"Excuse me, do you sell liquid latex?"

The usual response was a blank stare. That, or a look of pity, as if to say, "Honey, that shit is so out, it won't be in until you're too old and saggy to use it."

While erotic latex seems like the domain of Burning Man hippies and CSI writers, there's something infinitely sexy about being encased, ravished and ultimately peeled like a hard-boiled egg. Boy du Mois (aka "back door man") and I were determined to try it.

After hitting half a dozen sex shops in Manhattan, we struck gold at a leather daddy boutique on Christopher Street. (FYI, Passional sells liquid latex local, like, no problem.) Amid zipper-mouth ski masks and human-size birdcages, the tubs of latex sat dusty beneath a wall of dildos and strap-ons. The goo had separated, but a vigorous shake instantly revived it.

"Use some baby oil, buy a paintbrush—you'll be fine," the clerk said with a dismissive wave. Taking his advice, we crossed the street to CVS and bought generic-brand baby oil, a set of paintbrushes and a pack of peppermint Bubblicious.

Excited to experience this unfashionable level of next-to-nakedness, we rushed back to his Brooklyn apartment, stripped down and oiled up. The latex reeked of ammonia and left us dizzy like we'd just huffed two dozen Sharpies.

"I think I'm getting high off the fumes," Boy du Mois complained, eyes drooping as I painted him ankle to collarbone, three times over. He returned the favor, complimenting me at every curve.

When I stepped back to examine my artistic handiwork, I realized why erotic latex had gone the way of coveralls and pacifiers. If you don't move or blink or breathe, it looks fantastic. But the second you differentiate yourself from a Daffy's mannequin, the layers start to ripple.

Boy's chest and belly resembled shrively bathtub hands after just 20 minutes, and his privates were so gobbed up with wet-look rubber, his scrotum had literally glued itself to his thigh. He looked like a cross between Spider-Man, Ziggy Stardust and Po, the red Teletubby.

What the porno clerk had forgotten to mention was this: When two painted body parts touch, they bind instantly. And when they bind, they tear the latex, along with whatever skin and hair is stuck to it. You're also supposed to shave everywhere before applying any product. We didn't, of course, so the next few hours were spent ripping, picking, nudging, begging, coaxing and shaving the latex off Boy's hirsute body.

"I'm gonna write those bastards a goddamn letter …" he groused as I used scissors to separate his ass cheeks. My second skin shed without a hitch, and I fell asleep around 5 a.m.; when I woke at 9, he was still moaning and peeling.

It wasn't until Boy had gone from burlyman to girlyman that I learned the maker of the latex brand we used was none other than Malvern-based Liquid Latex World, a six-year-old company that posts countless warnings on its Web site: "Make no mistake about it—liquid latex will bond to body hair." But what the site describes like pulling off a Band-Aid feels more akin to Brazilian waxing with duct tape.

"I was genuinely freaked out and frightened," Boy told me later. "Like I was gonna be one of those sexual weirdos that winds up in a hospital having to explain himself. I was worried this was gonna be our gerbil moment."

Questions? Comments? Are not laws dangerous which inhibit the passions? E-mail ashlea.halpern@citypaper.net. No phone calls.