I make $325,000 a year. I am an internationally renowned race-car driver, and have I told you about my Philip Johnson-designed beach house in East Hampton?

Oh, sorry, that’s just my WonderGuy talking. When I put on this device, it gives a lift to my income, enhances my assets, reshapes the form of my life.

It does wonders for my self-confidence. None of this matters, though, does it? You’ll never find out the truth. And when you do, you’ll forgive me for misleading you. Won’t you?

The problem with superbras, whether newfangled, oldfangled or electronically activated for those moments when you need a boost during the cab ride from the office to the party, is not what it reveals (no guy will complain about that), but what it hides.

The real me, who struggles to pay his cable bills and resides in a fourth-floor walkup 110 miles from East Hampton, may still be an acceptable date. Or not.

But you’ll be pretty annoyed if I make you think I’m one thing when I’m really something else.

Together with Internet dating, which causes guys to add 4 inches to their height and women to subtract six years from their age, high-tech bras have ushered in an age of dishonesty. Let’s be practical.

Maybe women who wear superbras think men can’t handle the truth, but eventually, won’t we have to?

Your suspicions are quite true. Plenty of males do prefer a cantilevered form.

But if the engineering of your underwire makes the difference in whether a fellow is going to want to talk to you at Pastis, aren’t you just widening your circle of attraction until it reaches all the way into Jerkland?

Do you really want to risk having said jerk do a disgusted double-take at the moment when you want a smoldering gaze?

Trust me, you don’t need that guy anyway. Just as I don’t need someone who’s only interested in me because of my two Grammy Awards for Best Traditional R&B Vocal Performance.