Seems this ‘New York’ girl’s really got it goin’ on

ON Monday’s episode of “I Love New York”(VH1, 9 p.m.), Tiffany “New York” Pollard, the lovelorn urban belle around whom the show is based, kisses no fewer than five of the show’s remaining contestants. In addition, two suitors give her an intense, oil-slick body rub, after which she admits, “I climaxed during that massage.” In an earlier episode, New York accepted a massage and kiss from one competitor, then retreated to the hot tub, where she kissed a second, in front of a third.

And yet there’s hardly a whiff of judgment hanging over “ILNY.” No suitors pull New York aside and tell her she shouldn’t be doing what she’s doing. No tricks of editing or music selection make her interactions seem anything other than normal. To see a woman be so frankly sexual on a reality series is a rarity. (Try to imagine any of the “Bachelorettes” -- Trista Rehn, Meredith Phillips or Jen Schefft -- doing the same.)

For that woman to be African American is even rarer. That New York is able to pull off her hedonism without ever being depicted as slutty qualifies as an accomplishment.

In so doing, “ILNY” might be the most radical program on basic cable today. That it’s also one of the most popular (4.4 million people viewed the premiere, making it the biggest show debut in VH1’s history; it was also the highest-rated show on cable that night) may be mere happy coincidence. Its pleasures can be simple -- plenty of evident drunkenness; a gaggle of thuggish men reduced to giddy smiles when they’re acknowledged by New York. Additionally, New York has a gift for shrieking exclamations when she’s discussing the contestants -- all nicknamed, as she is -- with the camera. In Monday’s episode, after particularly intensive pampering, she exults: “The pedicure that Real gave me was better than any Vietnamese woman that I’ve ever been to ... and he even did a top coat! C’mon!”

New York is the spawn of another reality show, “Flavor of Love,” on both seasons of which she was rejected by its star, the onetime rap icon Flavor Flav. On “Flavor of Love,” New York was feverish and unstable. Here, though, she’s only that way when flashing back: “I had my heart crushed, not once but twice, and if I have anyone around me that’s telling me that they’re here for me, you best believe I’m gonna make sure.” Of course, not everyone is -- a couple of the men have acting credits to their names; at least one openly aspires to the same. One guy hands out copies of his CD and is promptly eliminated.

In that way, “ILNY” adds a dose of emotional heft to the template it most closely echoes: 2004’s “The Player” (UPN), in which men selected for their caddishness competed for the affections of a comely model (and, at times, her friends). On “ILNY,” the men with truer intentions appear to have a leg up, though it helps if they work out and dress well too.

Even within those constraints, VH1 producers have proven adept at wringing some of the last few original characters from this country’s thinning crop of those who’ve never been on a reality program. There’s 12 Pack, built like a cinderblock, given to walking around the contestant house, inebriated, in tight briefs. Sorely missed is T-Weed, who dressed impeccably and claimed to be worth $100 million, but was proven wrong by an ugly credit report.

Best, though, is Mr. Boston, an astonishingly white young man with a comically thick accent and the manner of a dinner guest who shows up at the wrong party but is determined to make the best of it anyhow. While the earnest Boston still makes the odd verbal gaffe -- “I would say Sister Patterson [New York’s mother] reminds me of Darth Vader: dark black skin, huge forehead. I don’t know if I want her as my mother-in-law” -- he’s also keenly aware that to remain in the game, he needs to constantly push himself. He makes New York mac and cheese at midnight. He gives her an endearingly awkward lap dance (earning the approbation of even his rival, the quick-talking thug Chance). “I’m really feeling ... this nerd,” New York says with a sigh. “I think we could make love on a stack of textbooks.”

If Mr. Boston doesn’t win -- and according to Internet spoilers, he doesn’t -- he’s certainly engaging enough to further this daisy chain of would-be-love spinoffs, no worse than, say, the original “Bachelor,” dweeby Alex Michel. Let’s start brainstorming titles now: “The Boston She Party,” “Boston Cream Pie,” “The Boston Bruin,” “Boston Special” ... let me know when I get close.