SIX YEARS AGO, I was trying to establish myself as a freelance writer. So I was happily waiting tables at a brewpub when an editor at a certain men's title called to offer me my first big magazine assignment. The laddy rag had recently published a hit story about the astounding ease of shagging babes in Brazil, in which the author/everyman was virtually attacked by thong wearers from São Paolo to Salvador, and the editors wanted a sequel. Apparently, I was just the sort-of-handsome, kind-of-funny guy for the job. Was I interested?

Does Jell-O jiggle?!

We decided upon Sweden. I quit the restaurant and made plans to fly to Stockholm, stay in a lavish baroque-modern hotel, and hit on the most beautiful women in the swankiest downtown clubs. The only thing I lacked was desirability. Over the first four nights, woman after woman—most of them three inches taller than my five feet eleven—rebuffed my advances with the social delicacy of a Viking warrior.

"I'm sorry," one said with a look of disgust usually reserved for dirty toilet seats. "I haven't understood a single word you said.

I don't speak English."

Redoubling my efforts, I prodded local connections for advice. It was suggested that I lower my standards. I assured them I didn't have any.

By day seven I'd spent roughly 7,000 kronor on appletinis and gyrated to every song in ABBA's catalog (twice)—and had precisely one peck on the cheek to show for it. I called home, looking for sympathy.

"Stick with it, honey," Mom encouraged.

Three nights later, my little black book was still empty and I was convinced my career was over before it had begun. I gave up, slinking away to a gaudy suburban dance hall with a friend of a friend. Lena wasn't exactly your stereotypical milk maid—she was a Turkish immigrant with curly red hair, working as a police dispatcher—but we genuinely hit it off. Soon enough, we were trading slobber in a dark corner, and I was so happy I would've sponsored her naturalization application.

Lena and her friend, who'd met up with us, had to go home soon—without me—but that was OK. I knew that artful editing would make our canoodling the story's glorious finale. I'd suggestively end the piece as we all left for the cab and—bada-bing!—my cavorting among the ripe beauties of Stockholm would culminate in what was clearly the beginning of a threesome.