Pretty face + hot body + 9 tatts + porn pout = hung jury

There's no doubt about it, up-and-coming actress Megan Fox (seen here at last night's Hollywood premiere of her new film, Transformers) is one of those stunningly beautiful women, who, even when tatted up and giving off an unmistakable yeah-I-could-be-into-that porn pout, still looks just that -- stunningly beautiful.

But assuming the just-turned 21 year old has the acting chops to move on from '80s cartoon remakes to scripts requiring more range than making "Holy shit! There's a giant primary-colored plastic manbot after us!" faces, she's at a clear disadvantage from other young actresses who don't look as...shall we say, rough and ready. Even with all that natural beauty - her eyes really are that color - even with all the silver and ivory beaded feather-adorned art-deco Collette Dinnigan cocktail dresses and pairs of metallic Louboutin pumps, Megan can't expect to be taken seriously in the Glenn Close, Cate Blanchett, even Penelope Cruz sense if she doesn't hire a glam squad that can:

(1) Teach her a new signature look that does not include sex-me eyes and an "insert here" mouth

(2) Spackle some foundation onto her "shoulder poetry"

(3) Find a way to spin her marriage to Brian Austin-Green - David Silver from "Beverly Hills 90210" - as more a charitable gesture than an actual marriage marriage

For more of Megan looking like a top-earning Vivid Video vixen, see below:

Pornstar hair is for *after* work

Pornstar hair.

It's big, it's full of product, and it has the ability to make even the most deadline-focused man cancel all his PM meetings to follow the temptress to whom the locks belong to the nearest four walls with a floor-to-ceiling mirror for a late-afternoon-into-early-evening session of intense, intimate...um, discussion.

Even if most of us can't verbally discern among the manes of Tawny Kitaen in Whitesnake's "Here we go again" video, a New Jersey housewife dolled up to make a Costco run and Tera Patrick on all fours doing...well, doing what Tera Patrick does, we all know pornstar hair when we see it.

And up until this morning, it was not the kind of head-topper I'd ever expected to see in DC. Not in the ConnAve/M Street area on a Monday, anyway.

But there, standing two heads ahead of me right in front of Burberry around 10:45 this morning was the porniest porn star hair I've ever seen in person. Not only did its volume and combustible level of product surpass Jenna Jameson's in each of her six Jenna loves _____ and _____ loves Jenna films, but the number of perfectly distributed tendrils, wisps, and ringlets, too, indicated this woman, despite her modest navy pinstripe pantsuit, square-toed Cole Haans and coffee-colored leather briefcase, was likely on her way to a speakeasy filmset somewhere up in the ritziest (i.e. most sexually depraved) corner of residential Georgetown.

Don't get me wrong, this woman's thick, jet-black hair was beyond gorgeous. It was the enviable kind that could just as easily hold a curl or go stick-straight simply by looking at a set of hot-rollers or a CHI. It was the kind that no matter what she did with it, even in its most tamed ponytail state, would distract men of all ages and persuasions in all business settings into wondering what that hair would feel like to give a playfully erotic little tug. In light of this fact, the very last thing this woman should be doing in professional settings is tease - pun intended - that hair to the razor's edge between Texas beauty queen and X-rated sweetheart.

Like an amazing pair of post-marathon legs gingerlillied to the hilt with Molton Brown's finest glimmer oil, a sensual pillow lip swathed in Chanel red and a just-born-lucky 34-24-34 in mesh Cosabella boyshorts, sex kitten hair is gift - a tool - with which certain women are fortunate enough to have tucked away in their come-hither arsenals. But like said legs, lips and a made-for-lovin' figure, there is a time and a place to overtly put on display such feminine wiles as pornstar hair.

And as much as I, in terms of workplace dress-code, like to "slice the salami" as my graduate advisor used to say in reference to Taiwan's Chen Shuibian slow-but-steady diplomatic severance from the Mainland, I have to call a spade a spade and draw a line in the sand at a downtown DC bank employee walking around with clear-as-day f**k-me hair.

It's true, I'm 100% for sale

In an anonymous comment a few days back, written in response to my Liv-Tyler-looks-pregnant post, one of my angrier readers, somewhere in between reminding me I don't have a husband and asserting I have an obsession with my waistline, launched the out-of-nowhere perennial 6th grade insult: "you're a slut."

My initial reaction was confusion. On several fronts. How can I be both man-free and a slut? Isn't it an accepted, objective truth that Liv Tyler looks sausage-encased every third time she goes out in public? And then most curious of all, why did this reader place commas after transition words when the connective sentences weren't stand-alone ideas and then not use them when they were?

The more I thought about what this reader wrote, however, the more sense her words seemed to make. Then last night, after a male friend convinced me to do something I didn't want to do with the promise of a paid-for UVA-free tanning session, I realized she was right. In some ways, I am a slut.

When it comes to Peter Som dresses, Veuve-grade-and-above champagne cocktails, weekends in Manhattan, even the occasional UVA-free tanning session, I am undeniably the cheapest, crotchless-lurex-pants wearing, cork-wedged strutting, pleather-Sam's-Club-handbag toting, find-'em-on-a-streetcorner-and-take-'em-home, rootin'-tootin' trailer park whore.

If you buy me any of the above items (not to mention a whole host of others, including this and these), I will quit my job, forget how to speak Chinese and be your Tina Turner private dancer, Julia Roberts polo-match escort on a full-time basis. We don't even need to get along or challenge each other intellectually. We don't need similar interests, the prospect of laughter or common values. All you need to do is buy me what I want, and I will fix for you Annie's organic penne and cheese, Pillsbury Grands and simple green salads every night of the week. I will let you massage my back, cajole you into watching E! News Live every weeknight, blame you for every pound I gain and double-promise to involve you in completely inappropriate public displays of affection like egregious crotch-grabs, outdoor-voice ribald sex talk at work functions and pressure you into ordering pre-dessert "dessert" in upscale restaurant bathrooms. Women's bathrooms.

And the more you give me, the more Tera-Patrick-in-Hogtied! I'll be, so it's really to your advantage to drop serious cash.

So, as much as I appreciate my friends coming so quickly and convincingly to my defense in the face of having the s-bomb hurled at me, I feel it's only fair I come clean and admit I am in fact 100% for sale.