I woke up in a fog, perhaps a stupor, but definitely not in the pink, if you get my drift.

The drone lying next to me was a mouth breather. The fumes from his garlic breath threatened to burn my scalp. I edged away, recalling the events of last evening. I'd interviewed Victor Rhone, the head chef at a trendy loop restaurant catering to the hip-crowd. The crowd more concerned with being seen in an eatery than actually eating.

I wished I could remember if I'd sampled any of the delicacies. My thirst for Ketel One and hunger for Victor surpassed my desire to nibble on lobster canapes, salmon pate, or Swedish pickled shrimp.

Victor was an easy score clamoring on about his adoration for older women. I should have taken the hint. He leaned towards Infantasia. My idea of hot sex does not include changing a grown man's shitty diaper. So, after much begging, pleading and crying for his mommy, he whacked off while sucking his thumb. I stayed put in the room. Five martinis' had rendered me rather unconscious.

Thank God I was still dressed, apparently lacking dexterity to undo buttons and belt while under the influence. I found my way to the bathroom and hovered over Victor's commode avoiding the dreaded flying crab. Cursing an empty toilet paper holder, I wiped my ass on Victor's designer shower curtain and I hit the Q button on my phone. "Come get me," I said.

"I'm right outside the door, O' Matron of the Martini," Q answered.

Victor remained in the fetal position as I rummaged through his hard-drive for his private recipe folder. Can anyone say, BINGO?

The ride back was fun, if you call throwing up into your handbag fun. I asked him to stop off at Nordstroms so I could return the purse and get a new one. Q asked the obvious question. "Will they let you return that one?"

I gave him the obvious answer, "Someone has regurgitated in this one, they cannot expect me to keep it."

He agreed.

See, Q does not understand the intricacies of my occupation. I write lusty novels of famous people and their sexual nuances. As I see it, sleeping with famous chefs is research. He claims I'm a horny old woman just working the deal.

If one is to dish the dirt -- one tends to get dirty. I keep a towel in car.