There's a banner draped over the front of the downtown Cincinnati Hustler Store, like a sheet on a clothesline. It says: "Valentine's Day Headquarters.''

No wonder the divorce rate is out of control.

I can picture an intimate candlelight dinner as Joe Hustlershopper gives his wife her Valentine's Day gift.

"Thank you, honey,'' she says. "It's just what I've always wanted. A candle shaped like a ... what the?!''

(Sound of breaking dishes and shouting.)

"Dang,'' Joe says later in the emergency room, where he is being treated for third-degree ravioli burns. "The man at the Hustler Store said women love stuff like that.''

Is it deductible?

I haven't learned much in 27 years of marriage, but I have learned a few things, and I have the scars to prove it. Such as:

Women do not love stuff like that, unless their name is Glitter and they get a tax deduction for Hustler props because they list "Pole Dancer'' under occupation on their IRS-1040.

What do women want? A man who can empty a dishwasher and dance with her every 10 years or so.

Victoria's Secret is that "Victoria'' is actually a short, fat, bald guy who looks like Danny DeVito, but less debonair. Has to be. Women would never create a catalog and chain-store empire of sophisticated peep shows that show women thrusting their body parts into store windows wearing less than a Band-Aid.

Just try this spiked heel on the other foot, guys. Can you even imagine the parallel universe where a men's lingerie store would exist? What color is the sky on that planet? Would it be created by any of the guys you know and golf with? (This is a rhetorical question. No names, please.)

So what makes men think their sweethearts want to be customized with lots of Hustler Store after-market accessories like a 1957 Ford pickup with hood scoops and flames on the side?

The way I see it, a guy who always brings his wife Mr. Frederick's for Valentine's Day shouldn't be surprised if she runs off with Mr. Sleazy from the bowling alley.

`Get lost'

And I have learned that Valentine's Day is the cruelest holiday.

It starts in third grade, when you are desperately hoping that Kathy Scallin will give you one of those candy hearts that says, "Be Mine,'' or at least, "Cool Guy.'' You've been wooing her all year by calling her names and throwing dirt clods at her on the playground - and then it happens. She gives you a lousy "Get Lost,'' or even worse, the devastating, "Cute Girl,'' that shows she doesn't even know you exist and thinks you might even be a girl.

Ouch. And that's just Cupid's first poisoned dart. Valentine's Day breaks more hearts than a Love Boat full of Joe Millionaires and Bachelorettes.

Being alone on Valentine's is like being a Buddhist at Christmas, but it could be worse: You could be stuck with one of the assorted nuts in life's box of chocolates who thinks love and romance are on a shelf at the Hustler Store.

E-mail pbronson@enquirer.com or call 768-8301.