I never had any use for Sex and the City, which I can see appealing to girls, but seriously, for guys?

So it irritates as well as surprises me that my European-born wife has a thing for the show. I say “surprises” because the language alone should be a turnoff for Gretchen — as a former teacher, she always says that vulgarities are a waste of good language and time.

But one night she had an episode on featuring a character known as “Mr. Pussy,” which grabbed my attention because I consider that my title! I had all I could do to keep from yelling “Plagiarists!” at the screen.

I guess that’s what made me pay attention to the episode rather than do what I usually do when Gretchen has a “girl” show on, play with the computer set up in our family room. At first I found myself enjoying the blatantly sexual dialogue. In the end I wound up being impressed and even educated by the episode.

I always knew my Gretchen was unusual in her distaste for being eaten; I imagine she only went along with it during our courtship knowing how I crave oral sex as my basic foreplay. The “Mr. Pussy” episode tended to validate my instincts about women and pussy-eating. It also had us both in stitches.

The episode featured an obsessive cunt-lapper who would turn every casual conversation around to oral sex during anything that he thought of as a date. At the table he would eat a peach or pear by splitting it and then licking and sucking it, devouring the contents with noisy pleasure. And later he would bed the girl and just eat her. Not fuck her — or, for that matter, even kiss her above the waist.

Because he specialized in eating pussy, Samantha, the sexually voracious character played by Kim Cattrall, tags him Mr. Pussy. “Oh, you don’t marry a guy like Mr. Pussy,” she says of him. “You just savor his talents.”

My Gretchen thought the tears rolling down my cheeks were from hysterical laughter alone, but they weren’t. My memory bank jammed as I recalled two — no, three — relationships I endured (yes, endured) eons ago, when I was single. In my old neighborhood in New York, it was well-known that Jewish girls love to be eaten. Okay, okay, write me hate mail, toss eggs at me, call me bad names — but I’ve never met a Jewish woman who didn’t want to be devoured.

One and all, they adored my lips, tongue and Italian nose piercing their labia during sex play, and the word spread around the neighborhood. It was even rumored that the local synagogue was abuzz about the gentile boy who was the reigning monarch of muff-diving. And friends, I loved it!

When the guy who had introduced me into his crowd told me about the title I’d acquired, he seemed embarrassed for me. “Ray,” I said,

“I’m proud to be of service to your beautiful ladies.”

One warm Saturday night in July, Ray and I double-dated at a rock concert. He took Sandy, and I took her best friend Barbara. Both were very attractive, but Sandy was stacked with a set of double-D hooters that turned heads. And Barbara? Glorified nipples and a padded bra. Ray had known both girls since they were kids. Sex seemed at all times fair game for conversation, and it was clear that Barbara had told Sandy each lick of our dates.

After the concert, back in Barbara’s finished basement we were all making out like crazy on a long sofa, and I kept hearing the girls speaking softly between kisses, announcing to each other blow-by-blow, like at a billiards match. “He’s squeezing my left tit,” Barbara would whisper to Sandy, whose face was close enough for Barbara to kiss as they spoke. Then Sandy would say with more than a little theatrics, “He’s got two fingers up my cunt!”

I was shocked by the language, but fascinated by the excitement dirty talk seemed to give them. Almost like twin brothers thinking alike, Ray and I began to cross-touch the girls while they kept up their love talk to each other. It was a jolt to hear Sandy tell Barbara that I was “tweaking” her “clitty”!

Deciding to try the same game, I urged Barbara, “Let me taste Sandy.”

A few hushed moments passed while she thought it over. Then she just nodded. Sandy was surprised but pleased when Ray moved aside. She lifted her short mini, exposing her panty-clad cunt and ass. I asked Barbara to remove her soul mate’s panties. Sandy’s moans told the story as my mouth met her pungent pussy lips. Meanwhile Ray was caressing Barbara’s thighs. Then he buried his face in his old high school prom date’s bush.

That night our princesses came about four times, but none from fucking. Mr. Pussy was in his groove!