Christina Valhouli

So I decided to see how a Brazilian bikini wax was going to change my life. I knew it was going to be a funky experience from the get-go. When I called to make an appointment, the “hold” music was the Wu-Tang Clan. And inside the salon, which is housed in an elegant townhouse on West 57th Street, thumping Brazilian music fills the air (probably to mask the screams of the clients).

I’m led into a small room by Juracy, my J sister of the day. She doesn’t speak much English but she knows enough to tell me to take everything off and lie down. She runs her hands down my legs and pulls them away abruptly. “Ohhh, you shave!” she says, clucking and frowning at me in disapproval. She makes me feel like I’ve just been caught cheating on a test. “Well, I’m Mediterranean, you know, and shaving is just easier.” The frown deepens. “You let it grow and come back see me in three weeks.” This woman means business.

Juracy grabs my legs and bends them toward my chest, and plants a hand under each knee. It’s hard to act nonchalant when you’re bare-assed, twisted into a yoga position and giving a stranger a bird’s eye-view of your nether region. As I’m concentrating on the cherubs and moldings on the ceiling (just like being at the doctor’s!), Juracy spreads baby powder all over my crotch and butt. And I mean all over, inside and out. This woman is not shy about touching strangers. She tilts me up slightly, frosts my butt with warm wax and wham, bam, there goes the hair. I didn’t even know I had hair down there. (Yup, everyone does. Butt waxing is part of what differentiates a Brazilian wax from a regular wax.) The pain isn’t bad at all but I become alarmed when she grabs my labia, folds them back and spreads wax on them. Riiiiiiiip. I gasp and my eyes bug out. “Owwwwwww.” Juracy grins.

She twists my body from side to side as she works her way up, and at one point my leg is thrown over her shoulder. I feel like she’s going to cart me off to the woods, cave-man style. The waxing is over in about 15 minutes. Then Juracy goes over my body with tweezers, plucking stray hairs. And for the grand finale, she grabs my pubic hair between two fingers, pulls it up, gives it a good whack with scissors and dusts me off with more baby powder. I’ve been too afraid to look until now. I peer down at my body. It’s a mess, glowing red and swirled with baby powder. Ugh.

I walk over to the mirror and once I get past the stricken look on my face, I see for the first time the magic Juracy has performed. My pubic hair has been shaped into a neat little upside-down triangle, with the point ending right above my lips, which are clean and smooth and bare. I feel like a 12-year-old, but a naughty, Lolita kind of 12-year-old. This is hot. Then the pain sets in. I can’t think straight.

So why do women go through with this? “Part of it is the thong thing. It’s not attractive if you’re hanging out of it,” says Suzanne Biallot, the company spokeswoman. Suzanne was being very polite. What it really boils down to is sex. Women get it done because it makes sex better. Jonice, the youngest J sister, offered her explanation to the New York Observer last year.

“Makes you sexy. Makes you fashion. When I don’t have my bikini wax, I don’t feel like to have sex with my husband. I feel dirty. And even himself say, ‘Try a bikini wax!’ I feel free. I feel clean. I feel sensuous even when I take a shower.”

My friend Chad’s girlfriend had one done recently so I asked him if, as with Gwynnie, a Brazilian bikini wax changed his life.

“I didn’t think I’d get into the bald eagle look until my girlfriend surprised me with it,” he said. “She made certain the lights were off and when I felt her it was like, oh my God, an unbelievably primal welling of emotion. First from the shock and then from the whole little girl eroticism of it. It’s hard to describe. I guess it was like tasting forbidden fruit. Oral sex was definitely better because there was no hair to get in the way. Even regular old missionary position sex was better though too. Until she started growing stubble.”

Sexiness aside, what about safety? Is it bad to remove all your pubic hair?

“Nope,” says Dr. Sandor Gardos, a licensed clinical sexologist and all-around groovy guy. “We’re not entirely sure what the purpose of pubic hair is. The best theory is that it helps trap pheromones, the odors that make you sexually attractive.” He also pointed out that waxing is preferable to other forms of hair removal, like depilatories, which can be too harsh for mucus membranes.

When I explained the ins and outs of a Brazilian bikini wax to the good doctor, he was vaguely alarmed at the image of the aftermath. “Oooooooh, you’re going to have some unsightly little bumps and it’s going to itch like a motherfucker when it grows back. Not to mention that ugly 5 o’clock shadow.” Thanks for pointing that out, doc. It’s been a week since my wax, and so far I haven’t gotten any ingrowns or bumps. Suzanne, the J. Sisters spokeswoman, suggested using a loofah to prevent ingrowns. A loofah? Is there no end to the Brazilian tolerance for pain? Ahhhhhh!

So as I was limping back to my office, I started to wonder what else can be done to pubic hair. Why is it that women can cut, dye, trim and straighten their hair, but not their pubes? Personally, I think everyone could benefit from a little trim now and then. Why not a special design for special occasions? Bring on the pubic hair topiary! Why don’t we celebrate our pubes instead of yanking them out? In the ’70s we did, or at least fashion designer Rudi Gernreich did. He gained notoriety designing the first topless bathing suit. But his last hurrah was perhaps the greatest — the “pubikini,” a sliver of fabric that wrapped around the hips and crotch in a V-shape to reveal a thatch of pubic hair dyed green. You can read all about in “The Rudi Gernreich Book” (Rizzoli, 1991), written by his model/muse, named, deliciously enough, Miss Moffitt.

Or let’s say you get a Brazilian and are feeling a little breezy with the autumn winds coming along. My friend Ben tipped me off to merkins, or pubic wigs. They’ve been around since the 14th century, when randy aristocrats would wear them to conceal oozing syphilis sores. One man in London is single-handedly trying to bring about a merkin revival. Rick (“Muff Daddy”) Stonell, owner of the Archive and Alwyn salon in London, offers a wide variety of custom-made merkins and a “full-service pubic salon.” (They also do regular hair for the straight-laced types.) Stonell started with chin wigs and from there, it was a natural progression … south. So the first question I ask Stonell is, “Why?”

“It’s a body ornament, body furniture, really. We’ve gone through piercing, branding, shaving. People want something more natural,” he says. Although what’s natural about a fuzzy pink heart hovering between your legs is beyond me.

Stonell’s merkins come in three sizes: small, medium and “Oh my God, bring out the bush whacker!” Customers come in for repeated fittings. “We don’t mess around,” says Stonell. They can be cut and dyed into any shape. His favorites include corporate logos, bull’s eyes, stars and stripes, targets and love hearts. “We even had a lord come in and pick one out for his wife. We suggested the family crest. It’s really all very interesting,” he says about his line of work. That has got to be the understatement of the year.

The merkins are held in place by a transparent G-string or fastened onto pubic hair with adhesive glue. They’re made from human hair, nylon, or — no joke — yak belly hair.

“I had a yak sweater once and it smelled when it got wet,” I muse out loud.

Stonell grows silent.

“We don’t have that problem,” he replies.

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I’m still wondering how a Brazilian bikini wax changed Gwyneth’s life, but her publicist won’t return my phone calls. Maybe it’s the reason she broke up with Ben Affleck?

I can honestly say that waxing has changed my life, but not in the ways you would think. Just last Friday I was crossing the street with merkins on my mind and got hit by a cab. It smacked me in the leg and by some weird reflex I never knew I had, I jumped up on the hood of the cab so I wouldn’t get run over. I’m staring the cabbie in the eye and the nice old couple in the back seat are horrified. I roll off the hood, finish crossing the street and buy a cup of coffee. After the adrenaline wears off I end up in the emergency room, where a cute scuba-diving fireman asks me out in the waiting room. So all is not lost. And by the way, the waxing hurt more than getting hit by the car!

Another note: Getting waxed is also like getting a haircut. No matter how good the hairdresser, you need a few days to get used to it and wash and style it yourself. I love my pubic crewcut even more after a week. Just walking down the street is fun because you glide. Running errands is a blast, and I would cheerfully walk 20 blocks for a cup of coffee. Plus, getting waxed is one of those hidden female pleasures, like wearing trashy lingerie under a business suit. It’s your little secret that makes you walk around with a smile, and puts an extra swagger in your step.

So would I do it all again? You bet your merkin I would.

Like Fabio, Damon and Gage are known in the industry as “slashies.” In addition to their male modeling careers, both have appeared as extras in the indestructible soap “As the World Turns” — but not too often because they don’t want to turn into “extra boys.” Blond and blue-eyed, 23-year-old Gage looks like a taller version of Val Kilmer; Damon, 25, has green eyes and carefully messy brown hair (he uses moisturizer as hair gel) and refuses to admit that he looks like Ben Stiller. Gage showed up wearing a white sweater and tan pants underneath a floor-length white wool coat, while Damon sported a grungier, rocker look. For the first time in my life, I sailed past the smiling doorman and velvet rope of the notoriously strict Coffee Shoppe.

While Derek Zoolander skyrocketed to runway fame through a spectrum of “looks” — including “Blue Steel” and the show-stopping, Malaysian prime minister-saving “Magnum” — the Fusion boys said they do not have trademark expressions. “If I have a look, I guess it would be ‘the Blank Stare,’” said Gage, giggling as he dug into a plate of fried plantains and sipped a frozen Cosmo. “Or ‘the Pondering Moment.’ Or ‘I Can’t Believe I’m Doing This!’ Or ‘Please Don’t Make Me Look Stupid.’ I don’t practice my looks at home, but my agency says I should.”

Damon refused to touch the platters of fried food, regarding the pile of grease with disdain. “It’s probably a good idea to practice your looks,” he acknowledged. “You don’t want to waste the photographer’s film. I should practice, but I always forget to.” Damon paused for a moment and then brightened. “I’m in a band with a guy from Denmark who’s also a model and he was showing me one of his looks. It’s like this,” he said, sucking in his cheeks and curling his lip in a sneer.

I asked the models if they polished their chiseled features with any secret beauty techniques. “Facials? No way. I don’t use any of that stuff,” said Gage.

Does he ever do freaky model things, like colonics?

“Hooked on phonics? What?”

While I have a soft spot in my heart for Zoolander (how could you not like a man who wants to start “The Derek Zoolander School for Kids Who Can’t Read Good and Want to Do Other Stuff Good Too”?), Damon and Gage said they identified more with Hansel, but only after much prodding. “It’s kind of a dumb question because it’s like having to pick dorky or dorkier,” said Gage, before finally relenting and choosing the shaggy-haired, New Age-dizzy model played in the film by Owen Wilson.

“Anyone who doesn’t pick Hansel is a complete moron,” said Damon with his best sneer. “Who would answer Derek? He’s just a loser.” I pointed out that Zoolander was the nicer one. “He was only nice after he lost the Model of the Year Award,” shot back Damon. Incidentally, Gage did attend last month’s VH1/Vogue Fashion Awards and said it was much cooler in real life. Derek Zoolander, however, refused to show up for his award, sending in a video explaining that he was rejecting the fashion industry honor “for Richard Gere-like reasons” that he and his handlers were still figuring out.

“Derek took the whole modeling thing too seriously,” said Damon.

“Yeah, Hansel didn’t take life too seriously and I don’t take life too seriously so I’d pick Hansel,” agreed Gage.

Neither of them could think of anyone in the modeling industry who resembled the diabolical Jacobim Mugatu (Will Ferrell) or the tacky Maury Ballstein (Jerry Stiller). But Gage thought the idea of a male model being groomed as a political assassin à la Zoolander was not too far-fetched. “I read a book about that, ‘Glamorama.’ Have you heard of Bret Easton Ellis? He also wrote ‘American Psycho.’ It’s about a male model who is stupid but not too stupid and cheats on his supermodel girlfriend. In the end, he’s inducted into this group of assassins. It’s fucked up.”

Damon, on the other hand, thought that male models would make poor political killers. “Assassins have to be clever and make quick decisions,” he pointed out. “I don’t know if a lot of male models could do that.”

“Female models would be better because they go for rich dudes,” said Damon, with a somewhat enigmatic leap of logic.

“Yeah!” affirmed Gage.

By this point, Gage was on his fourth or fifth shot of Captain Morgan and had stripped down to a tight black tank top. I was sloshing through my third beer, and had already been convinced to play a game of tattoo show-and-tell, which is never a good idea when your tattoo is etched onto your lower abdominal region (although the boys did compliment me on my leopard-print underwear). Damon was growing increasingly surly about the strict food and drink budget imposed on me by my editor. Gage was starting to make suggestive jokes about magic tea and Himalayan midgets. So I tried to change the subject by coaxing the boys into a dueling “walk-off” in the Coffee Shoppe aisle. They refused but said, for the record, that unlike Zoolander, they are both “ambi-turners.”

“I can turn both ways on the runway, but one way is definitely easier,” said Gage.

“Yeah, it depends on which foot you start with,” said Damon.

“I’ve never actually tripped. On the runway. Well, I’ve never done the runway.”

“Really? So I guess I’m runway boy and you’re more like print boy.”

“Yeah, I’m just a diamond in the rough!”

Damon was suddenly distracted by the tall, “stretched-out” hostess. Both boys had established early in the evening that they were straight, but often mistaken for gay. “People assume I’m gay all the time, because I’m also a dancer and I kiss on both cheeks,” said Gage. They feigned shyness when I asked them if male models had ridiculous amounts of sex.

So, I pressed on: Is it hard to be really, really ridiculously good-looking?

“You think I’m ridiculously good-looking?” asked Gage.

“I think you’re very good-looking.”

“Well, I don’t think I am.”

“Of course she’s going to say that, dude. You believe everything she says? She’s just trying to get a response out of you.”

“Are you trying to get a response out of me?”

“No, I’m just being honest here.”

“Are you sexually harassing us? That is so unprofessional. I’m going to call my agent.”

As it turned out, Gage didn’t really mind being sexually harassed and, lifting his shirt to show off his six-pack, he launched into a game of “poke the abs.”

The boys could have spent much of the evening debating whether or not they were absurdly beautiful. But we decided to settle the matter once and for all by unleashing Gage into the Coffee Shoppe crowd to see if he could entice anybody to join us in a Zoolander-Hansel-style freak fest. He quickly lured a cute ballet dancer over to our table. We giggled for a few minutes, but she passed on the freak fest. Next we targeted two blonds sitting at the bar who looked like they were straight out of ABBA. Again Gage served as our emissary. They told us they thought we were “very adorable” but Tuesdays weren’t good for a freak fest. “How about Friday? We can do it on Friday.”

The evening was ending on a discouraging note. The power of male beauty was failing to conquer all, or even any, of these busy New Yorkers. But Gage was still thinking positive. “You know, one of the benefits of being a male model is that you can burp in public and still be sexy.” Who said glamour is dead?

For years I thought I must be the only person who couldn’t take a crap near their boyfriend. But when I finally confessed my bathroom anxiety to my girlfriends, I received a lot of support. There would be a moment of stunned silence, then a slow-spreading grin and a look of relief (it’s like bonding with women you just met over period stories). I’ve had endless conversations with my girlfriends about this, and the lengths we go to avoid it — like running the water, fleeing in the morning to go “buy bagels” and carrying a mental map of every Barnes and Noble within a 30-block radius.

We know it’s silly and irrational — we’re all human, we all shit. We don’t care about peeing near our boyfriends, so what’s the problem? Somehow we physically can’t take a dump near them. Maybe it’s “performance anxiety” or a need to maintain an aura of odor-free mystery. It could be a weird Freudian psychosexual thing, that we would rather keep our association with our genitals strictly sexual. But whatever it is, it’s a problem — especially if you’re living in a 300-square-foot Manhattan studio (like mine) where the bathroom is uncomfortably close to the bed.

Avoiding the bathroom is easy if you’re dating someone in the same city and you don’t live with him. You can return to your apartment in the morning or wait until you go to work. Somehow it’s less embarrassing to have your colleagues overhear your bathroom activities than your loved one (although my office bathroom, which looks like it was ripped off from the county state fair, is directly off the kitchen, a situation that has its own unique set of problems).

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Vicki, 35, remembers the first time she slept with her then-boyfriend, David. She woke up in the morning and felt her stomach rumbling. She told him she was leaving to go “buy bagels.” Instead, she ran down the street to her friend Stacy’s apartment and started banging on the door. “Open up, I have to use the bathroom,” she said. “Why? What’s wrong with yours?” asked a puzzled Stacy. “Yeah, but I just slept with David for the first time and didn’t want to take a dump at his apartment.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh.”

The ultimate in bathroom anxiety is the weekend getaway, because you’re stuck with your beau 24/7 and there’s no escape. Britney, 25, avoided taking a weekend trip with her boyfriend for the first year because of her bathroom issues. Then one time, it was unavoidable. “I just couldn’t go to the bathroom,” she says. “I would wait until the middle of the night when he was asleep, and sneak into the bathroom, but I still couldn’t go. I was afraid of everyone hearing me. By Sunday night my stomach was huge.”

Phoebe, a 36-year-old New Yorker, just started dating a man in San Francisco. The first few times she visited him, she couldn’t use the bathroom. “The whole time I was there I didn’t shit,” she says. “I don’t know why. I thought to myself, is it because it’s not sexy to shit? It kind of defeats the whole purpose of looking sexy if you have a huge bloated stomach. It also makes you irritable, which takes away from the whole experience. But as soon as I get home it’s like, bang, I go.”

She also points out that when she was married, she had no problem taking a dump near her husband. “It was definitely a sign of how much I loved him,” she says. “I never cared if the door was open or not.”

I have to disagree with Phoebe. If I’m in love, I can’t go to the bathroom near him. (The one man I had no problem taking a dump around was someone I was never in love with.) My last relationship was long-distance, which made the bathroom easier to avoid. In the entire year that we dated, I think I only used the bathroom once when he was in the vicinity, and that was after way too much coffee. For the record, I never heard him go to the bathroom either.

When he invited me to Paris, I was a little worried — what was I going to do without a network of Barnes & Nobles? The trip ended up being relatively trauma-free because the French have the good sense to keep the toilet separate from the bathroom (double doors definitely help muffle incriminating sounds) and the doors on bathroom stalls actually reach the floor.

Weirdly enough, although I could talk to my beau about my bathroom issues — we used to laugh uproariously about it — it never made it any easier. Just to torture me, he used to barge into the bathroom and jump on my lap when I was on the toilet. (This was not part of a fetish that some people have about “water sports” or “golden showers.”) And it has nothing to do with why we broke up.

Of course, there are some women who have no problem using the bathroom around their boyfriends. When I asked my friend Miranda, 25, about it, she thought I was nuts and became exasperated by my questions. “Look, everybody dukes and if I have to duke I just say, ‘I gotta duke,’” she says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Guys are always talking about their crap, how they just took the best crap, and I kind of like that. Plus, I wouldn’t want to miss the window of opportunity.”

Louisa, 30, also thought it was a strange question. “It can be embarrassing, but so what? You get over that. What else are you going to do?” The one time she would get annoyed is when she was headed to the bathroom and her boyfriend would say, “Are you gonna go drop a spike?”

Speaking of the male animal, almost all of my guy friends stared at me in utter bewilderment when I brought it up. Only one of my men friends would admit to having second thoughts in the bathroom. Bill, 29, says he never uses the bathroom without the sink running — “and I’m a conservationist, but ultimately my bathroom anxiety wins out.” Bill tells me that “the well-timed flush for noise control is key,” and that he will even bring a Walkman into the bathroom so he can “concentrate.”

According to the “experts,” all of this is normal — at least when it comes to peeing. There is a medical term for people who can’t urinate in public, called shy bladder or “paruresis” and a host of support groups, but nothing having to do with pooping. I called Jerilyn Ross, the president of the Anxiety Disorders Association of America, to discuss.

“I’ve only heard about this from one patient, and she was the most psychotic person I’ve ever met,” she says. Still, she acknowledged that it could be a real problem, but not one that is necessary to “get over.” “It’s just a cultural, upbringing thing,” she says. “It’s one of those things that’s not considered polite.” She told me that in Japan, some toilets have a button that will give a louder flush to cover up noises, if needed. Her advice to the bathroom-shy is to tell your beau to simply leave the room, or when traveling, to use the bathroom in the hotel lobby.

Sandor Gardos, a sex therapist, was stunned into silence when I asked him about this. “Wow. I wasn’t aware this was a phenomenon,” he says. “I just thought when a person said she was going to get the bagels, she really meant it.”

Gardos says the origin of this is the unrealistic expectations and fantasies people develop about relationships — and a lack of a good shitting role model. “I can’t recall Julia Roberts ever taking a dump in her movies,” he says. After thinking about it some more, Gardos pointed out, “Look, you can’t deny that you don’t take a dump. That would be weird. Is a distended stomach more attractive than taking a dump? You have to ask yourself, What is the fear? What will happen if my partner hears me going to the bathroom?” Gardos suggests lighting a candle, turning on the water or singing a tune.

Sex therapist Deb Levine was a little more sympathetic to this problem, and said it was more common in the beginning of a relationship. “I have a friend whose husband proposed to her the first time she farted in bed, because he thought, ‘Yeah! Here’s a real woman.’” Her explanation for the anxiety is this: “It’s about maintaining space. You don’t want your boyfriend to see you in a way that’s associated with uncleanness or smelliness.” Her advice to women on dates is to use the bathroom in the restaurant, and “just remember that everyone has a digestive system. Everyone has to go to the bathroom.” She also suggests carrying a matchbook with you, or cracking a joke about it (like my friend Natalie, who uses the code term “growl” with her boyfriend, as in “Excuse me, I gotta go growl.”)

While the medical profession hasn’t recognized this as a problem, pop culture has. One “Sex and the City” episode deals with Carrie taking a shit at Mr. Big’s place for the first time and then talking to her friends about it over cocktails; there’s the infamous bathroom scene from “Dumb and Dumber” where Jeff Daniels’ character uses his date’s bathroom before they head out to dinner and clogs it up; and many of us could relate to Finch from “American Pie,” who can only go the bathroom at his house and would leave school in the middle of the day to go home as needed. His friends knew about this, so one day they slipped him a laxative so he would be forced to use the school’s bathroom.

This problem has apparently escaped Ian Schrager, however. His latest hotel, the Philippe Starck-designed Sanderson in London, doesn’t have walls in the hotel suites, only sheer, gauzy panels — including around the bathroom. This, to me, is the ultimate nightmare. Juliet, the hotel’s receptionist, confirmed that yes, all of the suites use sheer panels, and says she has never received any complaints (maybe this is just an American obsession.) “The bathroom is discreet, and it has a very sensual look with all the netting,” she says, laughing. “You can vaguely see through it but not totally.”

Not good enough, Juliet.

If the star is considering a leap into politics, he’ll need to prepare. Reporters will surely ask, for instance, what exactly happened in the U.K. during his recent publicity tour for “The Sixth Day.” Schwarzenegger allegedly groped three female journalists (his publicist denies this), earning him the nicknames “Scharwzenookie” and “Kindergarten Cop-a-Feel” from the Fleet Street press and a “Groper of the Year” award from the London Sun. Rumors are also circulating about the actor’s health. In 1997, he underwent elective heart surgery to replace a faulty valve, and the studios reacted as if he had the plague. “I really could feel people kind of pulling back,” he told the Los Angeles Times. “You know, they don’t return your phone calls the same way they used to.”

In our recent conversation, the movie star was sharp and animated as he discussed Hollywood violence, the crisis of the family, Bush-era politics and life with a Kennedy liberal, his wife Maria Shriver, with whom he has four children.

What do you see as the most pressing problem in the inner city today?

The parenting problem. A lot of minorities have such a problem with the single-parent situation. The parents are the single most important influence on a child, followed by education and the peer group. The number of single parents in the U.S. has quadrupled since the ’60s, and there has also been an increase in violence and school shootings. All that stuff has increased largely because of a lack of parenting, and many households only have one biological parent — so many of them are fatherless. It really creates a big problem.

You see single parents all the time in Hollywood, like Jodie Foster, Camryn Manheim and now Calista Flockhart. Do you think it’s sending a bad message?

I would say you have a better chance if your mother happens to be Jodie Foster or any of those women who can afford a swim teacher or a basketball coach, because there is a mentor right there. But in the inner city, parents do not have the money to hire a coach or join the soccer club. They have no one to drive the kids, no chauffeur or nanny. I think single parenting absolutely has an effect on kids down the line.

I see it firsthand in my family. If I am away on a film for three weeks, even though I come home every weekend, you can see the kids getting out of control. One person cannot create the discipline and the guidance and helping with homework. When I am at home, Maria and I drive the kids to school together; we pick them up together; we take them to dancing, soccer, horseback riding lessons. It takes a lot of effort. If you are not on top of the situation, the kids lose confidence in you.

I think the situation with single parenting [in minority groups] is disastrous. The statistic is that 64 percent of blacks are with one parent, while with whites, it’s like 26 percent. With Hispanics, it’s maybe 35 percent. It’s gone up so much since the ’60s. In the ’60s, among minorities, only about 20 percent had single parents.

Why do you think that is?

There are two things at work here. Since the ’60s, many more women have gone to work outside of the home. The husband is at work, the mother is at work. Now the kids are always alone. As a country, we have to supplement where there is a vacuum. Youth today just don’t have guidance. If they have after-school programs and mentors, they will be fine.

Do you think a European sense of family is missing from American culture?

To me, family has always been the basic foundation of everything. When I was growing up, both of my parents were home every night and played with us, and we ate together every night. It was normal to have breakfast, lunch and dinner together. Of course, I couldn’t wait to grow up and get away from my parents. [Laughs] But looking back, it enabled me to do the things I did, because my parents gave me this security and confidence, and they drilled into me the importance of education: You have to train your mind and your body. When I got up in the morning, I had to do 200 knee bends!

Do you make your kids do that?

Some of that, but of course we can’t do it in the same way. In youth, I was smacked around. It was totally normal, but today it’s considered child abuse. I think today the biggest child abuse is to neglect kids.

Any woman who thinks, “My biological clock is ticking and I want a baby, and it doesn’t matter if I have a husband or not” — well, without running anyone down, that is a mistake.

The divorce rate is now about 50 percent. Do you think couples should stay together for the sake of their children?

Let’s say that out of this 50 percent who are getting divorced, half of them shouldn’t be together. But the other half, maybe their marriage falls apart because they can’t agree on something. There are many reasons to break up, but is there really enough cause to have your children be alone with just one parent?

What do you think about gay couples raising children?

To me that is not a huge problem like single parenting. Two people are sharing responsibility, not one. Am I an expert in that subject? No. To me this is not a danger. Single parenting is a danger and that’s what we have to avoid.

Why did you get involved with the Inner City Games Foundation?

I wanted to come up with an alternative to what was going on in the street — the violence, the gangs, the teenage pregnancy, the guns, the drug abuse. When Danny Fernandez [head of Inner City Games] called me to be an honorary chairman, I really fell in love with it. It gave us a chance to go out and start programs to get kids away from those negative things and get them to do sports — and things like after-school programs, educational programs, computer programs and entrepreneurial programs.

In the beginning I was naive about the problems those kids were having. As an outsider you can say, “Oh, these minorities, look at the trouble they’re creating.” When I got into it, I found out how many of the kids really want to be better and be good students. But they don’t have the inspiration, or the opportunity. In school, the teachers don’t show up, there are no flushing toilets, books are not updated. They don’t have all the things that other schools have. They always get cut short. They don’t have anyone saying, “You’re great. You’re doing well. You’re a winner.”

I heard that you made a decision to make less violent films. What prompted that?

I never really shifted my focus to do less violent movies. Since I’ve had children I’ve become much more aware that we need entertainment that the whole family can see. That’s when I started doing movies like “Twins” and “Kindergarten Cop.” My most recent film, “The Sixth Day,” is about the dangers of cloning. I don’t need to show heads a-rollin’. But when I do “True Lies 2″ or “Terminator 3,” it will be R-rated and I will be very clear that this is not a movie for youngsters. I will do everything in my power not to have the studios market the film to underage kids.

Do you think the responsibility lies more with Hollywood or with parents?

It goes back to the parents. They have to make sure their kids are watching the right programs. This is where people go wrong when they say Hollywood is making too many violent films. That’s not the case. The problem is that the parents aren’t there to make sure kids aren’t seeing the wrong movies. You can’t start censoring movies or books; you have to be able to show anything or say anything on-screen.

Is it true you’re thinking of running for governor of California?

I have thought about it many times, but I have no specific plans. I’ve been invited to run for Congress, Senate and the governorship. The more I’ve been involved in issues — like schools, vouchers and the Special Olympics — the more I realize there are so many things out there. I’ve found this to be more rewarding than having a successful movie come out. Maybe in the past 20 years I’ve grown into a different person — not as “me, me, me” as you are when you’re building a career. Maybe my concerns are going in another direction, one in which I can do more for other people.

Do you think you can have a greater impact as a politician or as a citizen activist?

Both. You don’t have to run for office to make a difference. Look at my mother-in-law [Eunice Shriver]. She’s done the most extraordinary job of anybody I can think of on a worldwide level. I was in China last year for the Special Olympics, and it’s extraordinary to think that in 1988 the Chinese government was saying these [mentally handicapped] people should be eliminated and, 12 years later, they’re being included in society and treated equally. This is due to just one person pounding away since 1968 on the treatment of retarded children. Here is one person who never ran for office but has had this kind of impact on 104 countries around the world. She has used her status as a Kennedy to carve out a niche and become an unbelievable, relentless force.

Which politicians do you admire?

Gov. [George] Pataki [of New York], Sen. [Orrin] Hatch [of Utah]. George W. Bush is extraordinary. He was a different type of human being once — a rowdy guy who had his problems and stuff — and he got his act together. I don’t know how much he thought about running the country originally. He was kind of thrown into it because there were no young people from the Republican Party. Bush was the new guy, the new face, and I think he was kind of surprised to see himself the top guy in the polls. To me, it’s extraordinary and admirable that he got his act together, studied the issues, came up with a philosophy of compassionate conservatism and really went with it full speed ahead.

I think it would have been better if he had really won, instead of through the courts. But I admire him, and his father as well. I admire the other political side too. I have learned so much from Maria’s father [Sargent Shriver, a Democrat], who’s the most selfless person you can imagine. I have great discussions with him all the time about the extraordinary social programs that he’s started, like the Peace Corps and Head Start. So you can have great leaders in both parties.

How do you handle politics at home, since you’re a Republican and your wife is a Democrat — and not just any Democrat, but a Kennedy Democrat?

It’s very easy. Maria and I have no arguments whatsoever. I totally understand and love her opinions and the way she feels about things. The key thing is that we all have to think, as Bush said, that it doesn’t matter if you’re a Democrat or a Republican — you both want to improve the country. Maria and Bonnie [the couple's assistant] used to plaster my car with Democratic Party stickers. Those girls! But I always want to hear what the other side has to say, so that’s why I surround myself with women and minorities and Democrats.

How would you describe your own politics?

I am socially liberal and fiscally conservative. I believe that every good idea that was ever done in the world came from a grass-roots organization, or from one person. They did something and it mushroomed and grew, and eventually the government heard about it and it was enacted. It has to start on a level where the cities take care of themselves; it can’t start at the federal government and trickle down.

I’m like Jesse Ventura, but I can identify with both major parties. I think both have interesting ideas, so why not work with both?

What kind of politician would you be if you ran?

I would be the kind of person I am with everything else. I would go all-out, 100 percent, total conviction. I would be very focused and I would keep my promises. Other than that, I can’t go into details because I’m not in that position. But that’s how I approach everything, whether it’s showbiz or sports. I always go all-out and take it all the way. I’m always willing to take risks. This has been my philosophy from the beginning: No guts, no glory.

What is it like to be a conservative in overwhelmingly liberal Hollywood?

I have never had a problem in Hollywood with anybody because there is something to be said for the liberal mind, the open mind. I am good friends with Rob Reiner, who is as liberal as they come. In Hollywood, people are very socially conscious and celebs get involved with projects, whether it’s AIDS or the environment or animals. There are more causes than you can think of, and to me that is very inspirational. I also have a great sense of humor about this stuff, so I don’t take it that seriously if we have differences of opinion.

What do you teach your children, politically?

They get a lot of their politics in school. In elementary school they had a vote, and they all voted for Gore because they go by what the teachers tell them. My son, who is 7, comes home and says, “I think I will vote for Gore.” I say, “Why? Why not Bush?” He says, “Because he likes to have guns.” And I say, “Is that what you learned in school, that Bush runs around with guns?” He says, “Yeah.” I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to get into a discussion about hype or anything. (The teacher is probably a liberal.) I said, “Oh, that’s interesting because Daddy knows Bush and he’s a good man.” Then my daughter comes home and says, “I think I’m an independent and I will swing my vote.” And I think, “This is incredible.” I can’t remember being that smart and sophisticated. It’s wild.

Harriman, who eventually became the U.S. ambassador to France (and died swimming in the rooftop pool of the Paris Ritz in 1997), began her training as a courtesan at age 19 with her first marriage, to Randolph Churchill, Winston’s son. She often spent evenings with Winston — whom she called “Papa” — at 10 Downing St., discussing the war. “This is where she learned that any man, no matter how powerful, how wealthy they are, has uncertainties. She could pinpoint that and try to help. And these men would eat it up,” Ogden says.

After her marriage to Churchill dissolved, Harriman was on her way to becoming the heavyweight champ of courtesans. What made her a courtesan was the number and type of people she was involved with, and the technique, skill and talent that she brought to every endeavor, says Ogden. And to get what she wanted — political power — she zeroed in on the men who could benefit her the most. As Ogden wryly puts it, “She never fell in love with any poor men.” Her list of lovers includes Edward R. Murrow, Elie de Rothschild, Aly Khan, Jock Whitney and Gianni Agnelli. And there were also her subsequent husbands: producer Leland Hayward and statesman Averell Harriman.

But was she good in bed? Ogden won’t speculate, but he does say he wasn’t blown away by her in person. “She wasn’t my kind of woman,” he sniffs. “She didn’t have a sense of humor. I don’t think she’d be a fun date.”

It’s up for grabs whether Luce was a fun date, but her biographer, Sylvia Jukes Morris, argues quite vehemently that she was absolutely not a courtesan. “Clare would never bring a man slippers like Pamela,” says Morris in her clipped British accent, clearly aghast at that image. “She didn’t want to be in the service business. She was more ambitious than that. She used men for what she wanted and then left them, while a courtesan pays attention to men. She was more of a femme fatale.”

With all due respect to Morris, Harriman’s husband Hayward called Harriman “the courtesan of the century.” Born into poverty and an illegitimate child, Luce married millionaire George Brokaw at age 19 after impressing a mutual acquaintance. When she was 26 Brokaw died, leaving her his New York mansion on Fifth Avenue and his fortune. More important, she inherited her freedom.

After Brokaw died, Luce went into overdrive — which is when the legendary lode of Clare Boothe Luce stories started emerging (most likely self-generated). One incident occurred in 1929. After being rejected for work at Vanity Fair magazine, she waited until publisher Condé Nast left for vacation, marched into the magazine’s offices and plopped down at a desk. Someone handed her work to do and by the time Nast returned, she was already an invaluable member of the staff. He hired her. She was introduced to Time magazine publisher Henry Luce at a party, and after only two more public introductions, he left his wife for her.

It was “a very calculated move on Clare’s part,” says Morris. “Her marriage to Luce was her entree into that world. Every phase of her life was planned out.” She went on to become a successful war correspondent, playwright, congresswoman and ambassador to Italy.

Luce’s method of seducing and dazzling men was quite different from Harriman’s. They were both ferociously ambitious, and masters at dishing up sparkling conversation, but comparisons end there. “They targeted very different types of men,” says Morris. “Pamela was a nurturer. She always wanted to marry her lovers, while Clare got what she wanted and left.”

And Luce was not the great hostess that Harriman was, says Marie Brenner, author of “Great Dames: What I Learned From Older Women.” “She was more like a Sherman tank. She’d do things like serve lettuce to the men at lunch because that’s all she wanted to eat, or refuse to serve wine to the women but pour herself a glass.”

Martha Stewart would disapprove, but then again, she’s no courtesan. Or is she? Are there any modern-day contenders to the legacy of Harriman and Luce? While some would argue that women no longer need to act like courtesans, there are still women who think that the fastest — and juiciest — rise to power is through a man.

Washington is still mourning Harriman’s death. Her closest replacement is Sally Quinn, the former Washington Post writer turned socialite. But she’s a pale version of the classic courtesan. As one political insider sniffs, “The grande dames only go to her house because of Ben Bradlee.” The Beltway has also turned a cold shoulder to Quinn since she wrote a self-righteous article blasting President Clinton for his affair with Monica Lewinsky. (It’s no secret that when Quinn was a junior staffer at the Washington Post, she began an affair with Bradlee, 25 years her senior, who eventually left his wife for her.) The press erupted, and trashed her. In 1998, during a live C-Span interview, a caller confronted Quinn, saying, “Take a look at your own life. A lot of people said you slept your way to the top.” Quinn turned purple. One Washington insider says gleefully, “My friends say that moment was worth the entire year’s price of cable.”

Other names that are tossed around include Sen. Dianne Feinstein, fundraiser Georgette Mossbacher, Cristyne Lategano, Katrina vanden Heuvel and political pundit (and Salon columnist) Arianna Huffington. Huffington is the most probable contender. She’s smart, sassy and attractive and has a sexy Greek accent, which are all excellent criteria for courtesanship. “She’s certainly brilliant and among the ranks of such women as Madame de Pompadour,” says Kevin Chaffee, Washington Times social editor. “She’s more intelligent than most of the men she’s been associated with, with the possible exception of Bernard Levin.”

Joe Eszterhas dubbed Huffington “the sorceress” in “American Rhapsody” and Al Frankel jokingly calls her “the evil but beautiful Arianna Huffington.”

Others would argue that she lacks the most important asset — multiple husbands. “She’s just a one-off,” says Ogden, referring to her former husband, Michael Huffington. “She didn’t have the number of men Pamela did, or the number of positions.”

One woman who does have it all is Democratic fundraiser and serial wife Patricia Duff. She has been called “an enchantress,” “exquisite in a Grace Kelly way,” “luminous,” a “man magnet” and a “femme fatale” by journalists. Washington Post columnist Richard Cohen said of their first meeting: “She was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, maybe after the Grand Canyon.” A former husband said, “She can be the single most charming being in the history of the world.”

Like Harriman and Luce, Duff gained her political power through her associations with wealthy and powerful men and, like Harriman, she never had the misfortune of falling in love with a poor man. She studied international relations at Georgetown, and later took a job at the House Select Committee on Assassinations.

From there, she worked on two endeavors: collecting powerful husbands and gaining political power. Her first marriage was to a high school sweetheart. The second was to Washington lawyer Dan Duff. After that marriage dissolved, Duff went to Los Angeles to become an actress, where she met studio head Mike Medavoy and lured him away from his wife. She later dumped him to chase after billionaire Ron Perelman, the Revlon executive and New York’s richest man, and the two married in 1995.

The Perelmans had a very ugly spat at the 1996 Democratic Convention and Perelman filed for divorced shortly afterward. (The marriage lasted only 18 months.) But the union left Duff with $30 million and an impressive political track record. While with Perelman, Duff became the executive director of the Women’s Leadership Forum and co-chaired fundraising for the 1996 Clinton-Gore campaign. Right now, Duff’s political actions have taken a back seat as she battles Perelman for custody of their 4-year-old daughter, but she still seems to be on the prowl for power. She has most recently been linked to Sen. Robert Torricelli, D-N.J., so she hasn’t forgotten her old ways.

While some, like Brenner, consider these sexy and powerful women to be proto-feminists, others, like conservative babe/pundit Ann Coulter, are appalled by their behavior. “Women like Pamela Harriman and Patricia Duff are basically Anna Nicole Smith from the waist down,” she spits out. “Let’s just call it for what it is. They’re whores. Lots of women in that era got ahead without having to sleep with men … Speaking as someone who’s been accused of sleeping with their male bosses — and I never have — I resent courtesans like Cristyne Lategano.”

Coulter says, “Clare Booth Luce is a true feminist. She’s brilliant, satirical, snobby and fabulous. She wrote ‘The Women,’ which is still being produced today. What did Pamela Harriman ever write?”

And as for the accusation that Clare zeroed in on Henry Luce, Coulter says that’s crap. “The reason that Clare ended up marrying a powerful man is because she was a hot commodity herself. Who was she going to end up with, the paper boy?” The same goes for Huffington, she says. “Even though Arianna has gone to the dark side politically, she was accomplished before she ever met Michael Huffington. She could have married anybody.”

Politics aside, Brenner has a hilariously practical take on modern-day courtesans. “These women didn’t waste their sexuality. Instead of sleeping with some jerk and complaining about bad sex, they fucked someone powerful.”

And Brenner thinks the courtesan style is coming back. “My generation rejected charm,” says the author (who is 50). “We were out there in sweat pants fighting for equal pay and equal rights. The current generation is fighting for the same things, but they’re doing it in Manolo Blahniks.”

Like a hybrid of Dorothy Parker and Jennifer Lopez, a courtesan in Renaissance Italy used her brains and her body to enjoy the benefits of marriage — companionship, property and financial stability — without the stifling social constraints. She also replaced a man’s wife on the social scene, since proper married women were sequestered from the sins of the world and kept prisoners in their own homes.

Courtesans were companions for bankers, princes, prelates and merchants. Known for their wit, charm and elegance, they palled around with the most important and powerful men of their day. They wrote novels, published poems and influenced politics, often delivering political messages from pillow to pillow. They also used sex, and they flaunted it in ways that married women could not. As the French traveler and writer Pierre de Brantome snidely commented in the 16th century, “Roman ladies copulate like bitches but are silent as stones.”

While the heyday of courtesans was classical Greece, they’ve been in every culture, most notably Renaissance Italy and 18th century Japan. No one knows where the term comes from but it’s closest to the male “courtier” which means “of the court,” says Margaret Rosenthal, the author of “The Honest Courtesan: The Life of Veronica Franco.” Franco is perhaps the best known courtesan of the Renaissance — a hall-of-famer who greased relations between Venice and France by bedding the King of France, and whose life was depicted in the 1998 film “Dangerous Beauty.”

So what exactly would Italian courtesans do all day? They managed their household (which was often paid for by their patrons), overseeing the servants and shopping much like noblewomen. Courtesans were masters of disguise, for sexual intrigue and to throw off potential government officials. They would alternately dress like virgins, widows or ultra-demure noblewomen. Or they would go all out, clad lavishly and teetering on 10-inch clogs (which conveniently required them to have an escort), or sailing into church with an entourage of 10 panting men. (And all this dress-up meant that courtesans were among the biggest supporters of the cosmetics industry, dyeing their hair blond and even putting makeup on their breasts.)

Sometimes they would gleefully evoke the courtesans of ancient Greece, dressing up in togas and telling their lovers they were goddesses. And one of the favorite Venetian bedroom games was acting out the story of Leda and the swan.

But there was little companionship with other women. Friendships with other courtesans were strained since they were all competing for the choicest patrons. Noblewomen didn’t like to hang out with them because, well, they were sleeping with their husbands.

Nighttime was when courtesans kicked into high gear. According to Mateo Bandello’s 16th century book “Novelle,” high-level courtesans would have six or seven lovers, each assigned to a different night of the week and each giving her a monthly “salary.” This, of course, necessitated intricate scheduling and lover-shuffling in the days before cellphones and organizers.

To reward their patrons, courtesans would celebrate them in poetry and dedicate books to them, so “a volume of their poetry read like a who’s who list of Venice,” says Rosenthal. Literary and business skills were often passed from courtesan to courtesan in a kind of mentor relationship. “Franco was very interested in helping other women,” says Rosenthal.

Being a courtesan allowed women to hold on to their sexuality while cultivating their minds. The only other women who were allowed to study were those in convents. “Being a courtesan let these women have more erudite lives than they normally would,” says Rosenthal. And, “because a courtesan wasn’t just arm candy,” according to Rosenthal, she had to be learned. She was expected to attend her patrons’ salons to entertain visiting politicians, and be a witty participant.

Unlike the courtesans of Italy and Greece, their Japanese counterparts — whose heyday was the 18th century — were only arm candy. “The whole point was for them to be amusing and decorative,” says Elizabeth Sabato Swinton, curator of Asian art at Worcester Art Museum in Massachusetts. “They had absolutely no role in politics, and they were not respectable by any means. No one wanted their daughter to be a courtesan.”

According to Swinton, the courting process was very ritualistic. Men would pay huge amounts of money just for an introduction, and they would have to follow an elaborate process of eating and drinking before they could even think about having sex. “You had to know the rules in order to play the game. It was all very stiff and formal,” explains Swinton. And having a fat wad of cash would not guarantee sex. “If all you had was money, you would be considered a bore.”

As well as influencing men using sex, courtesans also had enormous influence on fashion. In Japan from the 1600s to the late 1800s (the Edo period), courtesans invaded the drag venues where there was Kabuki theater. “The pleasure district was like Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s,” explains Swinton. “Courtesans had an entourage whenever they paraded in the streets, much like a queen bee.” Women dressed like courtesans, in layers of embroidered silk robes, huge hair and extreme makeup that emphasized their eyes and mouths.

And just like Cher and her love affair with drag impersonators today, Swinton says, “Kabuki actors would frequently depict courtesans, and courtesans would model themselves after the male Kabukis. It was all this very weird role reversal.”

Which was half of the fun. Part of a courtesan’s mystery and intrigue was that the boundary between her and a noblewoman was murky. This was also done on purpose to avoid taxation. The Renaissance Italian government kept lists of courtesans in order to tax them, and, in some cities, they had to wear a yellow veil to identify themselves. But that didn’t last very long. “Sometimes they would dress more demurely to throw men off,” says Rosenthal. “They would also wear breeches under their skirts, because the whole idea of separating the legs was very risqué. They would also do it to attract men who had uh, tendencies for boys.”

Courtesans’ skills at cross-dressing did not go unnoticed by the Venetian government. Homosexuality was seen as a huge threat and punishable by death (men would be beheaded and their bodies burned), so Venetian officials often paid courtesans to “cure” homosexuals. Courtesans were encouraged to stand topless on the Ponte Della Tette, or Bridge of Tits, as it’s still known today, to entice and convert suspected gays.

The homosexual angle was present in classical Greece (479-323 B.C.) as well. According to James Davidson, author of “Fishcakes and Courtesans,” Greek courtesans (called hetaeras) enjoyed playing slippery games of identity, like their Italian counterparts did. They didn’t want to be pinned down and subjected to taxation. (And since women couldn’t own property in Greece, they lived “in the uncertain economy of the gift; jewels became an important part of a courtesan’s ‘portfolio.’”) But it was also fun.

“Somewhere between a wife and a common prostitute was the courtesan,” says Davidson. “That was also part of the attraction — you didn’t know who was a courtesan and who wasn’t.” Or as he puts it so deliciously in his book, “There was only one division that really mattered: the division between Wives and the Rest.”

Davidson talks about ancient Greek sex scandals with the ease and facility with which we discuss the latest dirt on Ben and Gwyneth. And his book probes an overlooked aspect of ancient Greek life — heterosexual sex — with a delightfully naughty relish. For example, when discussing how Pericles’ famous funeral speech about democracy was rumored to be written by his courtesan, Aspasia, he explains it as being “a really bitchy dig at Pericles.” Courtesans were everywhere in ancient Greece, says Davidson, which is “shocking because even to speak the name of a good woman was scandalous.”

What we know about them comes from records of symposia, because “if you had a great party, you’d always stock the place with courtesans,” Davidson writes. Hetaeras loved parody and satire, and for laughs at parties they would take “high falutin’ things and make them obscene and funny.” Their witticisms were collected and put into verse, and they were also the inspiration for countless plays, speeches and works of art.

Davidson also chronicles how courtesans helped inspire ancient sex manuals, which included positions like “Lion on the Cheese Grater” which, as he says, “leaves us none the wiser.”

The most distinguished courtesan and the “cleverest manipulator” of ancient Greece was Phryne, rumored to be the model for the sculpture of Venus. She, like many courtesans, was constantly popping up in court for causing trouble. One of the most famous trials of ancient Greece — and the inspiration for dozens of paintings — was Phryne’s trial for introducing false gods. Her boyfriend Hyperides defended her, and when he saw he wasn’t making headway with the jurors, he “reached over and exposed her breasts, filling the jurors with religious awe.” She was acquitted.

Phryne also became incredibly wealthy because of her associations with men. When the city of Thebes was razed by the Macedons, she offered to pay for the city wall to be rebuilt as long as the citizens provided this inscription: “Alexander may have knocked it down, but Phryne the hetaera got it back up again.”

But the life of the courtesan wasn’t always so glamorous. Their powerful lovers gave them protection they could otherwise never have, but when romances soured, the revenge could be horrific. Spurned lovers sometimes mutilated or scarred their courtesans, or trashed them in literature. Franco was charged by the Inquisition for casting spells over her lovers, and Maffio Venier, an ex-lover and a bishop, constantly berated her in print. He wrote that her breasts hung so low she could paddle a gondola with them, and he dubbed her Ver Unica Putana (true unique whore).

A courtesan could also fall into disgrace if she contracted syphilis. One Renaissance book is titled “Lament of the Ferrarese Courtesan for Having Been Thrown Into the Cart Because of Having Contracted Syphilis.” But the most devastating punishment was called the “31,” where a courtesan was led to a secluded spot and raped by 31 lower-class men. A “Royal 31″ meant rape by 81 men.

Part 2: The modern courtesan — a dying breed?