After a drink or two last Saturday night, I was tipsy and trying my best to eavesdrop on the Chelsea-boy-banter at the table beside me. So, I hardly took notice or offense when my friend “D” looked at both me and his gorgeous, glowing, (and pregnant) wife, and exclaimed: “girls are whores!” In fact, I couldn’t help but agree with this stolen Slick Rick lyric on some level. No, I’m not shrinking under the weight of centuries-old misogyny. I’m just calling a duck, “a duck”, or a whore, “a whore” when I come across one.

Let me explain how the conversation segued from the agony of Exersaucer assembly to smut—or more specifically, slut. A mix of Sancerre and scotch unlocked my husband’s vault around ten pm. He revealed that that very morning, he’d been accosted in the elevator by a walk-of-shame skank, who innocently asked for his number in an attempt to “get to know her new neighbors.” Caught off guard, and still in a haze of sleeping pills, a 6:15 spin class, and a harried pit-stop at Dean and Deluca, he unwittingly provided this pick-up artiste with the digits to his new iPhone 4s. Then he thought, shit. Within the hour, Noelle (sounds like a stripper’s name to me) was texting away, telling my husband he seemed “cool,” and wondering whether or not he had a “wife.” Realizing immediately that he would never be “cool” enough to get away with any sort of side action, (and as I suspect, realizing that she wasn’t nearly as hot as I am in my thirty-something prime), he confessed to having a ball and a chain and a baby and a dog. Suffice it to say, the texting never escalated to sexting, and will probably just materialize into awesome awkwardness one day in the laundry room. But what if my dearly beloved wasn’t tethered to anchors of traditionalism (and a fabulous better-half)? Would Miss Christmas have freshened up a bit and asked him to check out apartment 20A all before the stroke of noon?

Perhaps I’m being too hasty in hanging the poor girl by the thread of her thong. After all, my twenties weren’t exactly spent in book clubs, knitting circles, and tragic piano bars on the Upper West Side. I, too, have my share of whore-lore. There was the time I accidentally asked out a married man, and proceeded to tell him what a “fun date” he was missing out on. Oops. Then there was my old stomping ground—the Gramercy Park Hotel rooftop pre-Schraeger renovation—where I informed a complete stranger that he was clearly on a terrible first date, and that he should take me out instead. Wow. I definitely had a lobster dinner with one guy, and breakfast with another in a twenty-four hour time span. And come to think of it, I once stuck a note on my neighbor’s door, asking for a tour of his sprawling studio. Yikes. 2003 was quite a year.

Do you know what all of this means? That if there are J-Whats and Noelles out there, there have got to be millions more. Has anyone seen The Bachelor lately? Cut-throat Courtney invited bumbling Ben for a skinny-dip after knowing him for what—a week? Unless he suffered from shrinkage, they totally smooshed. And why? Because men can’t seem to resist women who set their sights on something and chase it with the tenacity of a Kardashian momager. If they look half-way decent in good lighting, and are willing to take their clothes off, it’s pretty much a boner-trumps-brains situation.

So, how do we prevent perfectly good boyfriends and husbands from falling prey to these so-called “whores?”Become them. Or, Honey Badger. She just takes what she wants. Even if you’re tired from proofing your PHD dissertation, or just pushed out your third kid (a behemoth 10-pounder), or need to catch up on four weeks’ worth of Hoarders, go after your man. Mascara on, granny-panties off, chest high, lights low, hair down, martini up, butt in, retainer out. Because if you don’t, someone else will. And for the record, my doting, devoted, darling husband has already forgotten whatsername.