"There's lesbian porn made for men, and lesbian porn made for women."

My passenger is about 40, extraordinarily beautiful, with bone structure that ensures she'll remain so for another 40 years. "Have you noticed that?" she asks. Despite having extinguished her cigarette, she continues to gesture expansively in the manner of someone still holding one. "Oh, I know," I laugh. "How many lesbians do you know with 4-inch fingernails?"

"I only remember two," she sighs. "So," she continues, "you've made some genuine inquiry regarding this issue?" I love this woman; she doesn't talk, she expounds. Yet she's not the annoying pedant who speaks only to hear herself talk. Her eye holds the gleam of the true provocateur. I'll be outmatched no matter what I say, yet enjoy it nonetheless. "A bit," I say, "but not as much as you have, I suspect."

She has a marvelous, throaty laugh that goes with the nonexistent cigarette and the equally nonexistent martini glass that should be in her other hand. "Indeed! I've spent a great deal of mental energy on the topic."

"Field research?" I ask.

"Oh, scads and scads of it." "Scads" is a favorite of mine, as is the equally archaic "screed"—which, bless her, is next. "Problem is, you can seldom find any intelligent discussion of the subject. It all just degenerates into feminist screed." I take a wild guess. "Were you a women's studies major in college?" She positively howls and insists we stop for a drink.