So, If you’ve got any questions for me while I’m driving up the West Coast with a trunkful of erotic books and my Hitachi Magic Wand, please drop me an e-mail. But before you do, don’t forget to check out the following list of FAQs.

How often do you get laid on your book tour?

The answer to this — and I’ll bet that any author, from cookbook maven to disgraced politician, will tell you the same — is not nearly enough. The amenities lavished on rock stars elude us. It isn’t easy to slip away from signing autographs in a cheery, brightly lit bookstore to some secluded spot for a quickie with a book groupie. We don’t get dressing rooms, and we sure don’t get drinking and drugging rooms. And I haven’t got a roadie to screen the hotties from the stalkers and the droolers.

These practical inconveniences aside, I have a hard time changing hats from empathetic sex therapist to babe on the prowl. I listen earnestly to each person’s family history and philosophical dilemma, and I don’t have the nerve to change the subject by saying something like, “Gee, I’m just a lonely girl who wouldn’t mind having an angel like you wrapped around my entire body.”

Just last night, a beautiful young man came up to my podium. He was so bedeviled by the question he wanted to ask me that he could barely stutter it out. He looked like a young Val Kilmer, or maybe Jim Morrison crossed with a butch dyke, and he was clearly seeking relief from some kind of anguish. Yet all I could do was nod at him as I fantasized about taking his hand and putting it right over my breast, against my heart. If we were fucking, could I make his unhappy world go away for a minute? Could I get down off my pedestal? Would he get close to me on the ground?

But I didn’t say or do any of that. I talked to him about some books he might like reading, empathized with his dilemma and finally dragged my tired ass out the door. There was no geisha waiting for me at my accommodations, just my Chinese sleeping pills, Throat-Coat tea and Advil for my sore everything.

But surely you have had some extraordinary erotic adventures on the road, the kind that other authors don’t have?

OK, I have. One time in Ann Arbor, Mich., I got picked up for a campus lecture by two student “chaperones” who also happened to be putting themselves through school by running a dungeon in an extra room in their flat.

One looked like Cindy Crawford (an honor student in astrophysics) and the other resembled Madonna back in the “Like a Virgin” days. She had a tattoo of Medusa on her back. The two of them chimed, “We’d love it if you fisted us!” They were so wholesome about the whole thing that I couldn’t resist. I felt I really ought to give it a try; in fact, I felt that if I succeeded, it would probably be the most important thing that ever happened at the Ann Arbor Holiday Inn in its entire history. In the end, I fear, it was more of an athletic event than an orgasmic one, but nevertheless it was charming. We all wore party dresses and smeared our lipstick on each other and then we ordered room service afterwards. I wanted a chocolate milk shake (my favorite after intimate encounters in hotel rooms), and my new friends followed suit.

Of all the hotels you’ve visited, which one serves the best room-service chocolate milk shakes in the middle of the night?

That’s easy: The Palmer House Hilton, in Chicago. They serve your shake in a chilled pewter goblet, with a linen napkin and a glass on the side filled with the extra from the blender. Add one lover and pour.

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask me to give you a tour,” I said, shaking my head. “Going to these places is like visiting a museum — you need a history lesson, a decoder ring and an experienced docent if you want to have a clue what’s really going on.

“There are things in that shop that you would probably like, but stores like the one you visited date from the classic age of men’s smoke shops — the ones with a room in the back that sold condoms and naughty nudist magazines. They aren’t ‘sex positive.’ They’re more like carny shows where you get a 20-Inch Dong to stare at instead of a bearded lady. That’s what every sex shop in America was like until feminists started selling vibrators in the ’70s. It’s only been in the last decade that all these old farts realized that there was a new market to exploit if they could just get over their raincoater attitude. “

Linda lives in a suburb zoned to keep its one “adult bookstore” on the edge of town, away from the respectable shops and malls. It’s called Frenchy’s — and needless to say, there is nothing “French” about it. (Frenchy’s seems to be the quintessential adult bookstore name, a leftover from World War I and the notion of naughty postcards from Paris.) Years ago, there used to be a local blue law that said that every retailer had to stock a certain percentage of nonsexual items. When you entered Frenchy’s in those days, the racks in front were filled with dusty fishing and hunting guides of uncertain age, followed by less-well-lit shelves stocked with the real business: dirty books and magazines.

Nowadays, however, Frenchy’s advertises its wares openly in the town’s weekly newspaper, invites couples to come in and shelves its sexual merchandise up front. On those counts, at least, it has entered the modern era of sex novelty merchandising. Most of the store, however, remains “old school” — old boys’ school to be exact — and it’s no wonder that women (and uninitiated men) feel mystified when they step inside.

Let me offer some tips for those of you venturing into a dyed-in-the-smut “adult” sex shop for the first time. First of all, you might want to consider the alternative! Today, there are lots of sex toy stores that are female-friendly and enthusiastic about guilt-free sex. Eve’s Garden, Good Vibrations, Toys in Babeland and Xandria are some of the bigger names in the no-apologies world of Sex Toy Pride, but there are plenty of smaller boutiques that pitch the same angle. This renaissance of erotica merchants is led by females with a sunny disposition about dildos, a critical approach to videos and Westinghouse standards for their vibrating appliances.

But some of you, stuck in a more conservative area, have no choice when it comes to erotic shopping — there’s only that one puke-brown, low-ceilinged, stucco building next to the railroad tracks, with the broken neon light blinking “A*D*U*L*T*S Only.” There may also be a few of you who have simply decided you want to see how the other half lives. Entrez, you little Frenchy’s-seekers!

First, let’s dispense with the mammoth rubber phalluses greeting you as you walk through the door. Understand them to be like the stone lions guarding the gateway to the temple, or to the New York Public Library. Rubber cocks are the unmistakable mascots of the masculine world you have entered. When you see gigantic stone penises in an exhibit of ancient artifacts, you don’t exclaim, “But what did they use them for?” Nor should you here. NOBODY is buying these elephantine hoses for any practical purpose. They are there to set the scene, to buy as a practical joke for a bachelor’s party, to intimidate the weak and the delicate.

Now, some people will whisper to you that gay men buy these for anal sex, but you are off your rocker if you think these items are accouterments of the average homosexual date. The number of people (of any sexual orientation) who have bought these devices for anything more than a laugh would fit on the end of a pin.

But I do have a more serious comment about dildo size: Just because something is of a certain length doesn’t mean you have to use every inch of it. When you’re using a dildo with your hands, in fact, it’s a good idea to have some of the length available to hold onto. Smart dildo buyers purchase a model that has the width they seek, and a comfortable grip. You can take it home and make merry with one millimeter of it, and no one’s the wiser.

Next, there are the mysteries of the video display. I agree, it’s infuriating that the box covers are so generic — mirror-shiny covers with photos of big titties, gaping holes and titles that draw their inspiration from the World Wrestling Federation. The No. 1 thing you must remember is that the covers mean NOTHING. The models you see on the box may not even appear in the movie. The aesthetics of the box cover have zero to do with the content. Adult distributors simply notice a trend in the sales of a certain style of box, and they copy it madly to use for all their titles. They also frequently spend more on the box design than they did on the entire movie. Sad to say, choosing good adult videos is largely a matter of trial and error because without a personal recommendation (or the promise of a certain director or actor), consumers have no guides.

Knowing your directors may be more important with porn than any other genre of cinema. Porn is a field where the auteur tradition of branding a movie with a personal vision is very much alive. If you even see a director’s name on a box cover, it means that this person has a following, a fan base. You certainly don’t want to confuse a Max Hardcore wall-banger with an Andrew Blake lingerie fantasia. It’s like the difference between chocolate Ho-Hos and Beluga caviar — the same person is unlikely to love them both.

You may want to preview some videos in one of the “private viewing booths” at the back of the store — that’s the little stand-up closet with a screen where you feed in quarters to look at a few minutes at a time. This is fun to try, but you need to understand that the viewing booths are not all that they appear.

The main reason the booths exist is not to provide close viewings of upcoming features. No, these American architectural phenomena of space and darkness are for masturbating in a “sekrit place” with other men close by. The hottest action isn’t on the screen, it’s the guys cruising other guys, each with a resolutely straight fagade. These men wouldn’t be caught dead in a gay bar — in fact, they don’t think of themselves as “gay” at all, not with the lifestyle connotations that word implies. They are attracted to the Twilight Zone of sexual identity offered by the porn booths, the chance for an illicit encounter with an anonymous and appropriately butch fellow traveler. They’re not supposed to be having sex back in the booths of course — there’s always the imminent threat of being busted — but that time-honored risk is part of the thrill.

If you are a woman entering the booths, some of the boys will be pissed that you are ruining the all-male atmosphere, and will try to scare you away. Others will think you’re a real curiosity item that might be up for some hanky-panky.

Either way, don’t take it personally. They’ll leave you alone if you’re perfectly frank about what you’re up to, and speak up at a normal volume. Laugh! Point! Go on at length! Any ordinary conversation is like a wet blanket in these joints where all communication is kept at the grunting level and eye contact is all.

Booth trolls are here to have sex now. The vast majority aren’t junkies, serial killers or whatever other stereotypes leap to mind about people who buy buttplugs in public. They want to get off, period, and they’re here either because they don’t feel like there’s any other place where that’s allowed, or because they find the closet-case environment terribly sexy. The latter men don’t ever want Frenchy’s to change. They don’t want to talk to a cheery dyke in a warm room with flowers on the desk and strap-ons in every color. They want sex “bad,” because they’re afraid that the alternative is even worse than bad, it’s banal.

Chacun ` son go{t — as they might say at Frenchy’s if they could stop mumbling for a minute. For my own satisfaction, I like a dark secret place as much as anyone, but I am not paying extra for sexual guilt. I want my vibrator to run, my movies to speak to me and my dildo sized to perfection. I will take my erotic business elsewhere, and I’m sure my neighbor and her boyfriend will follow me.

I have a new book and audio tape out this month — “Full Exposure: Opening Up to Your Sexual Creativity and Erotic Expression” — and I’ll be touring all over the U.S. through November. I hope I get to meet some of you in person, and connect with old friends. “Full Exposure,” includes my stories about what I think it takes to make, admit and live out your own sexual philosophy. Interested? You can read the first chapter here. And when you do read my new book, write and tell me what you think of it.

It’s not the true nature of this disease but the sexual shame and prejudice surrounding it that shuts people up. I urge you to follow my example, get out of the herpes closet and put an end to leper-colony metaphors!

Other itchy, cranky, sometimes-terrified and sometimes-grateful people wrote to me about their own experiences with herpes. Here are a few:

Susie,

You are dumb. You can get herpes with condoms, because the sores can be anywhere, and oral sex spreads herpes too.

Dear Anonymous:

You are so sweet. I should have been more blunt in my condom advice! I merely said that rubbers would “drastically reduce” one’s chances of infection. Instead, I should have loudly shouted that they will NOT eliminate the risk, any more than wearing a hat in the rain will keep your feet dry. You can certainly get infected from mouth-to-genital contact, or by rubbing against a sore in the pubic-hair area or on the perineum, to give some common examples.

But hey, don’t be so conservative: Condoms can be used for oral occasions as well. You can even split one in half and use it as an instant “dental dam.” The point I’m making is that if you cover up a “prime area,” it will save you from overexposure, n’est-ce pas?

Once again, people are bitching about condoms, rather than admitting that rubbers have alleviated much worry and suffering while providing the opportunity for orgasms and intimacy for millions. I am perfectly willing to grouse about the drawbacks of condoms with folks who actually use them on a regular basis, but I find that most of those whining about rubbers are people who A) are not getting laid very often, and B) have no realistic plan to protect themselves or their partners, preferring instead to rely on romance and moralism to save their butts. Now that’s what I call dumb.

On a more concrete level, I feel certain that my frequent use of condoms kept me from getting herpes for many years — not to mention the other STDs it shielded me from. Using condoms, I fucked my brains out for a good 10 years before I came down with a sore — just as you might predict — on my perineum, one of the spots that condoms don’t protect from the virus. (Sex remains very much a part of my life, but horseback riding is out.)

This e-mail was sent to Salon’s editors:

Susie Bright’s article reflects the ignorance and recklessness that has led to the spread of so many cases of herpes … For our children’s sake, they need to be given the facts regarding STDs. Monogamy is the only way to truly prevent the spread of STDs, and minimizing the disease will only make things worse.

Sincerely,

J. Okamoto, M.D.

Dear Doctor:

Oh yeah, you’re right — I keep forgetting to say that if two virgins (who have never had so much as a cold sore on their mouths) marry each other and then never have sex with anyone but each other, they are definitely going to live a herpes-free existence! Gosh, if only more people could follow their example.

You are not helping by treating people with average sex lives as reckless fools and by wagging your finger about marital fidelity. You’re only going to scare people until the moment when they feel so horny, lonely or cynical that they throw all caution to the wind.

What would you say to the woman who wrote the following message?

I am only 30, I have only had two sex partners in my whole life, and I just had my first herpes outbreak. I never thought this would happen to me. My doctor is out of town, but when he comes back, I’m afraid to ask him what comes next. Can I tell who gave this to me? How long have I been infected? Do I have to tell my other partner from a few years ago? Will I be able to have children? When will I be able to have sex again?

Well, if your doctor is like the one who e-mailed me, I don’t blame you for having the heebie-jeebies. If you get scolding “monogamy” rants from your physician, you should know that he or she is not aware of the full range of research and debate on this subject.

A few hints: You can have sex whenever you want, although you may not enjoy it during outbreaks. Probably, you will want to change the kind of sex you have at those times. Your partner may have a preferred means of self-protection, and I’m sure you’ll talk about how you want to handle this. There’s no single “right” way that everyone agrees on. Generally, when you get that “tingly feeling” or those telltale flu-like symptoms, you will want to avoid exposing the affected area to pressure, heat (that includes sun!) or friction.

You can have children. You can have virtually the same life you’ve always had, but you’re going to need to be more aware of your genitals, your immune system and your well-being — which is a good thing in any case.

Please stop beating yourself up about how and when you got infected and who it came from. Even if you knew, this is a classic case of spilt milk.

There is an etiquette for telling your former lovers about your current status. First, you look up anyone who’s still in your Rolodex. Then you write: “I’ve just experienced my first herpes outbreak and am learning about how to take care of myself and prevent reinfection. Feel free to get in touch with me if you want to share stress-relieving strategies!”

In other words, you tell them what’s happening to you. Do not assign blame. Instead, open a window to sharing mutual support. Neither dish out abuse nor accept it!

I would recommend that you, and the scolding doctor who wrote me as well, check out the information and support available at these herpes information Web sites.

Finally, a pertinent note from another veteran:

Most people have oral herpes, and most were infected in childhood, myself included. Why do people with oral herpes feel under no obligation to reveal their herpes status before they kiss and suck, while people with genital herpes who don’t announce themselves as infected before sexual contact are considered dishonest, evil, disease-spreading sluts? What if you haven’t had a genital outbreak in five years? What if you get a cold sore every summer?

And don’t tell me it’s because people are more afraid of getting sores on their genitals. I’ve had people perfectly happy for me to go down on them, but they were not OK going down on me.

Between outbreaks, my oral attention to them puts their genitals at a small risk, while their going down on me puts their probably-already-infected mouth at a small risk. They were already at a bigger risk when they spent the evening kissing me! (HSV-1 attaches to the mouth easier than HSV-2.)

The absolute worst thing about herpes is telling people about it and wondering what reaction you’ll get. I had boyfriends in high school who got lots of oral sex from me, but no one cared when they saw a cold sore on my lip (I of course kept my mouth to myself at those times), and no one was infected. So why the new rules for genital herpes? Why the new stigma for the same symptoms? Why the new hysteria for the same risk? The oral ones hurt worse, for God’s sake. It’s pure hypocrisy.

Thanks for reading,

Sonia Arana

You may have a sexually transmitted disease — even if you’ve never had sex!

You can read this stuff everywhere from the Hartford Courant to the Honolulu Advertiser. Why don’t they just bundle the headlines into one big package:

Sex makes you sick! Especially if you’ve never tried it!

As usual, young people are used to spur grown-up fears. We are exhorted to talk to our children about our sexual concerns, but not to have the same kind of serious chat with our adult peers. We’re advised to scare kids “straight” about fleshly temptation, following the model of those former junkies, with their stories and scars from prison, brought into classrooms to intimidate teenagers on the subject of drugs. In the end, we make them promise, preferably trembling, that they’ll never, ever do ____________.

I have serious doubts about using tactics like these to prevent substance abuse, but applying them to sex is absurd. Are we supposed to convince kids that they should never touch another human being? Is that the end goal? I’d rather share a birth experience with young people, or teach them how to care for a child, than have them witness some spectacle that shames unwed teenage moms. Or maybe, just for some feminist irony, I’d like to bring in a group of older men who’ve fathered babies by teenage girls and raised none of them. Let’s hear all about the stigma of their pain and embarrassment! Let me know when that appears in the L.A. Times.

Actually, I don’t want to put anyone else on the rack. What I’m really interested in is the possibility that one lover has sex with another and no one’s health is compromised in the least. Frankly, that’s the most common sexual experience. But do any of these fear-mongering “educators” have a plan for sexual maturity rather than eradication? Everyone knows sex between two people is a mixed bag — so what makes any of it worth the stumbling and disasters? How many of us would say that if we could take it all back, we’d rather have not been sexual at all?

Herpes hysteria is one of my special pet peeves, and I have some rebuttals to the recent media yipping. Let me provide some support for those who are still having sex — you few wild bandits out there.

Herpes: There’s something you CAN do about it — and even if you don’t, it’s not the end of the world.

Herpes is epidemic, and that’s not because several million people used the same soiled towel. Yes, theoretically you can get herpes without sexual contact, but you won’t! You will get it as a result of fucking and sucking — just like everyone else. The only way to drastically reduce your risk for herpes is to use condoms. Period. If you refuse to do that, then shut up and accept the inevitable. Herpes sores don’t shine out like neon lights, and an afflicted lover doesn’t even have to be showing a sore to be contagious. A barrier method that prevents skin-to-skin contact is the only thing that’s going to reduce your risk.

The herpes scare stories I read always make a big fuss about how condoms can “fail” — but if that’s true, how come Trojan hasn’t gone out of business? Condoms are a lot more reliable than tampons, napkins, coffee filters, Dixie cups and a lot of other everyday products I could mention, but you don’t hear people raving about those numbers, do you?

The big problem with condoms is that when the media refuses to talk about sex in plain language, it can be hard to figure out how to use them. The young and inexperienced are at a real disadvantage unless someone takes them in hand (of course that’s a nice way to learn, too). But I can tell any man in 10 seconds how to use condoms with ease: Buy a bunch of different kinds and masturbate with them until you find a kind you like. Great wankers make great condom artistes. There’s no performance pressure — just figure out your pleasure and stock up. For a delightful “insider” experience, put a drop of lube inside the reservoir tip before you slide it on. Carry rubbers on your person. Have plenty around, like candy.

I’ve had it with whiners who complain about condoms! They’re just mad they’re not getting laid more often. Guys who know what they’re doing with rubbers are a lover’s dream come true. When you aren’t worried about getting knocked up or sick, you can thoroughly enjoy being horny. End of story.

Let’s say you do have herpes. Well, welcome to the club that includes almost every sexually active person on the planet. It’s not the end of the world, although it can be very annoying. The worst part is the dearth of public information and a prejudice that is particularly American. Those ads for the drug acyclovir (which relieves some herpes symptoms, but provides no cure) show preppy white people walking around in a platonic daze. The manufacturers are reassuring you that you, the herpes “sufferer,” are not a slut just because you have this disease. To that extent, they’re truthful. Herpes is absolutely banal, not reserved for any practice, lifestyle or ZIP code. Drugs or no drugs, and individual exceptions notwithstanding, this is not a “crippling disease.”

I got infected during the most sexually monogamous period of my life — in middle age, not my torrid youth. I’m sure I’d been exposed before, but the virus got me at a time in my life — while I was raising a baby — when my body was sorely run down. For me, herpes outbreaks don’t even include external manifestations: I just get flu-like symptoms of fatigue and achy limbs. Keeping the virus at bay, in my case, is more about nutrition, rest and other good health practices than it is about anything particularly sexual.

Here’s what I’m telling kids — or anyone who will listen — about sex this summer: Sexual pleasure, intimacy and self-preservation are a beautiful combination, and they are well within anyone’s reach. Don’t be freaked out by stories that paint death lurking behind every sexual curtain. That’s a cold lie. Our erotic lives are not only what our bodies are made for, they are also where our minds will inevitably take us. Sexual practice is indeed a sharing of the most tender parts of our bodies, and that’s always going to be a risky proposition.