll take me away from this world of support-hose-wearing bed-shitters and herpetic closet cases to a world where everything smells like tuberose and cupcakes, and I'll have nothing to bitch and moan (or write) about.

Until then, I try to look at the bright side: If I don't have a clear picture of Mr. Right, at least I know exactly what Mr. Wrong looks like.