So I got this fancy new job in restaurant land. The dreamy owner poached me from the Magic and before I knew it I'd traded in my seven-inch stilettos for stylish flats. Now I'm hobnobbing with smartass service industry types and mixing with lots of bourgeois designer purse carriers. It's fun and the drinks are much stronger.

It's called clarklewis. It's on Water Avenue by OMSI. The chef, Morgan, makes the best food I've ever put in mouth. His gnocchi is the sexiest experience I've had this year. And the tomatoes--finally in season--swamped in the most orgasmic olive oil and paired with little anchovies cooked in vinegar... Oh my God they should make a soundtrack of people tasting clarklewis' food and sell it to girls who do phone sex: "Ohhhh. Mmmmm... Ohhh my Gawwwd..."

But this column ain't about clarklewis, it's about cleavage. Ass cleavage.

Panties are for pussies, folks. I'm swimming with the swans now--the long lithe women who are 6' tall in their socks, who have flat-ironed beach blond hair and wear little kitten heels. And superduper low jeans.

I took a poll at my new digs. Which would you rather see: somebody's neon green or ratty mauve g-string underwear lurching out of assland or a nice bit of crack snuggled between two soft hills of flesh? Well, the swans are showing the crack, and it is my job now to make sure people in-the-know know it.

I suppose I should qualify this: it is never sexy to see crack on a dude or a fat chick. However, it is always worse to see a g-string (especially on a dude). The g-string implies that the pussy is tightly wrapped, the anus unnecessarily abraded, the hipbones hemmed in by elastic.... Ew! A g-string hanging out is so tacky, so plebeian, so gross. It makes me wanna grab my little knife Guinea Pig bought me (in Sicily that means you're engaged) and cut the strings and rip it out. Crack, on the other hand, denotes a freewheelin' hedonist, a devil-may-care babe who takes boat trips on the Nile with Christian Louboutin and eats and drinks nothing but oysters and vodka for days at a stretch. Raw pussy next to denim is as sexy as Morgan Brownlow's gnocchi. Which brings me to cameltoe.

I love cameltoe. Again, I'll qualify this: it's gotta be on the right girl--gotta be a sorta seventies swan in tight cotton jeans or slacks that fit just-so in the ass... Would that Michelangelo lived in these times (and wasn't queer) to paint it! Give me a little blond babe, swaddled in snug turquoise cotton capris... Cameltoe RULES. It's like that barely discernible bulge in a guy's Levi's. Like the ice cream man tootin' his horn, promising sweet refreshment. Yum.

However! If there is a g-string sneaking out or even a hint of pantyline, I'm outta there. Panties are for pussies. This August, don't forget it. And come try the gnocchi at clarklewis. Word to the wise: the "Peach" is the best chick drink in town.

For a good time call: ratemycameltoe.com