Mister O(2)

Some still are. Like this guy.

“My favorite episode is based on that one,” a squeaky-voiced, messy-haired, awkward teenager says, as he points to a panel that features Mister Orgasm rescuing a dozen busty beauties from a remote island where they’d been deprived of sex for far too long. The upshot? Only a cartoonish caped crusader could replenish their depleted stores of pleasure, which had dwindled to terrifyingly low levels.

I shudder at the thought of what those women must have gone through before the hero arrived to save the day.

“Yeah. That one does rock,” I say, flashing the kid a quick grin and then nodding seriously. “Mister Orgasm did a great service for the ladies, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” the kid says, with wide, earnest eyes. “He helped them so much.”

It’s weird, because he’s probably sixteen, and there’s a part of me that thinks why the f*ck are you watching my raunchy TV show? But on the other hand, I get it. When I was his age, I didn’t have a clue about girls either. Which probably explains why I started drawing The Adventures of Mister Orgasm, the once online cartoon, now late-night television sensation, which includes the storyline about the aforementioned act of good citizenship performed by the titular hero.

Titular.

I said titular.

In my head.

Anyway, that had definitely been a popular episode, and one of the reasons my network packaged up some of my old strips into this graphic novel by yours truly, Nick Hammer. Special edition and all, like the embossed gold stamp on the cover says.

“Can you sign it to Ray?” he asks, and as I raise the black Sharpie, I catch a flash of gold out of the corner of my eye, then a hand in a pocket.

Oh, shit.

I think I know what the woman lined up behind Ray just did.

I finish signing and hand him the book. “Go forth and give pleasure, Ray,” I tell him, as if it’s a mantra. I knock fists with him, and he stares briefly at his hand afterward, as if he’s been blessed by a master.

Of course he has.

“You have my word. I want to be a pleasure purveyor,” Ray says solemnly as he clutches the book to his chest, reciting one of Mister Orgasm’s famous lines.

Man, someday that dude is going to blow the minds of the ladies. He’s got some serious determination. But not yet. Because, ya know, he’s sixteen.

I turn my eyes to the next person in line, and I’m practically blindsided by the sheer amount of breast on display. It’s pretty much enough to activate a full-on man trance, that glazed-eye, struck-stupid look that only tits can induce in a guy. I’m not immune to it, because . . . tits.

They are one of my favorite playgrounds.

But I’ve had some serious training in combating the condition. Part of my job is interacting with the public, and I can’t just walk around slack-jawed, staring at chests. This woman is going to put my skills to the test though. She’s wearing a scoop-neck white T-shirt. That’s kryptonite for most men.

She leans forward, making sure I get a front-row seat. I cast my eyes around, hoping Serena, the very pregnant, perennially smiling, but oh-so-savvy PR woman who works with my show at Comedy Nation, will return quickly from yet another bathroom break. She’s a pro at knowing when to hold the eager ladies at bay.

Look, I’m not complaining. I do not mind whatsoever that some of the show’s viewers get a little frisky at events like this. It’s all good. But I’ve got a feeling this one isn’t supposed to be playing.

“Hey there,” I say, giving a smile to Bleached Blonde. Interact. Engage. That’s part of the job. Be the public face of the hit TV show currently crushing the motherf*cking competition in the eleven p.m. timeslot—and all the programs that run earlier in the night, too. That both thrills the head of the network, and drives him bat-shit crazy, but that’s a story for later.

The woman brings her hand to her chest, trying a time-honored tactic to invoke the trance. I remain stoic. “I’m Samantha, and I love your show so much,” she coos. “I read the profile of you in Men’s Health the other week, too. I was so impressed with your devotion to your craft, as well as your body.” The profile—’cause it’s Men’s Health—featured a shot of me working out. Then, because she’s not subtle, she roams her gray eyes along my ink-covered arms, over my chest, and well, let’s just call a spade a spade. She pretty much tries to mate with me via eye contact right here in the bookstore.

“Devotion is my middle name,” I say with a smile, and push my glasses higher. She makes me edgy, and it’s not the ample cleavage but rather what she did in line a few minutes ago in her pocket.

She bends closer, gliding the book across the table to me. “You can sign right here if you want,” Samantha whispers, dragging her finger across her cleavage.

I grab the book with quick hands. “Thanks, but I’ve found the title page is an equally excellent location.”

“You should leave your number on it,” she adds, as I sign Nick Hammer and hand her the book.

“Funny thing, I don’t actually know my number,” I say with a harmless shrug. “Who can remember numbers anymore? Even our own?”

Where the hell is Serena? I hope she didn’t give birth in the ladies’ room.

Samantha giggles, then drags a long, candy pink nail across my signature. “Hammer,” she says coyly, letting it roll around in her mouth. “Is that your real name, or is it a term of endearment about—”