Is that a gun in your pocket?

Join our special guest "Anonymous" in his quest for the ultimate "package". Maybe we would want to remain anonymous too, when dealing with subject matter this, shall we say, "sensitive?" All we can tell you is that this talent lives and works in NYC and makes a living doing promotional writing for the record business (VH1, Interscope, BMG, etc.) He once referred to a new release by Motley Crue as the "aural equivalent of a good nipple-piercing," and believe it or not, got away with it. In his free time, Anonymous steals from the rich and gives to the poor, swings through windows on chandeliers and sings with a lederhosen Oompapa band. This guy is busy.

FOR PART I and II of: "IS THAT A GUN IN YOUR POCKET..." please click on February and March archives, respectively> (to your right!)

IS THAT a GUN IN YOUR POCKET or are you just HAPPY to see ME?

By Anonymous

Part III:

Well, it was late afternoon on a summer day in the big city, and here I was with a sock stuffed into my pants, sashaying down Broadway.

People were getting out of work, the sidewalks were crowded. Lot's of 'em were talking on their cell phones -"No, make sure you get red potatoes, not baking potatoes," - and pathetic little me, well, I'm conducting a cultural and social experiment in my pants.

I want certain people to, uhh, notice, but at least on this day, nobody does. At 5PM in the city of New York, clearly nobody thinks of dick. At least for those five minutes. There are other, more urgent considerations -- buses to be gotten upon -- subways to be caught, dinner dates to be organized.

Sighing, I walk into a bar, go into the bathroom, and in a stall, pull the offending object out of my pants. Clearly, I have chosen the wrong time and place for my experiment.

Later that night, I told the tale to my live-in girlfriend, who was probably one of those harried people leaving work at 5 (except, in her case, from uptown).

"Serves you bloody right," she said (she's English). "This is the most absurd, ridiculous story idea you've ever come up with."

"But honey..."

"Why don't you write about music, or culture, or even baseball?" she said. "You've got loads of other interests -- why does it have to be about..."

She shuddered. She couldn't even say the word.

"Am I not supportive enough? Don't you know that I love your, umm, penis?"

"Thank you but..."

"And I personally think it's quite large enough, thank you. Any bigger and it would be too much…"

"Aw, that's nice."

"...And what are you going to do if someone actually sees something they like downstairs there and wants to take you up on it? Are you going to follow this thing through?"

Ah, that's the real point here, I thought. She's scared that I'm gonna somehow take this seriously. I hadn't even thought of that. "Of course not," I started to say.

"Because there just might be some women out there who like what they see and want to get a little bit closer," she blurted.

Going to bed that night, I was...well... let's call it shunned. I got into bed, made an effort to hug her, and received nothing but shoulder.

Clearly, any further efforts to pursue this glorious and noble tale for the benefit of all men out there would come with great personal risks. If I wanted to be dick-for-a-day, my own dick sure wouldn't be getting any, that was abundantly clear. It was a Friday night, a long weekend beckoned ahead, and I lay on my side of the bed, watching the street lights glimmer through the Venetian blinds.

"I'll stop," I whispered to her, not sure she was asleep or not.

No reaction.

"No, really, I'll stop, I promise," I said.

She rolled over and her lovely arms opened up for me.

I'll do just about anything for my fellow man, but giving up sex, well, forget about it...

(Coming up in Part Four -- and yes, there will be a Part Four, our hero gets left alone for a weekend and strolls the parkways of New York!)