As I write this to you, Smoove is in pain. This is not the heart pain I expose to the world week after week in this column. No, today Smoove is in body pain. If I may be perfectly honest, it is quite a bit of body pain.

Let me break it down for you.

I am currently lying in an all-white bed, in an all-white room, in an all-white hospital. I am like a sexy, crippled panther air-dropped upon the vast white sands of a medical desert and left to confront his fate in the unrelenting heat of a fluorescent sun.

I should also point out that Smoove is on pain medication. Generally, I do not mind this.

However, it has been a difficult time. Smoove rarely becomes ill and has previously spent very little time in the hospital. I believe this is because I was blessed with superior genes, though others may say it is because I keep my penthouse apartment perfectly clean and germ-free. Nonetheless, a hospital is where I am, and a hospital is where I shall remain for the time being.

The pain and boredom have been difficult to bear, but I have borne them stoically. Besides the aforementioned painkillers, I am grateful for the kind attentions of the staff at this facility. I have especially enjoyed having breakfast made for me. This is a new experience for Smoove, and I find it pleasant.

A special shout-out also goes to my main man Darnell for the flowers he sent. I don’t expect a visit, as a hospital is no place for a player to be seen. I know that. He knows that. A player understands a player. Much love, Darnell.

I have only two complaints about my stay. First, the nurses need to give more thought to how they dress for their patients. Their baggy blue pantsuits do little to flatter or create an aura of feminine mystique. Though I have sent e-mails to the hospital administrator about this and offered to send a letter of introduction to my personal tailor, I have received no reply. Second, the food here leaves much to be desired. I do not know where they fly their strawberries in from, but it is not the finest strawberry-producing region in the world. Not by a long shot.

As to why I have been hospitalized, I find it unnecessary to describe the circumstances of my accident. There only important facts are: (1) This was not my fault, and (2) the pelvic region of Smoove has been gravely injured. This last matter has troubled me greatly. I have spent many nights on this adjustable bed lying awake and wondering, “Will Smoove ever be the same man again?” The injustice makes me want to cry out to the heavens, but I do not wish to wake my roommate Charlie, who seems like a good enough person and does not deserve a diagnosis of Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

Smoove must remain silent.

Still, the agony inside me burns. Uncertainty has, for perhaps the first time, truly gripped the heart and mind of Smoove. I am confident I will still be able to attract women, as that is merely a mental game requiring skill, knowledge, and unearthly levels of concentration. But Smoove’s hips contain much of his sexual power when it comes to satisfying that booty all night long.

Questions remain: What if Smoove doesn’t fully recover? What if this is a game changer, and the game changes such that Smoove is no longer a part of it? Can Smoove B live without the game? Will the game be the same without Smoove?

These questions, and others like them, have shaken Smoove B to his very core.

While the doctors say I will be able to engage in the act of love again, I have serious concerns that lovemaking will no longer reach the dizzying heights it once did. No longer will it be Smoove B: The Roller Coaster of Love, featuring 60-foot pleasure drops, ecstasy corkscrews, and a part where you are blindfolded.

Yet I must admit a small part of Smoove would be relieved if the invisible hand of the Lord were to take me out of the game. You see, I am a natural-born lover. I taught myself to dress fresh before I even learned to crawl. A young Darnell and I memorized pickup lines every day at school. But suppose that now, as a fully grown love man whose talents have exceeded the wildest expectations of womankind, I have reached my seductive zenith? It may be a good time to get out.

This crisis could open up a whole new set of life opportunities, perhaps even new career paths. For instance, I could be a sexy loan officer at a bank, or perhaps a smooth-talking accountant. I might be one of those sports figures who has a poster of himself doing sports, only the lighting would be more flattering because I would make sure everything was perfect.

The opportunities appear to be endless.

In the event this injury has indeed reduced my lovemaking abilities to those of an ordinary man, I would like to extend a public apology to all the ladies who have not yet had their mind blown by the B. I did not mean for this to happen. It saddens me deeply that your hopes for a night of ultra-romance, at least in the Cincinnati tri-state area, may have been dashed forever.

Lastly, to my one true girl: Should my injury somehow, for whatever reason, lead you back into my arms, I can only say I would have gladly shattered my pelvis in 16 places years ago if I had known that’s what it would take. You know this to be true.

Smoove is now very tired and must rest.

Smoove down but not out.