Meet Herschel

Meet Hershel. Hershel is a pussy magnet.

Having only glimpsed at Hershel for not more than a few minutes, and having never spoken to him, I confess that Hershel may or may not be his actual name. But pussy magnet is undoubtedly his game.

We spotted Hershel on a cold, clear evening. You will forgive the dark, grainy photo. We were forced to a stealthy cell phone shot, as we didn't wanted an honest observation of the master at his craft.

He sat at a bar on Frenchman Street. And it wasn't one of those shoes-stick-to-the-floor dives on Frenchman St. It was a place with a little "class."

Hershel kept his face toward his book as we approached the bar and ordered a round. But after a short pause, one of our party found herself unable to resist his pull.

"What are you reading?"

"I'm reading about the history of jazz."

Of course he was. A pussy magnet of this caliber wouldn't be caught reading Twilight.

Herschel's secret is that back at home, in the rare gaps between female guests, he is a regular guy. The fake beard is tucked away in a bathroom drawer, and a large painting in the den is removed to revel his high-def plasma television. (He tells his guests that he doesn't like television, except to occasionally watch Nova on his 13-inch black and white.)

A close examination of Hershel's shelves reveal that the books are untouched. A couple of them are shelved upside down. But Hershel doesn't notice. The truth is, Herschel doesn't even know how to read.

But that matters not to a pussy magnet like Hershel. On the night we spotted him plying his craft, he had already had his way with a college student in town from Boston on a long weekend. His trotlines were set for conquest number two of that night.

Hats off to you, Hershel.