I was an extra on "Tango and Cash" and had sex with Sylvester Stallone. Mostly.

Sly called me into his trailer one day and, well, he's a man and I'm a woman and we're both nearly single so what the heck. Within a couple minutes we're naked in bed and rolling around when I hear this little voice.

"Cray-dul da bawls."

I think maybe I'm imagining things so I ignore it, and pretty soon I hear it again, a little louder.

"Cray-dul da bawls!"

"Um . . . are you trying to tell me something?"

"CRAY-DUL DA BAWLS!"

"Oh. Um, OK."

Now ordinarily I'm not real crazy about special requests. I used to be a waitress and I know that people never have just one. First it's "Could I have the dressing on the side?", then it's "Could I have roast potatoes instead of mashed?", and pretty soon it's "Could you wash my Lexus and give me a massage?" At the risk of sounding indelicate, though, Sly was about twelve knots short of ramming speed, so I thought I'd give it a whirl.

So we're back at it, and I'm doing my best to cray-dul. Luckily the baby was a few months premature, if you know what I mean. But I'm feeling a little strange now: he should never have planted the word "cradle" in my mind, because now I've confused motherhood with genitalia. Now I'm thinking, well, am I swinging the baby too slow? Too fast? I do not want baby spitting up, because once he does it's naptime for all of us, if you catch my drift.

Anyway, I'm doing my best to CRAY-DUL when I hear this little small voice again:

"Slap my butt."

"Hmmm?"

"Slap my butt!"

"What?"

"SLAP MY BUTT!"

Excuse me?

By now I'm starting to wonder, just how experienced is this guy? It's like when you turn twenty-one: you start going to bars and you're happy with, like, Budweiser. Then one day some alkie pulls up next to you and orders a neat Stoli kamikaze with a side slammer of 151, and you think, jeez -- somebody's done this before.

So I'm beginning to suspect Stallone's been around. Do ordinary guys need that much stimulation? Regardless whether I flop around like a fish or pretend I'm a mime in a box, my sex partner should be turned on by me just naked and there. I'm not being egotistical -- I mean, most guys get hard watching "The Flintstones." But not Sly! He's got a list of instructions that make assembling a bicycle look like eating cheese. Plus -- I'm through being delicate -- he wasn't even hard. To get this guy to orgasm I'm picturing myself straddling a unicycle juggling the Olson twins.

So I'm laying there mentally kicking myself for having loose morals and he excuses himself and goes to the bathroom. He leaves the door open like guys do and I'm thinking, "Oh, boy! I'm in for a treat now!" And all of a sudden I start hearing this sound. "PFFFT-phew. PFFFT-phew." I don't think this is a bathroom function because it sounds like he's inflating a canoe.

"What's up?" I ask, tentatively.

He answers, "I will be. In a minute."

And for a few seconds I'm puzzled, and then realization smacks me in the face like the Pope meeting Kathie Lee Gifford.

It's true: Sylvester Stallone has one of those pump things installed downstairs.

I'd heard rumors about it, but never really believed them. Supposedly he overdid steroids in his youth and they made him lose the ability to function . . . normally.

For visual reference imagine an elevator that only goes halfway up the building.

Now, I don't know much about these pumps, but here's how I think they work: the man inflates his penis with a bulb implanted into one of his balls. Then it stays up, whether he's having sex, drinking coffee, or out in the garden pruning gladiolas. When he decides to deflate it he presses a little hidden valve.

Now, I'm sure this pump has helped a lot of men, but personally I could sleep better at night if I didn't know Sylvester Stallone can keep erect until Jesus returns.

I do NOT want to hear this phrase again. In particular do NOT describe this image to Stephen King.

Anyway, call me chicken, but before the fourth "PFFFT-phew" I'm dressed, back on the set, and stuffing free cranberry muffins in my gob. What can I say? I panicked. My head was spinning so fast other extras asked me for rides. But what was I supposed to do? Maybe I'm old-fashioned but I like to know exactly what's going into my body. Penis? Fine. Tampon? Sure. Braunschweiger? No thanks. Don't you think he should have explained things before we hopped in the sack? He doesn't need to pass out brochures: just a quick overview. Like for one thing, what's in it? Air? If my diaphragm was sharp could I puncture it? I'd be picturing it flying off and circling the room until it drops lifeless to to the floor. And how do you apologize for that?

Is it filled with saline solution? That might come in handy. I mean, afterwards we could clean our contact lenses on his stomach. Helium? If I go down on him, will it make my voice squeak like Minnie Mouse? What if we do something that causes sparks? I'm picturing a tiny circumsized Hindenburg.

Then once it's up, can he control it? I've only seen the Macy's Parade a couple times but they always seem to have few Giant Balloon Accidents. And they've got like sixty guys holding them down. Though from what I saw of Sly's equipment even if it went completely out of control I'd get a bruise maybe the size of a kumquat.

So I'm standing there eating another muffin, feeling better but having second thoughts. It's probably completely safe, he's used it hundreds of times, and I look like Heidi from the country for overreacting. But then I remember the little voice: "SLAP MY BUTT!" "CRAY-DUL DA BAWLS!" And my head starts spinning again. Even if I wanted to give it another try, I don't think I'm up to it. I've never gotten to the second level of PacMan and he's only got a joystick. My PacMen are eaten on level one and I don't have to slap OR cray-dul them! And what if I get confused? What if I cray-dul when I'm supposed to SLAP? What if I slap WHEN I'M SUPPOSED TO CRAY-DUL?

When Sly finally emerges from his trailer he acts like nothing happened. I've finished five muffins and three croissants by then.

Oh, the humanity.