Oh honey, as if you even had to ask!
We, as a female race, are in a bind. Everywhere you look, from magazine stands to MTV, images of pouting, baby-faced sissy-men vie for our affections, trying to pass themselves off as sophomoric sex symbols.
N'Sync and the Backstreet Boys may dampen panties in the halls of junior highs across America. Leo may lube up the under-18 set like butter in a hot skillet. But as a red-blooded American female, I hunger for more.
(For god's sake, a little pubic hair would be nice, for starters.)
I want hardness; I want rough edges; I want a tough-talking man in a trench coat who's not afraid to frisk me in a dark alley. When Paula Cole moans, "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?" on my radio, I want to grab her, shake her, and beg her to ask where the hell they've stashed the hard-boiled detectives, too, while she's at it.
Because Mike Hammer is pure Man: Savage, reckless, determined, hot-blooded (ooo, I feel a Foreigner song coming on...), seductive and potent as hell.
And it's that rich, manly potency I drink in, page after page. (Shit, I have to smoke a cigarette and take a pregnancy test every time I finish one of his novels!) As my eyes flow from sentence to sentence, his sheer, bristling manhood is enough to make me drown in my white-cotton Hanes Her Ways...
Just consider me a dame in love. Or sheer lust, anyway...