“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” ~William Shakespeare, “The Tempest”

At least we’re not alone. It’s party time, sinners.

Lust. Definitely the sweetest, most deliciously passion fruit flavored sin. It’s as tasty as a dripping barrel of pomegranate juice, and more fun than a clown on fire. As sinning goes, it’s right up there with the biggies.

If there were a “Best of…” list for moral failings, this one would blow ’em all the way to Purgatory and back. Take sloth, for example. Who wants to sit around all day, be lazy and get fat?

Wanting. Longing. All-consuming infatuation for another human being. These are the randy passions of the “self-indulgent” variety, and what the Romans called Cupido. It’s in our blood, our booze, the air, the darkness, the scent of your skin… Boom, chicka, wah wah…

I remember the very first time I felt the fire down below. It was the 70s, and my brother and I stayed up late, snuck into the TV room and watched Russ Meyer’s Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens.

Lust, on a stick. B-movie style.

To be clear, we’re not talking about love here. Love is the little bitch that gets teased by lust worse than a Jersey girl’s hair. Lust could easily kick its ass, and drink it under the table. Lust wouldn’t be caught dead watching a chick flick, enjoying the scent of fresh cut roses or dressing appropriately. It stays out past curfew and reads dirty magazines.

Love is all about a deep connection; lust prefers Deep Throat. Love is a lady. Lust is a tramp. We’re talking about fornicatio, baby. You get the picture.

But wait, kitten, there’s a catch. According to the ancients, and many deep thinking uptight people since, these animal feelings of want and fervor can only lead to suffering. The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, an atheist and one-time whore chaser, believed that humans were motivated by only their own basic, animal desires, or Wille zum Leben (“Will to Live”), which was responsible for everything we humans do. He said we are miserable, thanks to sex and relationships, because in the end, we can never be truly satisfied. This explains the shame and sadness which tend to follow the wanton act of casual boning.

In other words, when a guy sees an attractive little honey, a little bell goes off in his head (the one above his shoulders) and he thinks: I’m quite sure that woman will give me the most beautiful, intelligent children in history. A louder, deeper voice can he heard in his head (the one down below): Go get some of that, stud.

Her heart might go all aflutter because he’s on his best behavior, trying to get into her pants, cooking dinners and making mixed tapes. They fuck, they wed and before you know it little Mikey has to be picked up from soccer practice for the third time that week and they’re spending every morning looking at each other over their boring morning oatmeal with acute indifference.

This is the truth, the tragedy, the ghastliness of it all; these depressing moments will almost certainly follow the dirty deed. But don’t worry, said Schopenhauer, this bleak scenario is quite normal. And it’s why we cling to lust, because we just can’t seem to evolve past wanting to feel the hunger.

Schopenhauer, known as “The Great Pessimist'” said love is an illusion. Did I mention the guy had major mother issues?

Silly mortals, we’re all such fuck-ups.

At least we can amuse ourselves while we’re here, muck things up and embrace our fate. Film siren Tallulah Bankhead said, “If I had to live my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner.” Bravo, sister.

Again, don’t get too excited. In the end, Hell awaits, according to Dante’s Inferno, with a foreboding sign that reads “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Tempests. Hurricanes. Furious winds beating you down, all because you thought Mario Rubitch was hot in the fifth grade. Fire and brimstone.

You have come to a place mute of all light, where the wind bellows as the sea does in a tempest. This is the realm where the lustful spend eternity. Here, sinners are blown around endlessly by the unforgiving winds of unquenchable desire as punishment for their transgressions. The infernal hurricane that never rests hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine, whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them. You have betrayed reason at the behest of your appetite for pleasure, and so here you are doomed to remain. Cleopatra and Helen of Troy are two that share in your fate.

So what’s a girl to to? Most of us hate having windblown hair, and for that reason I could never drive a convertible, even though it’s the middle of August, and L.A. is in the middle of a heat wave. No wonder hell is so empty. It’s so fucking hot here, they probably don’t know any better.

And if you think it’s hot now, wait ’til you’re dead, baby.

Here’s my homie, the demon of lust, Asmodeus, also known as the demon of wrath, prince of demons, and the father of monsters. His claim to dirty fame is twisting people’s sexual desires, and inspiring gambling, deceit, lust and revenge according to the German bishop and theologian Peter Binsfeld. People who fall to Asmodeus’ ways get sentenced to an eternity in the second circle of hell.

Um, whatever. He looks like porn troll Ron Jeremy.

As for me, I’m not too worried about being banished to the middle of earth with the likes of Satan. My life is hardly what you would call corrupt. I have a semi-decent job, I’ve never stolen anything and I don’t plan on doing anything illegal in the near future. But there was a time a little charcoal eyeliner and a whiskey sour was all it took for things to get a little scandalous in Los Angeles.