You’ve seen that photo of me that accompanies the column. I’m darn near irresistible.

You can imagine the notes I get from many women readers. Whew. I didn’t know bankers and tradesmen acted that way.

This is why, until recently, I had to live in Rhode Island. I had a sex problem. In fact, much of the population migration out of Massachusetts in recent years is not really due to high taxes and housing costs. It’s a sex thing. They all moved to Rhode Island.

Here’s the problem. If you look like me, and, as an additional allure, you drive a well-preserved Buick Park Avenue, the women come running.

You know how it is. I’m a wealthy, well-connected newspaper columnist. I pick up a girl in the Warren Group limo, I stop by a fancy jewelry store to buy her a necklace that goes just perfectly with her dress; we head off to a four-star restaurant for an elegant meal; and then, despite the fact that I’m not really that kind of boy, the woman wants to sleep with me, in the expensive hotel suite I reserve for important column research.

You’re all bankers and tradesmen and lawyers. Do you see the problem? The limo. The necklace. The dinner. The hotel suite. I’ve spent about $8,000 on this girl before she ever gets around to mentioning how smart and fun and handsome I am. It seems so natural. Sure, there’s a hint in all this that I’m on the customer side of a prostitution misdemeanor.

But, it’s confusing. I didn’t really give her any money. I just took her out on a really cool date. What should we do? Go home to Rhode Island, just to be safe.

At some point in a long, drunken legislative session many years ago, Rhode Island legislators banned outdoor prostitution, because it lowered property values and required you to answer embarrassing questions from your kids.

In an equally inebriated session of the state Supreme Court in Rhode Island, the justices decided that since the legislators had specifically banned outdoor professional sex, but had not banned discreet, indoor sex on a Queen-size bed with lace pillows and stained-glass lamps on the side table, then indoor prostitution must be just fine.

Brothels began popping up in Rhode Island like the dandelions of spring. Rhode Island officials sort of, kind of, tried to regulate and license them, without actually outlawing “prostitution,” but such stuff is never easy. As the criminal defense lawyers like to put it, paying a young woman to give you a massage is just fine, as long as you don’t roll over.

Certain counties in Nevada rather purposely, with malice of tourism, legalized prostitution, but Rhode Island was the only state to sort of do the entire jurisdiction, sort of by accident.

Driving A Hard Bargain

In an age when thinly disguised advertisements, in print and online, offer up all manner of sexual pleasure for a fee, the Rhode Island politicians didn’t feel motivated to act on something so embarrassing and difficult to enforce.

This summer, 50 academics urged the Rhode Island legislators to leave the law as it was, in large part because outdoor sex is more dangerous for the girls than indoor sex. This argument probably wasn’t going to win them any theology prizes, but it made the issue more complex for the poor legislators, who were as confused about sex as a 15-year-old boy on his first date.

Just last month, a Pennsylvania woman was arrested for offering an undercover officer sex in return for World Series tickets. Her team lost – and so did she. In Rhode Island, maybe she could have scored a few tickets, if she negotiated indoors.

Earlier this month, the stars aligned, and the House and Senate versions of no-more-indoor prostitution legislation were smoothed out by weary lawmakers who never wanted to hear the word “penetration” again. Gov. Carcieri signed the prostitution ban, officially proclaiming that Rhode Island was now, theoretically, as boring as Massachusetts.

I’m planning to move to Massachusetts now. Girls, you know that dinner we have planned? I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to go Dutch Treat. There’ll be no more napping in Rhode Island.