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answered immediately, “The reason more men don’t want to take their clothes off is because they’re so uptight about their little dicks. In all the X-rated videos and magazines they’re twice the size of a normal penis and it’s given every man in America a complex. Even though women all tell me that as long as a guy knows what he’s doing, size isn’t that important.”
    I said that women are trained to lie to men, though I wasn’t sure he got the sarcasm. “Women have the same problem about their breasts as men have about their penises,” he assured me. “If someone could somehow get men and women on the same wavelength about this breast–penis thing, I think it would do more to enhance everyone’s life than anything else.” It was a rather utopian vision, coming from a scumbag pornographer.
    Since then I’ve followed Flynt’s exploits from a distance, watching as he’s evolved into a sort of elder statesman–pornographer, weighing in unpredictably on national matters and civil liberty issues. When his would-be assassin, Joseph Paul Franklin, was about to be executed in Missouri in 2013 for killing a man outside a synagogue in 1977—just one of at least twenty race-related murders he’d been convicted of or implicated in—Flynt filed a last-minute motion through the ACLU to halt the execution. He was against the death penalty, he announced, and didn’t believe the government should be in the business of killing people for vengeance. Franklin was executed anyway, amidst a national controversy about whether the drugs employed in the lethal injection cocktail would cause him to suffer. Flynt, who after years of brutal pain finally had the nerves leading to his legs cauterized to stop all sensation, said he’d love to spend an hour in a room with Franklin inflicting the same damage on him that he’d inflicted on Flynt, but didn’t want to see him die.
    A couple of years earlier I’d been contacted about blurbing his latest book, One Nation Under Sex , a coauthored account of the sex lives of American presidents throughout the nation’s history. I labored to come up with a good quote and finally arrived at this: “Larry Flynt has waged a lifelong battle against hypocrisy and prudery, shattering every propriety and slaughtering every sacred cow. The political classes have never been safe from his special brand of satire. Now he turns his rabble-rousing sensibility back though time with a similar imperative. No more whitewashing! Smash decorum! Bring down the elites!”
    I was happy to be in touch with him again, even through intermediaries. He’d meant something to me—he made me examine my limits, he’d challenged me at my corked-up core. I liked the idea that he still thinks about me, as I do about him. I imagined myself giving him a call the next time I was in LA, but I suspect it won’t happen.

 
    The Con Man
    Every woman adores a con man—to steal a page from Sylvia Plath. Especially one who knows you better than you know yourself, who looks into your eyes and reads your dirty secret desires, who knows what a bad girl you really are under the prim professional façade, and then takes you for everything.
    Such a man is “Mike”: sleek, a reptile, but a sexy reptile, the kind you hate yourself for wanting to fuck. He exudes confidence, as a con man should. “I want to see how you operate,” Dr. Margaret Ford tells him the second time they meet, and she sure gets what she asked for. She wants to write about him, she says, to study him for a book or article, but it’s pretty clear what she’s really come back for. “You want to see how a true bad man plies his trade?” he banters knowingly. “Plies his trade” should be understood as a euphemism.
    I don’t expect many people will recognize the setup of David Mamet’s 1987 House of Games :