In the past few weeks, I've been dedicating myself, as usual, to examining the world's most critical sexual dilemmas, but all anyone ever says to me is: "Susie, have you taken another Viagra?"

Well, as I noted in my column about my adventures after taking the anti-impotence medication, when it comes to designer sex drugs, on the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia. Actually, I said I'd rather have a Quaalude, but did anyone dig into their '70s stash and send me a Quaalude? No. I've had to plow on through my love life sober as a judge.

Now don't label me as disappointed with Viagra, or as one of those tearful 30 to 50 percent for whom the drug doesn't work. I am not the patient Viagra was designed for. I have no problem getting clitorally erect -- naturally, it's huge -- and I can maintain my erection and my lubrication for pretty much as long as I want until I come.

Furthermore, even if I wasn't orgasmic, or had a difficult time becoming sufficiently aroused, speaking as a woman, vasocongestive impasses are not typically our problem. Most women with sexual difficulties have trouble getting aroused in the first place -- the part BEFORE you get the erection. Women who aren't having orgasms are usually having difficulty with desire, or to use words many women would cringe at: getting horny.

Any miracle sex drug for women would have to be a Desire Pill, a pill that would let a woman believe that she can get sweaty and horny with her hair messed, grinding and screaming at the last -- and still be a paragon of femininity in afterglow. Women are often afraid of getting carried away by sex. They worry that if anyone sees them being sexually aggressive or hungry, their marriage and motherhood eligibility badges will be ripped from their bosoms. And their fears are not completely unfounded, because the infamous wife vs. slut double standard has kept the lid on many a woman's sexual independence.

An all-too-typical American mom wrote to one of the Van Buren sisters recently -- fans will recognize this one -- saying she would like to strangle the manufacturers of Viagra for making her wifely duties a living hell. She explained that in recent years she'd had some relief from the horrors of intercourse because her husband had been impotent. The only blemish on her otherwise peaceful life happened when they went to Hawaii to celebrate their anniversary, and the beauty and thrill of it all made him want to make love to her a few times during their stay. Can you imagine the AGONY? But of course, Hawaiian vacations are NOTHING compared to the rigors brought on by Viagra prescriptions, and she wants the whole world to know that having to endure sex is the female equivalent of crucifixion.

I am not shocked by her tale, because I know there are plenty of women who dislike sex. In fact, who among us hasn't disliked sex on some occasions? But why don't Abby or Ann ever ask why a woman hates sex? Clearly doing the deed is a painful chore for these readers, not something that offers any physical pleasure. Yet this is still considered "normal" in many marriages. That makes me sad. If I were this lady's advice columnist, I would have sent her a Hitachi magic wand vibrator and a variety of top-notch fantasy materials via overnight express mail. She -- and her husband -- need to know that she is as capable and deserving of genuine erotic pleasure as he is.

Frankly, when the news about Viagra came out, I anticipated this reaction. The first words I said when I looked up from the headlines, were: "Anna Nicole Smith." Yes, I knew Viagra might be a dream come true for some well-to-do gentlemen, but for the young, gorgeous pin-up wives who married them, the little pill is a nightmare in a bottle.

My understanding of these May/December relationships is that, in return for all the mink she can slip into and champagne she can bathe in, the Beautiful Young Thing offers the Rich Old Thing her breasts for petting and sucking. She may also striptease, lap dance and snuggle suggestively upon request -- but these are the only sexual services required of her. No wear and tear on the vagina, no sweat, no sticking her butt in the air. The notion that their elderly patrons suddenly want to mount them and carry on like pumped-up Pucks is probably making some of these gals weep into their caviar.

I'm not saying that trophy wives are simply turned off by their husbands' age or looks. It's a fallacious joke on both sides that impotent men are stricken because their partners are too ugly, or that women avoid sex because their husbands are puny and old. Of course personal hygiene and taste are always factors, but let's face it, "beautiful" people and plain citizens have been getting it on with each other since the dawn of time. Desire, subversively and blessedly, doesn't always match supermodels with other supermodels.

In fact, supermodels can be as inorgasmic as the rest of the female population -- and I'd predict even worse because eating disorders really kill the libido. Few spectators ever look at cover girls and think, "Wow, I bet she has so many orgasms," because that's never the emphasis with beautiful women.

My advice to Trophy Wives is to either 1) pack up your trophies in the middle of the night and make your grand escape (to Hawaii perhaps?), or 2) get thee to a feminist sex toy shop on the double and join the sex positive girl posse -- you've got a lot of pleasure to catch up on.

One last note: As far as I can tell, the most common unmentioned side effect of Viagra is compulsive joke-making. Those of you who eagerly seek out every erect punch line owe it to yourselves to rigorously examine a whole book on the subject, Viagra Nation by Lee Eisenberg and Bruce McCall (HarperCollins).