Love advice from the Scene's resident literary lotharioDear Damian: With the Hillary Clinton Bosnia trip saga flooding the airwaves, I was wondering if you've ever lied, exaggerated or “misstated” when telling tales of your exploits. And do you approve of the practice of “enhancing” your love résumé?Skeptical SallyDon't be Sally, silly...er, you know what I'm trying to say. I'm shocked that you would even ask. In fact, I tend to downplay my experiences, as they are often so over-the-top that I'm afraid no one will believe me. For instance, in a column a couple of years back, I wrote that Scarlett Johansson had propositioned me at Spago and taken me back to her hotel room, where she said she had a “friend” staying with her. As often is the case, my humility got the best of me, and I refrained from mentioning that Scarlett's “friend” was in fact Jessica Alba. (You may recall the tabloid headlines—“Starlet Stalker Strikes Again” and “Deluded Don Juan Tails Hollywood Honeys”—the result of a huge misunderstanding that Scarlett, Jess and I still laugh about today. The real story: They had to claim I was “stalking” them because they both had boyfriends at the time, and they needed an excuse to explain why the paparazzi caught me with them at the hotel on the way to our mid-afternoon flesh fest. I agreed to go along with the ruse, as it has allowed me to continue my amorous liaisons with both women.)Generally speaking, exaggerating your prowess can lead to inflated expectations that can only cause your lover(s) to be disappointed. That's why, for example, I tell my prospective dates that I can make love for three hours continuously, when in fact the truth is I can often go four to six hours or more. Thank you, little blue pill! (Not that I really need it, but Viagra has been so taken with my musings that I've agreed to plug their product in exchange for free samples—which I of course give away to my less hormonally gifted friends.)One time, I told a woman that I had the physique of a 25-year-old Golden Gloves boxer, which only made her pleasantly surprised to find out that, when we had finally shed our clothes in a blaze of passion, I had the build of a 20-year-old Olympic swimmer. (And it helped to explain the black eye and missing tooth, which were the byproduct of Mischa Barton's ecstatic convulsions a couple of days earlier—and not the result of being punched out by a “harassed” Starbucks barista, as had been erroneously reported on several Internet news sites.)So in the end, when it comes to bragging about your love skills, I encourage aspiring Don Juans and Juanitas to err on the side of humility. As you can see, it's done wonders for me. Simply put, it's best to deflate expectations, before anything else deflates.