I have seen enough spreadshots; perhaps, too many. The overt invitation, the crown jewel betwixt the legs, displayed in a glaring light that washes away any attempt at art, at mood, at ambience, at capturing a woman's real sensuality, just does nothing to entice. I'm familiar with the anatomy. And I don't believe that even a significant minority of the women doing "spreads" are even slightly as slutty as they might seem, or might want to seem, in the photos they publish. If anything, the typical "spread" strikes me like a huckster's ingratiating warble. Here's the goods, honey. Now hand over your green.

It has long been the faces and the emotions faces project that catch my eye and hold my interest. I would rather mull over a photo of a slinky sliver of an amateur, if she has an interesting face, and does interesting things with it, than almost any model you might care to mention. Hence, my interest in Peta Wilson. You might have caught her on La Femme Nikita (USA Network). She's slender. But she does more with her face in a television minute than a great many celebrities do in two hours on the big screen. She talks with her face. It's fascinating to watch. So what am I doing here, anyway, when the subject of our remembrance is a woman who in 200+ photos has never shown her face? Well, I'll tell you.

Whether you believe she's a morph or a "stuffed shirt," or not, TWG came to us like the genuine article, and thus far I've heard nothing to burst the bubble. I don't really even care if she's a fake. She seems real enough. She looks like just a girl, a young woman, from anywhere, but with the kind of endowment you'll never forget, not ever. She doesn't seem in her photos like she's showing off. There's no arrogance there. She doesn't give me the urge to check on my wallet. She just is. Believe it or not.

It's the first photos I remember best. The Cheerios shirt. The sweatshirt and jeans and sandals. Standing before the camera like for a picture to send to Aunt Selma. The few times she actually does strike a pose she seems almost to be laughing, somewhere behind the blur obscuring her features, because it's just so funny--silly, really--to think that anyone would be interested in looking at pictures of her. Okay, she's got a big chest and maybe the "guys" would find that interesting, but only as a goof. She sees it that way because she's no ingènue, no huckster. She just can't take "it" or "them" or the whole of herself so seriously.

In a way, that hateful blur sets me free. TWG can be anyone I might imagine her to be. Maybe a little saucy, a little spicy, in a nice way, with affection, and always with at least half a smile. She makes no designs on my wallet because, ultimately, what's in the wallet isn't all that important. It's the heart that counts. And she seems like she's got a lot.