LOST YEARS:  PHOBIA REARS ITS UGLY HEAD

I had not even made it out of the Dance City parking lot when I began to second guess myself.  Phobia, the protective side of my personality, was trying to regain the upper hand. 

What am I thinking?  There is no way I want to go back to David's class!!  There is no way I want to ever face those awful River Oaks women again!!  

My first dance class had been a total disaster.  Why on earth would I subject myself to further humiliation?  I decided I had no choice but find another class somewhere in town.  I believed that with a different teacher and normal classmates, I could relax and improve at my own pace.  Best of all, I would not have to confront a lifetime of psychological issues. 

Just then Chip, aka the Chip on my Shoulder, chipped in (yes, bad pun, read at your own risk).

"Look, Rick, those women were not there by accident.  Admit it, they were put there to force you to face your fears.  You have no choice but to go back." 

Damn it!  I thought the Great Dance Class Debate was over.  No, obviously it wasn't over.  As the vision of the River Oaks Seven laughing at me again popped in, I nearly lost control of the car.  Faced with a major failure of courage, I was unable to drive and think at the same time.  So I parked on the edge of the parking lot, turned off the engine to conserve gas, then resumed the Debate. 

Phobia had just suggested a good compromise.  If I insisted on continuing dance lessons, another dance studio would spare me a repeat of today's trauma.  Only one problem.  Where was I going to find another class?  I recalled striking out on the first three dance studio listings in the Yellow Pages.  There was a reason for that.  Disco music was a fairly recent phenomenon.  A lady named Edna had told me David's class was the only one like it in town.  If Edna was right... and I had a sinking feeling she was... then it was going to be David's class or no class at all.

I became sick with nausea.  My sniveling side begged me not to return to face all that hostility.  Phobia exclaimed, "You don't have any business going back there!  You will just get your feelings hurt again."

My Rejection Phobia was in high gear.  Phobia reminded me how terrified I was of appearing foolish in front of those pitiless women.  Realizing that Phobia was right, a bolt of anxiety shot through me at the thought of returning to face those awful women.  I dreaded watching them sneer and remind me what a loser I was.  I recalled how one woman had laughed out loud at my dancing.  Why set myself up for more humiliation? 

Sensing that I was weakening, Chip spoke up again.  "Oh, Rick, knock it off.  Do you really wish to give those women that much power over you?  Aren't you getting tired of being pushed around by women?"

Ouch!  Good point.  As the picture of Yolanda's face entered my mind, yes, I was getting tired of being dominated by women.  This went back and forth.  It was Chip versus Phobia with 'Me' caught in the middle.  My helpless, sniveling Phobia wanted to protect me from all threats related to women.   Phobia promised that if I kept backing down, I could avoid any further anxiety.  Chip said I had to fight back.  Wasn't I tired of backing down?  How would I ever restore my lost pride if I quit now?

My life had reached a critical juncture.  This was crazy.  A Beginner-level Dance Class had turned into my personal Gunfight at OK Corral.  It was strange how my search for an answer to my problems had led to this bizarre showdown, but this was it.  I had to make a choice.  Right now, I wanted to fight back.  Maybe if I proved I could be just as a good a dancer as they were, those women might show some respect.  However, it seemed like a lost cause.  They were so much better than me.  Considering the way I felt right now, Phobia was right, it made more sense to just give up.  I was incapable of learning to dance.

"Stop it!" Chip roared.  "You are giving up way too easily.  And stop picking on yourself all the time!"

Chip was right.  Sensing I was starting to let my difficulties dictate to me again, it was time to assert my will.  I reaffirmed there was no way I was going to back down.  Today I had let the Gay Gauntlet, the River Oaks Seven and Disco Dave intimidate me.  Okay, fine, they won this round.  More power to them.  I might add that my tendency to constantly criticize myself had definitely sabotaged my concentration.  Maybe if I stopped criticizing myself, I might do better.  Why not just accept that I was clumsy and take it from there?  Chewing myself out wasn't going to make my dancing improve any faster.   

Yes, it was a shame that today's dance class had been so hard for me.  And it was a tough break that dancing came so naturally to other people, but not me.  That said, I was certain if I put my heart into it, I could eventually prove to those awful women that I was not a pathetic human being.  As for my dancing, I accepted that it would take a while.  That's when I remembered my favorite children's book, The Little Choo Choo Train.  'I think I can, I think I can.' 

With a grin, I acknowledged it might take me a long time, but if I refused to give up, I would get there eventually.  Vanessa and Fujimoto had sent me on a losing streak of epic proportions.  Debbie and Yolanda had prolonged it.  Now David and the River Oaks Seven had attempted to bar the door to my chosen comeback route.  Well, I wasn't going to let them stop me.  If they tried to close that Door again, I would knock it down. 

LOST YEARS:  A MYSTERIOUS HINT  

I had made up my mind.  I was going to return next week.  And with that, I started the car and was back on the road.  Wouldn't you know it, Phobia would not shut up! 

"Rick, you cannot dance worth a lick.  They are just going to laugh at you again!"

Phobia was right, so my confidence wavered.  I thought I had made up my mind for sure, but apparently not.  Those nasty River Oaks women were sure to be ugly to me again and I despised David for betraying my trust.  Just then Chip reminded me that the man definitely knew how to dance.  If I could just force myself to go back to David's class, I was sure to get the dance moves I coveted so much.  But where was I going to find the courage to return?  The moment I tripped over my feet again, those women were sure to laugh.

If only there was a way to improve in the meantime.  I needed to practice.  I could not go back to that class unless I figured out what I had failed to learn in today's class.  As I waited at a stop light, out of the blue a voice whispered to me, "Go get a mirror!"

Startled, I looked around to see where that voice came from.  At that exact moment, I noticed there was a hardware store right across the street.  That was quite a coincidence.  As the final decision on the Great Dance Class Debate hung in the balance, a voice from nowhere not only suggested a solution, it guided my eyes to a place where I could find my solution.  Hmm.  Nice timing. 

This was the second time in my life that I had heard a voice like this.  The first time had been in 1970.  A voice from nowhere warned me that I was seriously depressed and I better do something about it immediately.  The next day I had visited the Baltimore Quaker Meeting looking for a way to cheer me up.  That day I met a man named Richard who suggested I read Autobiography of a Yogi.  This amazing book was the ladder I used to climb out of a very deep hole. 

Just my luck, now I was in another deep hole.  Phobia refused to let me go back to my dance class.  What I needed was something to help Chip regain the upper hand over Phobia.  Given the strange events of the day, this 'Get a Mirror' message seemed like a good omen.  However, Phobia suggested I should think this over.  That is when my defiance kicked in.  I told Phobia to go to hell.  Since the buy a mirror whisper felt suspiciously like a Divine Hint, I wasted no time driving over to the store.  Once inside, I noticed some decorative mirror tiles selling for a dollar apiece.  Shaped in squares, I thought the tiles were kind of tacky.  However, at this point, I did not care how ugly they were.  I needed a mirror and these tiles would do fine.  I picked out 15 tiles and headed to the check-out counter.

As I stood in line, the young lady at the register eyed me incredulously.  Thanks to the Parking Lot Inferno, my face was pale as a ghost and my clothes were soaked to the bone.  As I stood there, water from my shoulder length hair steadily dripped onto her counter.  My pants were wet and so was my red flannel shirt.  Even the dollar bills I handed her from my wallet were soaking wet.   Considering there wasn't a cloud in the sky, the woman could not imagine what had happened to me.  Seeing her jaw drop at my appearance, I could read her mind.  Right now I resembled the Creature from the Black Lagoon.  But so what?  I was on a mission and I didn't care how I looked.  Just give me my change, lady, and I will stop dripping water on your counter.  

As I walked out of the store, I shook my head.  This day had been too weird for words. 

LOST YEARS:  THE MAGIC MIRROR

The moment I returned to my apartment, I stuck the 15 mirror tiles on the wall.  Now I had a mirror 3 feet wide and 5 feet tall. 

I turned on the radio to KLOL, a rock music station.  Lady Marmalade wasn't exactly 'Disco music', but it had a good beat.  Standing in front of my makeshift mirror, I started to practice what I had learned earlier in the day.

I practiced 'step-together-step' over and over.  Now that the women weren't frowning at my appearance and dancing, I could relax a little.  As I calmed down, I started to see where my mistakes had been.  It did not take long to discover my fatal flaw... I think too much! 

I was too analytical.  By over-thinking my footwork, I was my own worst enemy.  My brain didn't trust my feet.  Mind you, I could play basketball all day long without worrying about my feet, but when it came to dancing, I was acutely self-conscious.  My brain would not let my feet move unless it could supervise each step carefully.  The mirror helped immensely.  As long as I could watch my feet in the mirror, I could let them move without having to stop every five seconds.  Slowly but surely, my brain eased up on the vigilance.  After an hour, I could finally dance to the music without stopping after each step to evaluate.

Each night that week I practiced dancing in the mirror.  I was so encouraged by my progress that I no longer feared returning to David's dance class.  I had a new name for the mirror.  It was now the 'Magic Mirror'.

I was thrilled to see my self-discipline make a welcome comeback.  When I put my mind to something, I had an uncanny persistence.  Thanks to that discipline, I often succeeded even when I did not care for the subject.  In particular, I once made an 'A' in Chemistry, a course for which I had no affinity whatever.  I did it through sheer will power, forcing myself for an entire year to study material for which I had no interest.  Now I was pleased to note that same persistence had transferred to Dance, another subject for which I had no natural affinity.  But I did have one advantage.  At least this time I was motivated.  Unlike Chemistry, I dearly wanted to learn to dance.  To my delight, I was excited over my decision to stay with the Dance Project.  I was very proud of myself, a feeling I had not felt in ages.

I practiced and practiced.  Then I practiced some more.  I practiced the next night and the night after that.  I practiced every night that week.  15 minutes, 30 minutes, 60 minutes, it didn't matter just as long as I practiced every night.  I didn't understand why it was so important, but this ritual was something I had to do.  In the midst of my Phobia crisis, I firmly believed that if I could learn to dance, I could somehow pull myself out of this hole.  I had not thought in terms of Fate in a long time.  However, the Dance Class from Hell had convinced me that something very important was taking place in my life.  I remember feeling very certain this project was part of my Fate.  The thought that God might be watching was a powerful incentive to take 'Step Ball Change' very seriously.

As I practiced my dancing at night, my mind returned to those high school dance parties.  Each dance had been held at the palatial home of various classmates  after home football games.  Yes, I wanted to see the big homes where my classmates lived, but most of all I wanted to watch the dancing.  Why had I been so drawn to these dances?  I knew the answer to that.  It was rooted in my deep sense of inferiority.  I never dated due to my scarred face.  I never played sports due to my blind eye.  I never participated in plays or any extracurricular event.  I did not play golf with the boys.  I did not play tennis at the local country club.  I did not go down to someone's beach house in Galveston for the weekend.  I spoke little to anyone outside of class other than two or three lunchtime friends who were shy like me.  And I certainly did not participate in the school dances... but I wanted to. 

For four years I went to party after party even though I spent the entire evening hiding in the shadows.  Those dance parties were important because they offered the only window I had into the private lives of my superior classmates.  I wanted to see what I was missing.  I watched in envy as my classmates had fun dancing to the sounds of the Beach Boys, the Supremes, and Marvin Gaye.  Gosh, I wanted so much to join them!  But I would not have known where to start.  Nor would I have found the courage to ask a girl to join me.

I vowed that someday I would take the time to catch up to them in dancing and dating.  Due to the acne, so far my entire life had been one of constant postponement.  For ten years, I had delayed my long lost goal of catching up to my classmates someday.  The presence of these River Oaks women had reawakened my desire to become the social equal of my classmates.  step-touch, step-touch...

There was something powerful about staring into the mirror.  All kinds of strange thoughts floated through my head as I danced.  Plus the music.  Something was bothering me.  It was a struggle, but my mind eventually confessed.  I wanted enough confidence to date women who were just as pretty, just as intelligent, just as gifted as the young ladies at St. John's.  That was my real goal, the chance to date the best and beautiful.  Dream on.  How on earth would I ever get the nerve to talk to a woman of this caliber? 

I also reflected on why the River Oaks Seven bothered me so much.  I was certain that Fate had placed those nasty women in my class for a reason.  Symbolically, they were the new representatives of 'St. John's Superiority'.  If I could catch up to those women, I could fulfill my teenage vow that I would one day learn to dance just like everyone else at my school.  Right now, my deep-seated desire to achieve equality was the motivation I was tapping into.  If I could match these society women in dance class, by extension I would be the equal of my former classmates.   step-together-step, step-together-step...

LOST YEARS:  PREPARATION

Every night as I practiced in the Magic Mirror, I had plenty of time to reflect.  I had a lot of unanswered questions regarding the Dance Class from Hell.  Recent events such as the Stalled Car had awakened a vague suspicion that something strange was going on.  Now after last Saturday's dance class ordeal, all doubts were gone.  Fate had placed me in that dance class, I was sure of it.  I did not know why the class had to be so difficult, but it must have been a Karmic Test of some sort.  I especially appreciated the intense heat of the parking lot.  Why not make my ordeal as miserable as possible?  If ever there was a true Trial by Fire, that first dance class was it.

The whisper suggestion to buy a mirror was a nice touch.  During the Parking Lot Inferno I had felt abandoned by God.  This Magic Mirror was working so well, I felt like it was a reward for passing my Karmic Test.   With that thought, tears of joy came to my eyes.  To me, the Mirror implied I was not traveling this Dance Path alone.  Someone up there liked me after all. 

The Magic Mirror not only helped improve my footwork, it reminded me I needed to do something about my appearance.  It was time I came to grips with the fact that I lived in Texas, not Colorado.  Between the heat and the long hair, it was time to make some changes.  I got a haircut. Then I put away my beloved flannel shirts.  My mountain boots went in the closet; out came the loafers.   As an added touch, I decided to make a purchase... white polo shirt and khaki pants.  This was the St. John's uniform, the familiar suit of armor I had worn for nine years.  It was my way of reminding myself how I had once stood up to women like the River Oaks Seven at my school.  If I could do it then, I could do it again.  I wasn't exactly a sharp-dressed man, but I had made a vast improvement in a short time.

Each night that week I practiced in the mirror.  I was so encouraged by my progress I no longer feared returning to David's class at Dance City.  The mirror worked wonders on my confidence.  To my surprise, with Chip on my Shoulder anticipating the showdown, Phobia went into temporary eclipse.  Getting rid of the constant self-criticism was worth the price of this mirror many times over.

My attitude changed so dramatically during the week, I was bound and determined to show those awful women they could not intimidate me.  Furthermore I was determined to one day pass them.  Although I lacked natural ability, I would make up for it with self-discipline.  It might take a while, but now that I had my direction, I was sure I would succeed.  This class meant more to me than it did to them.  The women had caught me off guard last week.  They had reminded me far too much of my lonely days standing in the shadows at those high school dance parties.  This time I was ready thanks to my secret weapon.  My Magic Mirror would change everything.  This dance class was where I would stage my comeback.  I was going to conquer all my demons at once - Vanessa, Fujimoto, snobs, fear of pretty girls, and those awful feelings of ugliness.  A fire raged in my belly.  This dance class is where I would make my stand. 

LOST YEARS:  REMATCH

The day was here, so I went back and brought my Game Face with me.  The change was immediately apparent.  When the Gay Gauntlet stared at me, this time I stared back.  Hey guys, the Freak Show is over.  Not only that, this time I smiled.  Why should I be afraid of them?   A couple men looked away, a couple more smiled back, but no one stared or glared in horror.  That was the end of that. 

David was so surprised to see me I thought he would have a heart attack.  He took an involuntary step backward as one hand covered his mouth to hide his shock.  When David saw the look of determination on my face, I am sure his first reaction was to wonder if I had returned to beat him up.  He forced a weak smile, so I nodded to reassure him.  The relief on his face was so obvious I almost broke character and laughed. 

The River Oaks women frowned.  No problem.  That was to be expected.  But they definitely understood the message behind my change in appearance.  I could see it in their eyes, a begrudging acknowledgement that I had just as much right to be here as they did.  They still refused to show any regard for me, but they did not laugh or snicker once during class.  It was an uncomfortable truce to be sure, but a definite step forward.  At least they didn't try to get rid of me.

As for my dancing, the improvement was noticeable.  I was still clumsy and mechanical, but I no longer stumbled on Step-Ball-Change.  Best of all, no more temper tantrums, no more chewing myself out for mistakes, no more self-pity.   The River Oaks Seven were still better than me, but I had closed the gap slightly.  That was all the encouragement I needed.  Thanks to the Magic Mirror, today I had won the Rematch.  And so my Dance Project began in earnest.

LOST YEARS:  BASKETBALL AND VOLLEYBALL

Now that my 'Rematch' with the River Oaks Seven had gone well, I was fully committed to my Dance Project.  I attended every Saturday class in August and made progress.  Yes, the River Oaks Seven continued to give me dirty looks and yes, I still lagged behind them, but I was determined to continue.  Following each dance class, I would hurry home and practice Disco Dave's new moves in the Magic Mirror.

The summer was over and I had managed to put three months between Colorado State and me.  I still did not have a friend.  My co-workers were nice to me, but they were all married, so we did not have much in common.  Nor had I noticed anyone my age at my small apartment complex.  Living by myself, loneliness continued to be a real problem.  I was going to have to make a friend sooner or later.  I went to a dance club one night just to have a look around.  Since my mediocre dancing in Disco Dave's class made me painfully aware that I had no business getting out on the dance floor, I stayed in the shadows and watched.  It helped to see the ladies smile and laugh out on the dance floor.  At least I had something to look forward to.  One of these days, that would be me out there.  I did not stay at the club very long.  Instead I went home and resumed practicing in the Magic Mirror.  Staring at myself in the mirror, I was surprised to realize just how powerful my desire was to become a good dancer.  This was the time to do it.  Right now.  Right here.  I was 24.  A late start, yes, but I had my entire life ahead of me. 

The thing to remember is that I was borderline mentally ill.  Recovery from the wounds suffered at Colorado State would be slow and courage was in short supply.  I prayed this Dance Project would free me from my crippling Rejection Phobia.  As the saying goes, I had put all my eggs in one basket.  Since Dancing was my only hope, everything was riding on it.  'Dancing' and 'Dating' had become permanently linked.  Dancing would lead to Dating someday, I was sure of it.  But first I had to learn to dance.  Once I learned to dance, I could emulate Jim Deane's 'Fly Me to the Moon' Dance Magic and become attractive to women.  However, my Rejection Phobia was hard to shake.  I was still deeply afraid a girl my age would laugh at me on the dance floor.  Having a woman laugh at my scars or my dancing was my constant fear.  I wanted to impress women, not stumble around mechanically and give them reason to ridicule me.  To deal with this fear, I had to become an excellent dancer.  My pride was too fragile to take a chance.  I would not settle for anything less than 'excellent'.  Unfortunately, at the rate I was going, 'excellent' would take a while. 

August passed, September rolled around.  Although the River Oaks Seven would eventually deserve credit for reducing the power of my Phobia, this did not happen overnight.  Every week I returned to face them, their power over me diminished a notch.  However, here in September I was still glued to my chair by Phobia.  I refused to go search for a girlfriend, not until I was a good dancer.  Hopefully the day would come when I could dance like any other normal human being.  Then I would start dating again.  However, based on my struggles in David's class, I accepted my Dance Project was going to be a long-term venture. 

Since Dancing wasn't going to help solve my loneliness in the short term, I played basketball every chance I got.  Through all my ups and downs over the past ten years, Basketball was often my only source of self-esteem.  At least I was good at something.  Every night after work I would head over to the Jewish Community Center.  I never took a night off.  This was my entire social life.  Because the Clarks, my adopted family, lived next door to the JCC, I bought a membership there.  Practically every night I would stop by Polly and Allen's house to pay my respects and get a hug, then head over to the JCC for sports. 

On a Thursday night shortly after I returned from Colorado, I went over to the JCC only to discover there was no basketball.  When I discovered the gym was reserved for men's volleyball on Thursday nights, I was really upset.  Damn it!  Basketball was the highlight of my entire day.  Now what I was I going to do?  I fumed as I watched a bunch of old men playing volleyball. 

Most of these guys were well past 50.  Good grief, I had never seen anyone move so slowly in my life.  This was a waste of a good gym. Someone should tell these guys to try shuffleboard instead and let the basketball players take over.  Besides, didn't these old guys know volleyball was a girl's sport?  Despite my contempt, I stayed to watch for a while.  It wasn't like I had anything else to do. 

After the game was over, the players took a quick water break.  One of the players had noticed me watching, so he came over and welcomed me.  Buddy, 60, said they had an opening for an extra player.  I was tempted, but hesitated.  Volleyball might be a big sport out in California, but not here in Texas.  In this football-crazed state, volleyball was seen as a game for sissies. 

Buddy knew just how to get to me. 

"I can understand your reluctance.  You don't know anything about the game and, besides, you're probably too young to enjoy volleyball.  You don't know this, but it takes many years to get as good as us.  On the other hand, if you start now, by the time you are my age, maybe you will amount to something." 

Buddy grinned to let me know he was teasing.  I liked Buddy's style.  He made me laugh.  Besides, anything beat returning to Couch Catatonia.  I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Sure, why not?" 

I went out there and asked Buddy what the rules were.  Since very few guys my age played volleyball back in the Seventies, I was the youngest person by a huge margin.  Considering the age range was 45-70, I was young enough to be their son.  Although I lacked skill, my quick reactions and jumping ability allowed me to contribute fairly quickly.  I noticed how frustrated some of the men were at their slow reactions.  They were unable to make plays that had once been automatic for them.  Worried they might be resentful of my speed, I made sure to show respect at all times.  I think the men appreciated that I stayed modest.  The men were very nice to me and showed me what to do to improve.  When the night was over, Buddy said I picked the game up quickly.  When he encouraged me to come back, several other men said the same thing.  I could tell their warmth was genuine.  Still reeling from Fujimoto's dismissal, the kindness of these men made a deep impression on me.  Their warmth came as a much-needed tonic for a beaten down kid like me. 

I returned on Sunday morning for the next scheduled event.  My second visit was just as special.  The men were pleased to see me again and welcomed me back.  The power of their kindness was amazing.  That was all it took to get me hooked on volleyball.  I came as much to enjoy their camaraderie as I did to play the game. 

These men became the foundation of my deep respect for the Jewish people.  They acted as role models with their sportsmanship.  I liked their good-natured sarcasm and the way they teased each other.  It didn't hurt that they treated me like a son.  Since I never had much of a father, I loved every second of my time spent with these older men. 

Alternating between volleyball and basketball, I played one sport or the other six days out of seven at the Jewish Community Center.  I would have been there on Friday too, but the JCC was closed in the evening for religious reasons.  I really liked volleyball.  I played pick-up volleyball on Tuesday and Thursday and I joined the JCC volleyball league on Sunday morning. 

Due to my height and jumping ability, I was a spiker.  Pounding the volleyball was exactly the kind of cathartic experience I needed.  I loved to crush that ball.  I thought of Vanessa's face every time I smashed it.  For variety, sometimes I smashed Yolanda's face instead. 

One day I met another young man my age.  Michael turned out to be Buddy's son.  Michael said his father had twisted his arm to join us using me as the incentive.  Michael pulled aside.

"My Dad said, 'Hey, Michael, you're turning into a giant potato.  If you don't get off your butt and come keep me company, I'm thinking of adopting that new kid.  I don't care if Rick's Jewish or not, at least he laughs at my jokes.'"

Seeing the smile on Michael's face as we shook hands, I knew he was teasing just like his father.  We were instant friends.

I replied, "That's sounds like something Buddy would say.  Your father is my favorite player.  He is the most active 60 year old I have ever met.  Buddy hustles for every ball.  He compliments me a lot, even when I'm on the other team."

I paused for a second.  This was my chance to solve a mystery. 

"Michael, maybe you can help me figure something out.  Every time I make a clever play such as looking one way, then lobbing the ball in another direction to an open area, your father exclaims, 'There you go, Rick, that's using your tuchus!'  I know this is Buddy's way of saying I made a head's up play, but what the heck is a 'tuchus'?"

Michael grinned.  "That is Dad's favorite phrase.  A 'tuchus' is Yiddish for someone's butt."

My butt?  Good grief.  In all the time I played volleyball with Buddy, I never quite figured out how using my butt made me smarter.  Maybe I had to be Jewish to understand.

LOST YEARS:  CHILD WELFARE

Following my expulsion from Graduate School, I wandered around lost for three years.  Since God forgot to send me the email, I had no idea I was secretly preparing for a dance career.  Instead I aimlessly bounced around without any direction or luck with women.  The Lost Years were dominated by lessons in failure, not just my own, but the failure of others as well.  My job investigating child neglect put me in contact with many people who were down on their luck.  It never ceased to amaze me how easily humans can be trained to give up.  That included me of course.  It would be a year before I worked up the courage to pick up the phone and ask a girl for date. 

I disliked my job at Child Welfare.  I never accomplished a single thing of real importance.  All I did was spin my wheels.  That said, the job did help me grow up.  This job taught me that no matter how bad my problems were, there were countless people with much bigger problems than my own.  That was an important message.

The agency was divided into two sections - child abuse and child neglect.  The child abuse unit handled the worse cases.  I learned one grim reality early on.  Ultimately there was little a caseworker could do to protect the child.  Texas Law was weighted in favor of parental rights.  A caseworker could not remove a child for their protection just on the threat alone.  There had to be a harmful incident first.  In other words, a parent had to seriously injure their child before the social worker had the right to remove the child for its own safety. 

I understood the logic behind this approach.  Society did not feel it had the right to punish a parent for a crime that had not occurred even though the probability seemed high.  Most of the time, nothing happened.  However, this approach did occasionally lead to tragedy.  There were instances when a child was badly injured during an active case.  When this sort of thing took place, it was a tough pill to swallow for the caseworker involved.  In my opinion, a child abuse caseworker was bound to get their heart broken sooner or later.

There was a celebrated case in Houston where a psychotic woman named Andrea Yates drowned all five of her children.  Child Welfare was already on alert about this woman, but the caseworker was prevented from intervening because the mother had not yet hurt the children.  Imagine how the caseworker felt when she learned all five children were dead on her watch.  Of course the caseworker felt guilty, but what was she supposed to do?  It wasn't like the caseworker could move into the home and watch the children 24/7.  I might add her husband was a good father who lived in constant fear something like this might happen... and with good reason!  He was afraid for his children, but he never imagined his wife was capable of this kind of horror. 

On the fateful day, the mother waited till the father went to work.  One by one she took them into the bathroom and drowned them in the tub.  This was a no-win situation if there ever was one.  The father and the caseworker were helpless to prevent this tragedy.  I felt sorry for the caseworker.  Her hands were tied by Texas law.  The worst part came when she was condemned by the insensitive media.   Looking for someone to blame, the newspapers wrote sanctimonious articles about social worker neglect.  The citizens were outraged! However I knew better.  The beleaguered social worker never had a chance.  She got a raw deal because society wanted a scapegoat. 

I understood that could just as easily have been me on the firing line.  Fortunately, I never encountered a situation even remotely this serious.  While Child Abuse is an imminent threat, Child Neglect merely ruins children for life.  Focusing on allegations of neglect, I encountered unfortunate situations such as malnutrition, head lice, emotional abuse, school absenteeism, poor supervision and filthy living conditions.  Although these problems were rough on the child, mercifully they were not life-threatening.  As opposed to breaking bones, these parents injured their children by failing to take care of them properly.

When I started this job, I thought I was having a tough life.  Guess again.  No matter how desperate I felt, I met countless people with far greater problems than my own.  This helped me snap me out of my tendency to feel sorry for myself all the time.  However, I was frustrated because I rarely accomplished anything tangible.  I tried to help, but the neglectful parents I worked with had great difficulty following through with any suggestion I made.  Same old story... it was easier to avoid doing anything than take a chance. 

Like I said, people give up too easily.  The apathy I faced was alarming.  Blaming the world for their problems, my clients avoided taking practical steps that would improve their lives and their children's lives.  Let's say their child had head lice.  I would make an appointment to take the child to a clinic for treatment.  The child would not be at the home when I got there.  Some pathetic excuse was sure to follow.  Or I would make an appointment for a mother to get food stamps and she wouldn't show up.  I would call her up and learn her ride had fallen through.  So I would offer to pick her up myself only to ring the doorbell and find no one home.  This self-destructive behavior made no sense.  I was shocked at the lengths people would go in order to avoid facing their fears.  When this happened, I thought back to Dr. Hilton and wished there was some way to tie them to a tree and knock some sense into them.

This job got under my skin for personal reasons.  To begin with, I was a victim of child neglect, so it hurt me to see these kids treated so poorly.  In addition, seeing my clients avoid their problems made me ashamed because I was guilty of the same thing.  I was so afraid of women that I had not spoken to a potential girlfriend since Yolanda.  I complained about my acute loneliness, but did I do anything about it?  Hell no.  It was easier to complain and avoid the source of my anxiety than it was to face my fears.  So imagine how I felt when I saw my clients doing the same thing.  I wasn't any better than they were, so what business did I have investigating them?

I felt so futile.  I met the occasional person who had enough fight left in them to try to improve their lives, but they were few and far between.  The majority had given up trying to improve their situation.  I could not help but think of the Learned Helplessness experiment time and again.  These were people who would rather give up than take a chance.  Fear is so crippling!  The fear of failing dominated their decisions.  One of the hardest things in life is force yourself to do constructive things you don't want to do.  Like make that doctor's appointment to check out a nagging pain.  Or make that call to a teacher to find out why your child is failing math.  Or make yourself go to the hospital to see a dying friend.  There are so many things we don't want to face.  Successful people make themselves do things they don't want to do because they know an ounce of prevention is more useful than a pound of cure.  People who fail do just the opposite.  They procrastinate, make excuses and avoid taking positive steps.  I became convinced that a sure road to failure is the unwillingness to ever take a chance.  It was disheartening to watch people who were unable to climb out of their desperate situations.

One would think that observing these sobering situations would make me a little braver about taking chances in my own life.  No way!  I wasn't any better than the people I tried to help.  Here is an example.  I didn't like this Child Welfare job at all, so why not look for a better job?  That's a good question.  I knew almost immediately that this was a dead end job.  There was absolutely no such thing as the satisfaction that comes from a job well done.  On the other hand, my job was not particularly demanding.  This was a period of my life when I had lost my ambition.  Rather than face the anxiety of looking for a job that might actually challenge me a little, it was easier to go through the motions at work, then go home and feel sorry for myself while I shot billiards in solitary.

I worked in a comfortable office, the job paid well enough, I had nice co-workers, and I had no trouble forgetting my job at the end of the day.  Best of all was the minimal supervision.  Since my job involved driving my car around the city to make home visits, I was on my own for much of the time.  I liked having the freedom to come and go from the office as I pleased.  I also liked seeing a different side of life.  Although my job wasn't satisfying, at least the people I met were interesting.  Back at St. John's, I was given a window to study people of privilege.  Now I was learning about people who had virtually no advantages.  

This was the perfect job for a drifter.  I didn't see this job as a career, but there was nothing out there that interested me.  If anything, this job gave me more time to think about my problems.  Hmm.  Just what I needed.  I was only marginally healthier than the woebegone people I supervised.  They didn't take chances, but then neither did I.  I often wondered if the people I investigated ever suspected I was struggling just like they were.  'There but for the Grace of God go I...' 

LOST YEARS:  FILTH

Helen, 39, was the mother of four school-age children.  She was reported to Child Welfare by a neighbor who was concerned about the squalid condition of Helen's home.  The moment I turned onto her street, I knew which house belonged to Helen.  Here in this well-kept middle class neighborhood, the front lawn stuck out like a sore thumb.  The grass had not been mowed in ages and the front yard was covered in trash.  Something was wrong. 

When Helen met me at the door, I explained why I was here.  She said her children were at school, but I could come in anyway.  When I went inside, I gasped.  I had never seen such a messy house in my life.   The dishes were dirty and piled high upon one another.  There was moldy bread and discarded food on the counters.  There was a huge pile of dirty clothes on the floor.  The trash cans were overflowing and there was even more trash on the floor.  Nothing was put away.  Toys were everywhere, clothes were everywhere, children's books were everywhere, junk was everywhere.  Piles of newspapers, books and magazines made the wood floor underneath practically invisible.  The books and newspapers gave me pause.  This said to me that at least someone in this family did a lot of reading.  How could someone with an education live like this?   

The bed linens were filthy and needed changing.  The floors were dirty and the bookcases covered with dust.  Under the furniture was an assortment of dirt, hair, trash, cobwebs, lost toys, missing books and dead bugs.  The entire house was in shambles.  By every standard of middle class housekeeping, this was the filthiest, trashiest, most cluttered house I had ever seen.  Something had to be done.  It wasn't fair to the children to be living in these conditions.

As I talked to Helen, the kids came home from school.  I immediately noticed they had gone to school dirty.  Their hair was greasy.  They smelled.  These kids needed a bath in the worst way.  Then I noticed that Helen smelled too.  Good grief.  But then I noticed something else.  All four children were going to school and all four children hugged their mother the moment they came home.  Furthermore, the children were cheerful.  Despite these miserable living conditions, the kids didn't seem to mind.  I was perplexed.  Helen was a complete mystery to me.  She had obvious mothering skills, but she also kept an incredibly filthy home.

The children were well-fed, so this was not an emergency situation.  Heck, if kids automatically died from exposure to dirt, then I would have never made it to the age of five.  But this was unacceptable.  This house had to be cleaned.  When I made that clear, Helen said she understood.  I said I would be back next week to check on her.  Helen promised to pick things up in the meantime.

The following week, there was no change.  The dirty dishes were stacked practically to the ceiling and the cupboards were empty of any clean dishes.  Out of curiosity, I asked Helen what kind of plates the children ate off.  She reported that sometimes they would wash the top layer of dishes for the evening meal, then put them back on the pile when they were done.  Other times they would eat off napkins. 

I rolled my eyes.   "C'mon now, Helen.  You promised you would clean this place up and I don't see any progress at all."

"I know, Mr. Archer, I am so sorry.  I'll do better.  I'll get right to work on it." 

I winced when she called me 'Mr. Archer'.  Since I was 24 and Helen was 39, I felt sheepish calling Helen by her first name while expecting her to address me as 'Mr. Archer'.  I preferred to be equals.  That was a rookie mistake.  I should have addressed her as 'Mrs. So and so', but I had not learned that trick yet. 

"Helen, please call me Rick.  I am not a formal person.  But we've got to do something here.  Your kids deserve better."

As I fussed at her, Helen hung her head in shame.  She promised to take action, but I was skeptical.  Sure enough, on my next visit, still no progress.  The place was so bad it defied description.  There was so much clutter that there were actually narrow paths where the wood floor was barely visible.  In other words, I could trace the routes the family used to travel because they had to kick newspapers, toys and dirty clothes aside to walk through.  One room had so much stuff stacked up that the narrow pathway felt like a small canyon.

Although the mess was unbelievable, I liked Helen.  There was not a mean bone in her body.  She was just very helpless and passive.  Her task had grown too enormous to tackle and she didn't know where to start.  Same old story... on a day-to-day basis, it was easier just to ignore the problem.  Helen did the daily minimum of work necessary to get by.  She fed her children, got them to school and that was about it.  In the process, the kids were learning to fend for themselves.  This hurt because I recalled my mother treating me in a similar way.  Now we know why this situation affected me so deeply.  If I could help this woman, I would be symbolically helping my own mother get back on her feet.  This was my second rookie mistake.  Because she reminded me of my mother, I let her get under my skin.

Three months passed and there was no discernible progress.  The thing to understand is there were no legal consequences to Helen's neglect.  No one was going to take her kids away and I did not have the heart to bluff about it like some case workers did.  Yes, I could have threatened Helen and made her cry, but that was hardly my style.  All I could do was appeal to her good side and persuade her to take action.  Trying to find some way to light a fire under this woman, I tried developing a rapport with Helen.  So I became Helen's friend.  Maybe if I got to know her, maybe we could figure out some course of action, some sort of solution.

Helen and I would sit at the kitchen table and talk.  To my surprise, Helen was interesting to talk to.  I could not imagine what happened in her life to make her go down this path.  Reluctant to pry, I figured she would tell me eventually.  One day I phoned ahead.  I hoped my warning would result in extensive cleaning by the time I got there.  Helen had coffee waiting for me instead.   As for cleaning, there was not a single place in the house to sit.  Realizing this, Helen swiftly transferred various items from the kitchen table by stacking them atop other items on the counter.  Then she turned and looked at me for approval.  Seeing this one little corner of the table open for coffee, I sat down and grinned at her.  "Gee, Helen, look at you, a whole corner the table cleared off.  I should call ahead more often." 

To her credit, Helen blushed.  Helen knew right from wrong, she just couldn't make herself do the work.  So I got in the habit of calling ahead.  The next time I called, not only was I rewarded with morning coffee, my teasing managed to get the entire table cleared before I arrived.  Ah, progress.  I figured with ten years of calling ahead, we might actually get somewhere.  Helen was clearly on an Epic Losing Streak of her very own.  No wonder I was attracted to her.  One day as I drank my coffee, I noticed Helen was dressed better.  Were those clean clothes?  And Helen's odor was gone.  Was it my imagination or was Helen taking better care of her appearance?  Noticing her hair was still damp, I wondered if she had deliberately showered in anticipation of my visit.  It certainly seemed that way.  Maybe this rapport was having a positive effect.  I certainly hoped so.  I had invested four months in these visits with no end in sight.  My supervisor did not want me to stop monitoring this situation until there was noticeable improvement. 

As we talked, Helen mentioned something about Southern Methodist University.  Curious, I asked if she had gone there. 

"Yes, believe it or not, I am a college graduate."

That bowled me over.  They say don't judge a book by its cover, but I was guilty of assuming she was uneducated. 

"What was your major?"

"Home economics."

I stared at her in open shock.  Moments passed, but finally Helen couldn't keep her poker face any longer.  She burst out laughing. 

"I'm just kidding, Rick.  I was an English major.  I used to love to read.  Maybe I should start reading again."

Now I was baffled.  How could such an intelligent person fall so low?  Then I thought of my mother.  Ah.  Good point.  Intelligence is no guarantee of housework.  Or happiness.  I had my share of problems too.  Hmm, aren't we a pair? 

The next time I came by surprise.  Oh well, no coffee.  Plus the kitchen table was totally cluttered.  When I pointed out the jungle was reclaiming the house again, Helen was noticeably embarrassed.  She said that maybe we should go sit on the couch instead.  I had not anticipated the couch was so small.  Helen and I ended up sitting uncomfortably close to each other.  However, Helen seemed at ease so I decided not to move back to the table.  This was the day that Helen opened up to me.  Helen told me the whole story about her husband who left her for some other woman and how depressed she had become.  During the first few months of her depression, she stopped doing housework.  Once she got too far behind, it was too depressing to think about the enormity of the project ahead of her.  Helen said the mess was so great at this point that she was too overwhelmed to correct it.  At that moment, I thought about Jason's article regarding the Point of No Return.  Helen did not seem to have the willpower to fight this problem.

I felt a lot of sympathy for her.  Helen was not a bad person.  Her situation reminded me of 'Susan and the Witch', the story of an old woman down on her luck who was saved by a young girl.  I imagine Helen with her wild mane of hair flying in every direction would make a good witch at Halloween.  However Helen was a kind person, certainly no witch.  Like Old Mollie in the story, Helen was an unhappy woman who was down on her luck.  I could certainly relate to that.  Now that I realized Helen had been abandoned about the same time as Vanessa had left me, I felt awkward that she was the client and I was her caseworker.  Truth be told, I wasn't much better off emotionally than she was.  The major difference was that no one depended on me.  Therefore no one cared that I was walking wounded.  Helen, on the other hand, had four children depending on her.  That meant the house had to be cleaned. 

I wondered how Helen would manage if she could get a fresh start.  It occurred to me that if I gave her a hand with the cleanup, maybe she could turn over a new leaf.  As I did my thinking, Helen continued to ramble on.  Hmm.  It crossed my mind that Helen probably didn't have many friends.  Helen obviously needed someone to talk to, so I guess she had begun to trust me.  Helen usually frowned all the time, but today she was smiling.  That's when I got it.  Helen was happy to see me.  Maybe a little too happy. 

Sitting this close, I took a long look at Helen and tried to imagine the woman she had been before her husband had left.  Thanks to my surprise visit, Helen's hair had returned to its previous Bride of Frankenstein condition.  This poor bedraggled woman was a complete mess, but she deserved a second chance.  What was I going to do about her? 

Now that she was smiling, I noticed that underneath Helen's unruly mop of hair, she was pretty.  Or at least she could be pretty.  I imagined Helen would be attractive again if she would just try a little.  A funny image of Eliza Doolittle from My Fair Lady crossed my mind. 

"Now you see, Professor 'iggins, I'm right pretty when I ain't dirty!  I washed me face and hands before you come, that I did!"

Uh oh, I suddenly felt very anxious.  The more I liked Helen, the better-looking she got.  For the first time, I realized I had a thing for her.  And Helen had a thing for me too.  Some sort of spark had just flashed between us.  I started to tremble.  Helen was so close, she was within reaching distance.  Clearly my sudden interest had not happened by accident either.  Helen had sent an unspoken signal.  There was a magnetism operating here that was going to get me into serious trouble.  My heart was pounding and my loins were stirring.  Totally alone and separated by two feet at the most, there wasn't much stopping us.  What would Jim Deane suggest?  'Put her out of her misery.  Take her for her own good...'

Yeah, well, Jim Deane's rules were inappropriate here.  This was a line that could not be crossed, so I swallowed hard and quickly got up.  Thank goodness, that broke the spell.  I was scared because I had not seen this sudden desire coming.  Like a flash flood, lust had taken over before I even knew it was a possibility.  I could not believe the power of this spontaneous urge.  I think if Helen had touched me, it would have been all over.  This had been a very close call.  To disguise my lust, I hurriedly put my professional face back on.  Pretending like nothing had happened, I asked Helen if she was opposed to having a professional home cleaner come to the house and help her tidy the place up.  When I assured her the agency would pay, Helen smiled and said that would be wonderful.

And with that, I made a hasty exit.  On my way back to Houston, I was incredulous at what had just happened.  I could not help but wonder what had taken place back there.  Due to my inexperience on the job, I had let myself get too close to this woman.  This was a lonely woman with many needs and I was the only adult male giving her any attention.  How stupid of me!  Why didn't I see this coming? 

What shocked me was how much her desire for me turned me on.  Only once before had I felt a sexual urge quite so violent.  During my Interlude a year and a half ago, there was a bizarre incident at the mental hospital where I worked.  I had carried an unconscious psychotic woman named Letty to the cooler.  To my shock, when we entered the room, Letty suddenly sprang back to life.  Totally naked, she ripped her sheet cover away, and screamed at me to take her on the spot.  Confronted by this maniacal naked woman begging me to satisfy her, I was so turned out I could not see straight.  With the civilized part of my mind barely in control, it took all my willpower to leave.  Once I was in the hallway I fell to pieces.  With my body in frenzy, I wanted Letty so badly I could not see straight.  Panic-stricken, I had laid there on the floor for ten minutes fighting to resist the forbidden temptation.   Mercifully the feeling finally passed.

Now it had happened again.  I could have taken Helen here on the couch.  Slam bam thank you ma'am.  Knowing this was exactly what Helen wanted me to do acted as a powerful aphrodisiac.  The intensity of my desire was so strong it scared me.  I knew right from wrong, but even so I was just barely able to put on the brakes.  I warned myself this could not happen again. 

LOST YEARS:  HUNGER

Two weeks passed.  I had coordinated a home visit with a woman named Roberta who specialized in big cleanups.  The visit was paid for by the state.  I met Roberta at Helen's house early in the morning just after the kids left for school.  Watching Roberta go to work, Helen got inspired and started washing the pile of dishes.  I told her I was proud of her and she blushed.

I pitched in as well.  I put myself in charge of picking up trash throughout the house and taking it outside.  I actually got a kick out of it.  I couldn't help but laugh at the mountain of trash bags on the street.  Gee, what would the neighbors think?  More than likely they would be relieved.  Maybe it was a sign that this forlorn woman was getting her life back on track. 

Meanwhile Roberta concentrated on the vacuum cleaner and the washing machine.  Around noon, the three of us tackled the 'Clutter Room' together.  This was the rarely used room with the small canyon running down the middle.  With three people doing the work, by 1:30 pm the room was vastly improved.  Helen beamed with pride as the wooden floor below made its reappearance.  Pleased to restore order to her home, she was tickled pink. 

"Oh my goodness, Rick, my children will think they came home to the wrong house!"

Roberta was pleased too.  "Good job!" she told Helen.  And with that, Roberta took off.  I was ready to follow Roberta out, but Helen asked if I wanted some coffee.  She pointed to a fresh pot she had made in her remarkably clean kitchen.  Then she pointed to the kitchen table that was also completely clear.  Helen was so happy she was smiling from head to toe.  She had just turned a major corner and wanted to celebrate.  My gut warned sticking around might not be a good idea, but I was sure I could maintain control as long we stayed in the kitchen.   If I stayed on guard, I could have a cup of coffee. 

Helen wanted to talk.  She began by saying how grateful she was for my help.  This was the best she had felt in ages.  Helen told me more about the painful story of how her husband ran out on her.  Her husband sent her money, but refused to visit the kids.  Helen couldn't believe he would turn his back on his children.  This story broke my heart because my father had done the same thing to me. 

Helen began to cry.  "Oh god, Rick, I feel so alone.  I have my children to take care of and I know I don't do a very good job.  I think I must be the worst mother in the world.  I feel so helpless sometimes." 

Helen covered her face in her hands and fell to pieces.  What a lonely, abandoned woman she was.  I wished she wasn't crying because I started to melt inside.  I felt her loneliness and pain completely, especially since I had seen my mother break down like this on several occasions.  Helen finally stopped crying.  She looked up and brushed her hair aside.  Then Helen looked at me and smiled.  She said softly, "You know, Rick, you are the only friend I have in the world." 

Giving me a look that bordered on hero worship, Helen reached over and touched my hand.  Her touch was so electric, suddenly I was on fire.  Oh, no, here we go again!!  Her hunger for affection was irresistible.   And what about my own hunger?  There were some serious fireworks operating here.  It was a toss-up to guess who needed whom more.  Here was a woman who clearly admired me while I felt genuine affection as well.  I began to tremble as my self-control melted away.  The temptation to cross the table and kiss her was overwhelming.  We were alone.  No one would ever have to know.  Helen was old enough to know what she was getting into.  I wanted her; she wanted me.  What was stopping us?  There was absolutely nothing holding me back but my conscience. 

As I looked at Helen, her hunger was unbearable.  Here in the heat of the moment, I could have the hottest sex of my life.  Helen's face was flush with excitement when she saw me rise from my chair.  Just then, my inner voice screamed 'No!'  I instantly changed direction and raced to the screen door on the other side of the kitchen.  I was badly out of control, but I could not let this happen. 

"Helen, you know I like you a lot.  And right now I am tempted to cross a line, but I don't think this is a very good idea.  I think we would both end up getting hurt.  Right now, you don't need that and neither do I.  I think I should go."

Helen was devastated, but she nodded weakly.  While Helen hid her face with her hands to conceal her disappointment, I bolted out the screen door lest I change my mind.  I was so full of desire that I was desperate to turn around.  Thank goodness Helen was too helpless to protest.  One snap of her fingers and I would have returned.  This had been a close call, a very close call. 

LOST YEARS:  THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER

There is a Footnote to this story. 

One month after the kitchen incident, I visited Helen without warning.  By surprising her, I wanted to see first-hand what had taken place in my absence.  I was impressed.  I wouldn't say the house was spick and span, but Helen had maintained an acceptable level of order.  While I praised her, I also made sure to keep my distance.  I noticed Helen did the same. 

I told Helen this was goodbye, I would be closing the case.  Helen smiled and said how grateful she was for my help.  We both moved to hug, but I changed my mind and stuck out my hand instead.  Helen nodded with understanding.  We both remembered the near-miss, but kept our thoughts to ourselves.  This allowed us to part on a high note.  As I drove back to the office, I thought long and hard about Helen.  I had affection for her and considerable longing.  I also knew Helen was completely on board with the idea.  Indeed, I had risen from my kitchen chair with every intention of ripping her clothes off.  But something stopped me.  You will never guess what it was. 

At the exact moment I was about to reach for Helen, the memory of Disco Dave inviting me to his apartment stopped me cold.  The vivid memory of David's leering grin somehow kept me from making one of the worst mistakes of my life.  In that moment, I was able to realize how vulnerable Helen was.  She was as much a sitting duck in that kitchen as I had been with David.  Noting the perplexed look on Helen's face, I knew I had permission, but I also knew having sex would do her considerable harm.

What would have happened with Helen if I had not met David first?  I probably would have made a terrible mistake.  That raises an interesting possibility.  Was David a Messenger?  Did he approach me when I was my most vulnerable to teach me a lesson I would never forget?

And what about Lola-Lynn?  Was he a Messenger?  Did he approach me as a way to prepare me for David a week later?  Quite frankly, if I had not had that experience with Drag Queen Lynn to warn me what David was up to, I might have fallen for David's suggestion to go to his apartment.  I was lucky Lynn had done me this odd favor.  Given my impaired judgment, who knows how I would have reacted once inside David's home.  Maybe I would have done something stupid as a rash experiment.  Considering how screwed up I was at the time, perhaps my life would have spiraled even further out of control than it already was. 

Here is my point.   Lynn prepares me for David who appeared one week later.  David prepares me for Helen who appeared one month later.  I did not add this coincidence to the Supernatural List, but the timing and impact were difficult to overlook.

Thank goodness for David's message.  Helen was just as wounded as I had been.  Who can say how badly her life would have spiraled out of control once I took my pleasures and left for good?  I had nothing to offer Helen beyond an afternoon fling.  I would kiss her goodbye, close the case and disappear.  There was no way a Romance could happen.  Yes, I liked Helen, but she and I came from two different worlds.  Helen was 15 years older and lived an hour away.  She was a middle-aged mother with four children.  Meanwhile, I was a self-centered loner who could barely take care of himself, much less play Daddy to four children or be boyfriend to a woman old enough to be my mother.  This was hardly the recipe for a fairy tale romance. 

Once Helen realized I was gone for good, her loneliness would surely grow worse.  I would be the guy who dumped her just like her husband did.  Helen would feel used and bitter, a desperate feeling I was quite familiar with thanks to Vanessa.  More than likely, she would return to her listless ways.  The trash would pile up and so would the dishes.  The depression would return. 

Therefore I was grateful when the memory of David's hurtful treatment brought me to my senses.  I recalled how David had ruthlessly sized me up.  David figured if I had one semi-gay bone in my body, maybe I was too confused to resist his offer.  Sensing how hungry I was for attention, why not exploit the situation?  As for Helen, Jim Deane would say hit it once and break away clean.  However, I decided Helen deserved better than that.  As her friend, that meant doing the right thing.  Helen was just about to get back on her feet.  Who knows what the future held for her?  By stepping aside, I could allow the healing process to continue with her pride intact. 

I have never forgotten Helen.  Over the years, there would be other women like her.  Every time I met a wounded bird such as Helen, I would recall what David had done to me and how much it hurt.  David had damaged my faith in mankind at a time when I needed encouragement in the worst way possible.  The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.  Loneliness does strange things to us.  It impairs our judgment and persuades us to agree to things we might regret later on.  Knowing that, I refused to take advantage of any woman who was down on her luck.  Yes, having a Code of Honor makes life more difficult, but it also makes for a better world.  

LOST YEARS:  DILEMMA

Following a flurry of Supernatural Events in late July, my life calmed down into boring routine.  Each day revolved around my unsatisfying Child Welfare job, nightly basketball or volleyball, and practice in the Magic Mirror.  August.  September.  It was now October.  There was not a woman in sight for the simple reason that I never lifted a finger.  My only goal in life was to catch up to the River Oaks women in dance class.  The sad thing is that I could have caught them quickly if I had been willing to go to a dance club and ask a girl to dance.  In hindsight, I daresay I could have accomplished my goal in a month or so.  So why did it take three years?

I blame my slow progress on an issue known as the Dilemma.  Everyone knows 'Practice makes Perfect.'  I was more than willing to practice my dancing in the Magic Mirror, but I was not willing to go to a club and ask a girl to dance.  This reluctance delayed my progress considerably.  I was furious with myself over my cowardice, but I stubbornly refused to take a risk.  Here is how the Dilemma worked.

Due to my fear of rejection, I did not want to risk asking a girl to dance until I was already a good dancer.  But how do I become a good dancer without getting out on a dance floor to practice?  

I was a good basketball player for the simple reason that I played every chance I got.  I was improving rapidly as a volleyball player for the simple reason that I played every chance I got.  Had I been willing to cut back on the sports and go to dance clubs instead, I would have seen the same kind of improvement in my dancing.  I daresay I would have met some very pretty girls in the process.  Voila!  Problem solved.  And I doubt seriously I would have written this book because my life would have followed a much calmer trajectory.

This Dilemma was a function of the Rejection Phobia.  I did not think my dancing was sufficient to justify asking an attractive girl to dance.  How good did I need to be?  I decided that once I caught the River Oaks Seven, that would be the moment.  I was improving, but I pegged it at half a year, maybe longer.  My progress was glacial because all I did was stare at myself in a mirror for 20 minutes a night and dream about the day I would be a good dancer.  I was so pathetic I wondered if I would be able to dance in a club if it did not have mirrors.  How else would my over-controlling brain be sure my feet were doing it right?

In addition, I had a new fear.  What would I say to a girl after the dance?  The way I viewed things, the day would come when I could find the nerve to ask a lady to dance.  I could follow her back to her table and, if she seemed receptive, offer to buy her a drink.  If she said yes, that got me to First Base.  But what about Second Base?  I defined Second Base as getting her phone number or even better simply asking her to join me for a movie.  This would require Conversational Skills.  To my dismay, I realized I was just as deficient in this area as I was at dancing.  I had never in my life learned how to generate a conversation with a total stranger of the opposite sex.

In years to come, I would acquire the nuances necessary to succeed at the fine art known as the Interview.  In order to Break the Ice, a series of questions usually does the trick.  Introduction, of course.  After that comes the usual follow-up questions.   What do you do for a living?  How do you like your job?  Where did you grow up?  What brought you to Houston?  From there, the smart move is to find out what the person is interested in.  Family.  Hobbies.  Aspirations.  Ask enough questions until you find an area where the two of you have something in common and branch out from there.   Don't talk about yourself, talk about them, talk about what is interesting to them. 

Yes, I know these things now, but I was clueless back then.  I agree talking to strangers isn't that hard once you know what you are doing.  So how does someone acquire those skills in the first place?  Well, the answer is simple.  You approach a person and talk to them, figure it out from there.  But if you can't make yourself approach them in the first place, then what do you do?

In other words, I had not one, but two Dilemmas.  Kind in mind that Rick Archer, age 24, was the young man who received a 'D' in a course called Interviewing.  The irony hit like a ton of bricks.  Dr. Fujimoto was right.  I was a complete cripple when it came to relating to other people.  I had failed Interviewing in college and now I was failing it again in Life. 

Let's face facts.  I was a needy person.  I was lonely and I wanted attention.  Instead of Listening once in a while, once a conversation got started, all I wanted to do was talk about what was important to me.  I was so self-centered, I never learned how to show interest in another person.  But the only way to learn this skill is to practice.  But how do you practice when you don't know where to start?  How do you practice when you don't have the guts to approach a stranger in the first place? 

My problem was exacerbated by the lack of women to approach in the first place.  I was dimly aware that playing sports with men every night was no way to meet women.  How was I supposed to approach a stranger when I could not even find a stranger to approach?  Jim Deane had suggested the best way to meet girls was to go to places where single girls hang out.  Yes, even I did not need to read a book to know that much. 

One place to start would be a church singles group.  The Quaker Meeting was small and had no such thing.  Perhaps meet someone at work.  So far, the women I knew were either older or married or both.  Meet someone at my apartment project.  As far as I could tell, everyone here was gay.  Join a coed volleyball league.  Hmm.  Wish I had thought of that. 

The only place I could think of was go a bar.  However that thought scared me out of my wits.  Even if I succeeded in asking a girl to dance, I still had no idea what to say after the dance was over.  How was I going to practice talking to a stranger if I was too afraid to approach a woman in the first place?  I didn't know how to get to First Base.  I didn't know how to get to Second Base.  The whole idea seemed hopeless, a huge uphill struggle. 

At the moment, the only women in my life were the River Oaks Seven and I wasn't getting anywhere with them.  Noting the regular scorn I drew from the River Oaks women, my dancing wasn't ready yet.  I could not bear the thought of getting shot down, so I stayed on the sidelines.  Sad to say, I spent all of September unable to figure out a solution to my Dilemma.  What I needed was for God to tie me to a tree again, but nothing doing.  This time I was on my own.  And so I remained stuck in my futility. 

Welcome to the Lost Years.  I got nowhere because I spent all my time thinking about what to do rather than actually doing something.  I was little better than a dog chasing its tail.  Round and round I went.  Fearing the shame of being turned down or laughed at, there was no middle ground, no way to improve without taking some sort of risk.  Like most people with a phobia, it was safer to avoid the risk.  And so I resorted to my old standby, do nothing about it.

LOST YEARS:  NIGHTCLUB NIGHTMARE

Good Lord, I was such a mess.  You know, it is really embarrassing to reveal the details of this time in my life.  However, in order to appreciate where I got to, I believe it is necessary to understand where I came from.  The only good thing that came from this low point was a sense of compassion for people who struggle.  A kid with low grades is so sure he is going to do poorly on a test, he procrastinates studying till the last minute and of course does miserably.  Self-fulfilling prophecy.  An overweight person is so certain they will never lose the weight, they quit their diet or their exercise program because it is too difficult.  Self-fulfilling prophecy.  Fear is powerful.  Once a person expects to lose, they do things that guarantee they will continue to lose.  Turning a negative self-image around by oneself is next to impossible.  But that is exactly what I was trying to do... and not getting very far.

One night in early October, the loneliness got unbearable.  To heck with the Magic Mirror!  I decided to bypass the mirror and go to a dance club instead on my way home from volleyball.  Here at the Second Office Club, I saw men who were average dancers stay on the floor all night long.  They were no better than myself, but they didn't care.  They had no problem stomping around.  I was sure I could dance as well as they could.  However, they had the ability to ask girls to dance and I didn't.  Cursing my cowardice, I remained glued to my seat.  My fear of having a woman laugh at my dancing again was just too powerful. 

While I sat there in the dumps, Chip and Phobia got into another argument.  Chip said my dancing would improve a lot faster if I got out on the floor, but Phobia kept insisting I had to improve my dancing some more.  Phobia reminded me how silly my dancing still looked. 

In the end, I couldn't make myself do it.  My fear of rejection was so crippling that I could not find a way to ask a woman to dance.  It was easier just to sit there and feel sorry for myself. 

One night I realized I had almost forgotten what girls my age looked like.  Lonely out of my mind, I decided to take a look at a different kind of bar.  On my way home from basketball, I visited a nearby club called Prufrock's.  To my surprise, there was no dancing at this place because the songs played by the piano man were ballads, not 'dance music'.  No one seemed to mind.  The crowd enjoyed his tunes and were content to sit and listen. 

When the Piano Man took a break, I watched with interest as a man used the lull to visit women who were sitting alone.  I wondered what he said.  I had heard of pick-up lines.  "You must be from Tennessee because you're the only Ten I See!"  Forget it.  "The gravity is strong in here because I'm falling for you."  Pick-up lines made me sick in my stomach. 

I watched for about twenty minutes and noticed him make three separate approaches.  Two women were unreceptive while the third time the man managed to get a conversation going that lasted further than five minutes.  To me, that was unacceptable.  Where did this guys get such a thick skin?  Given the low odds of making a conversation with a stranger work in a bar, I could not bear approaching a girl I did not know.  I felt so helpless.  Due to my lifelong status as a loner, how exactly was I supposed to learn how to talk to girls at this stage without making a major fool of myself?  When it came to small talk, there were no lessons, no one to teach me.  I was in the same boat with 'Conversation' as I was with 'Dancing'. 

Having visited a Piano Bar and a Dance Bar, it seemed like the odds of a girl saying yes to a dance offer were much higher than saying yes to a pick-up line.  'Dancing' still seemed like the only idea that would work for me.  I imagined if I danced with a woman first and she seemed to enjoy herself, I could probably talk to her afterwards.  But breaking the ice by talking to her beforehand was out of the question.  Unable to come up with other solutions, that meant I had no choice but to postpone hitting the bars until I could dance.

LOST YEARS:   DAVID GIVES ME A COMPLIMENT

Discouraged by my two investigation trips, I remained too paralyzed to take action.  I decided the best thing to do was to keep practicing in the mirror, go to dance class and hope for the best.   In other words, I postponed facing my fears just like I always did.  And since there was no one around like Jason to twist my arm, progress was glacial.  Every night it was the same old thing.  Play basketball, dance in the Magic Mirror.  Although my self-loathing over my cowardice continued to mount, at least my dancing was getting better. 

One day in late September, just as I was leaving dance class, Disco Dave discretely whispered to wait for him outside in the hall.  I found a chair where I could watch the Ballroom dancers practice out on the main floor.  I did not like Ballroom dancing because it looked really difficult.  In addition, I seriously disliked the schmaltzy music.  Forget Ballroom dancing.  I'll stick to Disco and Motown music.

I wondered what David wanted.  It had been two months since the day he propositioned me after dance class.  We had not spoken since, but he smiled at me each week.  Maybe he wanted to proposition me again.  At that, I laughed ruefully.  Should I tell David how the memory of his proposition had saved me from ripping Helen's clothes off a few weeks ago?  I still winced every time I thought of how close I had come to taking advantage of a helpless woman.  I did not condone taking advantage of women.  However, given how horny I was getting, I could understand how desperation leads to very bad decisions. 

Just then David found me and sat down.  He said, "Thanks for waiting, Rick."

I nodded.  "What's up, David?"

"I wanted to compliment you on how much you have improved.  However, I did not dare say so in front of the women.  I am really proud of you.  You have come quite a ways since we first met.  Listen, now I'm curious.  Do you go dancing a lot?"

"No, but I practice whatever you show me at the house.  It's starting to sink in."

"Good for you.  You really struggled back at the start there, so I'm glad you stuck with it."

I appreciated the compliment.  I had been practicing my dancing in the Magic Mirror every night for two solid months and I could see the work was paying off.  However, I still had yet to dance in public thanks to my Dilemma.  As always, I was overly sensitive towards a woman's low opinion and the constant frowns of the River Oaks Seven were not helping.

"David, while I have you here, can I ask a question?"

"Okay."

"How did you ever get to be so good?"

David laughed out loud. 

"Hey, it's called self-preservation.  I was a scrawny little guy in high school.  The football players wanted to beat me up all the time.  I discovered the safest thing to do was hang with the girls and let them protect me.  I loved to dance and figured out this was the only way I was ever going to get any attention.  I watched TV dance shows like a hawk and practiced all the time.  I would show the girls my latest moves in the hallway or the school dances.  They loved learning my dance moves.  At the parties, we would get together and compete to see who looked the best.  I always beat the girls and they loved it.  I was very popular.  Better yet, the football players left me alone because the girls acted as my bodyguards.  If the boys wanted the girls to pay attention to them, they had to be nice to me.   Now you know my secret."

I nodded.  "I see your point.  I was fortunate to be just as big as the football players, so I guess I should be glad for that.  Only now am I discovering how much I wish I had learned to dance back in high school.  I have another question.  Not long ago I visited a dance bar on the way home one night.  The guys who danced in there are nowhere near as good as you.  Why are you so much better?"

David gave me a wicked smile.  "Because I'm gay, that's why!"

I frowned.  "What do you mean by that?"

"I dance in the gay bars two, three times a week.  If I want to get laid, I need to move my ass.  Those guys in the straight bars figure all they need to do is flex their muscles and some girl is going to swoon.  So why bother learning to dance?"

I laughed out loud at David's candor.  "That brings up nother question.  It has been two months now.  All we have in our class are those rich women and me.  Why doesn't anyone else ever join this class?"

David's expression changed to a rueful scowl.  "I've been giving that some thought myself.  I just don't think there is that much interest.  I mean, think about it, who teaches all those teenagers how to dance at the high school parties?  The kids teach each other or they copy someone they see on TV.  That's how I learned.  Disco dancing isn't really all that complicated unless someone takes Freestyle dancing seriously like me."

"So what you are saying is that most people don't need dance lessons?"

"Yes, I think that's what the problem is.  Most people don't care whether they are all that great.  I go to clubs all the time.  I've noticed how my friends can pick up a Freestyle move or a Line Dance just by watching.  Or maybe they will ask me to show them something.  My friends would not dream of paying money to learn a dance move when they get it for free.  Nor would they waste time with a dance class.  A dance floor is like a swimming pool.   All they want is to know enough dance moves to jump in the swimming pool.  They may or may not be a great dancer, but as long as they're cute and looking confident, someone is bound to hit on them."

"What if they know how to dance at all?"

"Drugs.  Alcohol.  For those who are reluctant, a stiff drink or two is usually sufficient to get even the weakest dancer out on the dance floor, especially if he has a date who insists.  I hate to tell you this, Rick, but I am starting to think there isn't any money in teaching Disco lessons."

"What about those rich women?  They like your class a lot.  Why do they take your class?"

"Those women are too old to go clubbing.  Plus they have too much pride to be seen stumbling around on the dance floor with a bunch of teeny boppers.  One of the women, Mrs. Barnes, told me that sometimes at these galas they go to, people get smashed and start to boogie.  Mrs. Barnes wants to be ready the next time that happens.  She says those rich farts are so stiff, just a few moves and she's the best one out there.  Mrs. Barnes lives to show off what a hot number she is for an old broad."

"David, do me a favor.  Who are those women?  Where on earth did they come from?"

"Those ladies started as my Ballroom students.  They are thick as thieves.  They can't even get their hair done without the others around for company.  I give private lessons to all of them and occasionally their husbands too.  One Saturday night there was a Ballroom party here at Dance City.  To my surprise, five of the seven women showed up without their husbands.  Apparently the men had gone on a deer hunting trip, so I spent the night entertaining their wives.  The women got drunk and they got me drunk too.  They always treat me like I am their darling little pet.  'Oh, David dear, let's do a Foxtrot, and oh, David dear, let's do Cha Cha next.'  The place was empty towards midnight so for the fun of it I put on a Disco song.  Then asked I Madelyn, the ringleader, to Freestyle with me.  I must have been drunk because I put on a show.  I turned it on and danced just like I would in front of some stud at a gay bar.  The women went nuts.  They had never seen anything like it.  After the song was over, I received so many compliments.  The next thing I knew the women begged me to teach a class.  I was all for it.  I love teaching Disco."  

David paused a moment, then resumed.  "Ballroom is where I make my money, but I live for Disco.  That is where I put my heart.  My friends call me Disco Dave because I am so rabid about the music and dancing.  Believe it or not, I have won the Staff Championship as the best Disco Dancer several years in a row."

"Trust me, David, I believe you.  I've never seen anyone dance like you."

Now it was David's turn to ask a question.  "Okay, Rick, I know where my seven women come from, but where did you come from?  What brought you here?"

I told Dave that I had searched the Yellow Pages and his class was the only Disco class I could find.  "I'm serious, Dave.  I called four different listings.  Dance City is the only studio that offered a course."

Dave shook his head in disgust.  "That doesn't make any sense.  If I'm the only teacher in the book, then where are the other students?"

"Beats the heck out of me.  You are a good teacher, so that can't be the problem."

Dave frowned.  "No one seems interested but you and the ladies.  I wonder why the demand is so low."

Dave was quiet, so I asked another question.  "Did you ever have a dance teacher?"

Dave replied, "For Ballroom dancing, yes.  Ballroom dancing is very complicated.  There are lots of variations on basic moves and I have to learn how to signal the woman what to do next.  That takes some serious practice and it is nearly impossible to learn just by watching.  But Freestyle dancing doesn't have any rules.  Why should my partner care what I do?  We are dancing, so it doesn't affect him.  Like I said, I learned to dance in high school like everyone else.  I just got out there one day and started dancing.  Isn't that how everyone does it?  To me, movement is instinctive.  Some of the moves I made up myself and for the others I copied my friends.  What about you?  Did you dance in high school?"

"Are you kidding?  I wouldn't dream of getting on the floor.  I wasn't very popular to begin with and I was terrified the girls would turn me down.  I was also afraid the boys would make fun of me.  There were a group of snobs who loved to pick on me.  All I did was hide in the shadows and watch."

"Yeah, we had kids like that.  They were usually the brainiacs who were too shy to give it a try.  The rest of us just got out there and moved around.  We knew we were good and didn't care what people thought.  We competed to see who was best and challenged our friends to copy our latest move.  That was a fun time for me.  I was easily the best dancer in school."

Dave went quiet for a moment.  Then something came to him.  "Hmm, I wonder if that's the problem."

"What are you talking about?"

"You mentioned that no one ever joins our class.  Since Dancing came easy to me, maybe that's the problem.  Maybe the dancing comes easy to everyone and the rest don't care.  People take Ballroom lessons because it is too complicated to figure out on their own, but Freestyle is a different story.  It just occurred to me that Freestyle is something most people can pick up without any need for a teacher.  Who needs lessons?  All they have to do is get out there." 

"I am not sure I understand what you're talking about."

David frowned.  "The problem is that Disco dancing does not require skill or training, so why pay money?  In Ballroom dancing, you have a partner, so what you know or don't know matters.  But not Disco.  Why waste time taking lessons?  Dance any way you want.  A little dope or two beers is sufficient to inspire even the most challenged spastic to shake his booty and think he's sexy."

At this point, someone beckoned to David, so the conversation ended.  As I drove home, I gave it some thought.  David believed his class remained small because there was so little demand for Freestyle lessons.  I shook my head in disgust.  If I understood this correctly, since Freestyle dancing was so easy to learn, I must be practically the only person in the city forced to bother with lessons. 

This was a truly humiliating realization.  Other than these uptight rich women and myself, no one needed lessons.  My overly-analytical mind and emotional problems were so crippling that I was the only person in the city who needed months of lessons to learn what most people seemed to accomplish with in one night with two beers.  This was a very depressing thought.   

That said, what I had just learned from Dave would one day make me the most famous dance teacher in the city.

LOST YEARS:  MY GAY APARTMENT PROJECT

Just when my life could not get any weirder, it got weirder.  After spending June stuck on Couch Catatonia, back in July I found a job and got on with my life.  On the day I was hired for my Child Welfare job, the main office was located on Branard Street in the Montrose area.  As I left the office, I spotted a small apartment complex one block away with a 'for rent' sign.  Incorrectly assuming I would be working at the same office I had just left, I parked the car.  Ten minutes later I had my new home.   

According to Jim Deane, my guru, an easy way to meet girls is to move into an apartment project which caters to singles.  Good idea, but I did not know this wisdom until one week after moving to the Branard Street apartments.  Now that I had a lease, I was stuck here.  One week later, I ended up in the arms of Lynn, the drag queen.  That was my first clue that Houston's Montrose area had undergone a major transformation since my high school days.  While I had been away the past six years, Montrose had become home sweet home to Houston's Gay Community.

I kept wondering where the girls were.  Imagine my surprise when I finally realized my entire apartment project was gay.  Flabbergasted, I tried to wrap my mind around the consequences of my mistake.  My surrounding neighborhood was gay.  My dance teacher was gay.  My apartment project was gay.  A large portion of the Child Welfare agency was gay.  My mind did major somersaults adjusting to this startling new reality.

Would my life have been different if I had moved into an apartment project populated with single women?  I would assume so.  By the way, these were the Seventies.  According to rumors, there was a Sexual Revolution going on out there.  Had I moved into one of the many Houston apartment projects which catered to singles, I believe my problems meeting women would have been solved quite nicely.  There would have been countless opportunities to bump into some girl at the clubhouse, the laundry room, the mailbox, the hot tub and the swimming pool.  Maybe the girl next door would be friendly or perhaps I would meet a girl at the sand volleyball court.  Monday Night football in the clubhouse or Saturday Beer Bust party by the pool might have led to something.  If the cat got my tongue, I imagine eventually some woman would have taken the initiative and spoken to me first.  Alas, such was not to be.

As it stood, stuck here in an apartment project with no women, my only immediate option was to go hustle in bars.  Given my precarious state of mind, this was out of the question.  In a bar, I would have serious problems knowing what to say to a girl unless we had something in common.  But how would I know what we had in common?  At a singles apartment project, this would not be an issue.  Even someone as hopeless as me would have found a way to speak to a woman.  By the laws of random encounter, I have to believe I would eventually smile at some girl who would smile back. 

Now that I cut my hair, I looked okay.  In fact, if I took off my glasses and remembered to smile, I looked good enough for some girl to take a chance on me.  With the slightest indication of interest on a woman's part, I could have taken it from there.  The fact that she and I were neighbors was the perfect conversation opener.  But no, that scenario never took place.  That is because Mr. Intelligent had unwittingly moved into a gay apartment project. 

I just wanted to kick myself.  Stupid me, I had moved into the only place in Houston where meeting single women was impossible.  This was an instant replay of going to a men's school at Johns Hopkins all over again.  Hopkins had been the Land Without Women.  The Montrose area was the Land of Gay Men.  This pathetic situation was yet further proof that I must be cursed when it came to women. 

Oh, by the way, one more thing.  Since every person who lived in Montrose was gay, they assumed I must be gay too.  That led to a very bizarre development.  I would guess there were forty or so gay men living in the various Branard apartment units.  Some had roommates, but most lived alone.  All social activity revolved around the swimming pool area in the courtyard.  On any given evening, several men would get together by the poolside to drink and chat. 

In order for me to get to the parking lot from my apartment, I had to walk past these men as they sat by the swimming pool.  Always the loner, I never spoke to anyone beyond a polite 'good evening'.  Nor did they speak to me.  No doubt my perpetual frown played a role.  The men sitting at the patio table were content just to eye me as I went by.  This lack of communication is one of the reasons why it took me over a month to realize every one of these men was gay.

One day someone said hello and I said hello back.  That broke the ice.  Once they realized I did not bite, the men got a little friendlier.  From that point on, every day after work the gay men sitting at the swimming pool would say hello.  Then later in the evening I would be greeted again when I left for basketball or volleyball.  Sometimes if the weather was nice, people would sit outside till late in the evening.  Now I would be greeted a third time when I returned home from basketball and volleyball.

No matter what time I came home, there was invariably a greeting committee.  Sometimes it was two men, sometimes as many as sixteen.  There was always someone sitting out there and they always had a word for me.  They would invite me to join them, but I would politely refuse and keep moving.  Once I discovered they were gay, what was there to talk about?  However, one Friday in late August I changed my mind.  Friday was the only night of the week when the JCC was closed, so basketball was not an option.  I had nothing to do after work, so I decided to accept their offer to join them.  I went inside to change, then came back out in shorts and a tee-shirt.  I found a chair and made myself comfortable by the swimming pool.  Someone handed me a beer and the introductions began.

I was pretty tense at first.  Understandably, I had a bad attitude about gay men, so I was leery about joining these guys.  On the other hand, in addition to Dave and Lynn, I had met several gay people at my social work job who were friendly.  Tonight I decided to keep an open mind.  I had not noticed before, but I was a good ten years younger than any of the dozen men I joined at the pool.  These guys were pudgy, middle-aged guys whose idea of exercise was hoisting a drink.  That made them seem less threatening.  Besides, I was much taller than any of them.  What did I have to fear?  I soon realized these men were good-natured and gentle.  Unlike those monsters who molested me as a boy, they men seemed harmless enough.  After a couple beers, I relaxed a little and found myself enjoying their company.  Listening to their banter and jokes, this was the first conversation I ever had with gay men that went beyond superficial chatter.  The men were fun to be around due to all the outrageous things that came out of their mouths.  I found myself laughing my butt off at some of the things they said.  Considering I needed company in the worst way, I was glad to meet these guys. 

LOST YEARS:  THE PRIZE

Oddly enough, despite the intense curiosity, none of these men ever hit on me.  I think that was because I was such a mystery.  Or maybe because I was big enough to snap one of them in half.  That led to an outrageous discovery.  One night over one too many pink martinis, a guy named Melvin let a giant secret slip.  Melvin was chatting with the guy next to him when I overheard him refer to 'The Prize'.  Instantly, four men glanced at me with worried looks.  Suspicious, I asked, "Uh, Melvin, what is the Prize?"

Melvin looked around sheepishly at his friends who began shooting darts at him for opening his big mouth.  Watching Melvin squirm, I suddenly had an inkling, but wanted to be sure.  Melvin was reluctant to confess.  However, since Melvin was a little nebbish of a guy, he was easy for me to bully.  "Come on, Melvin, what is the Prize?  Or should I ask who is the Prize?"

Melvin turned pink and confessed.  "That's our nickname for you, Rick.  You are The Prize."

Wonderful.  I had a funny feeling that's what he would say.  "Oh really?  And how does one win The Prize?"

"We are taking bets on who gets you into bed first."

Dumbfounded, I glared at Melvin for several seconds.  Melvin was so embarrassed he decided this was a good time to jump in the swimming pool.  Turning my attention to the remaining men, I said, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you guys are having a competition to see who can lure me into sex.  Is that it?"

As Melvin did a lap around the pool, the other four men grinned and nodded.  In fact, now that the cat was out of the bag, the men were delighted to discuss the issue.  From what they said, there was intense curiosity about me.  They figured it was only a matter of time until I hopped into bed with one of the men who lived here.  In fact, they had been surprised at how choosy I had been so far.  Apparently my sexuality such a frequent item of discussion here at the pool, every man in the complex made sure to keep an eye on my door.  So far only one man had entered.  His name was Gabriel.  I had met him playing volleyball.  Looking to make a friend, I had invited him over to shoot pool.  Wouldn't you know it, an hour into the night he placed his hand on mine just as I was getting ready to shoot. 

"Uh, Gabriel, that's really not where I'm at."

Fortunately, Gabriel took it well enough.  After he left, I sat there wondering why I had charisma with men but not women.  Right now I could open the door and whistle and have ten panting men vying for me.  I was reminded of the old Mae West joke.  "Ten men knocking at my door?  Oh, my, I am much too tired.  Ask one of them to leave."

Yes, I was a mystery.  After all, any ordinary gay man would have a half-dozen sexual encounters by now.  These were the days when gay men had sex at the drop of a hat.  Monogamy was unheard of.  I generalize of course, but gay men loved variety so much they weren't picky.  If the man they wanted was not available, just ask the one at the bar next to him. 

As we sat there by the swimming pool, Melvin finally had the courage to return.  When he realized we were still discussing The Prize, Melvin grinned.  "Well, Rick, have you made up your mind yet?  Sometimes I can't sleep at night knowing you are all alone in that big apartment."  Then he turned beet red as everyone gave him a hard time. 

I was astonished at their candor.  Not only did I have a giant target on my back, these guys were so matter-of-fact in their explanation that my jaw dropped open in shock.  I guess since everyone assumed I was gay, they had no idea I might take offense.  In fact, one man, Henry, the only good-looking guy in the complex, came right out and mentioned he was very well hung.  Oh really?  I took this as a less than subtle indirect offer.  Stunned by this strange development, it took a moment to regain my equilibrium, but I finally found my tongue.  These guys had shocked, so now it was my turn. 

"Sorry, guys, but I'm straight.  I prefer women, so you're all out of luck."

The men were so shocked they almost fell out of their chairs.  Melvin looked crushed.  "Rick, when you say you are straight, what you mean is that you are bisexual, yes?"

"No, Melvin, I'm straight.  I am only interested in women."

A look of horror and disbelief crossed their faces.  A straight man in this place?  This can't be!  Impossible! 

"But, Rick, why would you move here if you were straight?  Only gay men live here."

"No one told me.  My guess is that Lillie, the manager, assumed I was gay.  What other explanation could there be?"

That cracked everyone up.  This was outrageous, the funniest thing that had ever happened.  A straight guy living in a gay apartment complex, who would have ever thought?  Ha ha ha!  Listening to their raucous laughter, I just rolled my eyes.  I assumed this revelation would put an end to the competition, but I was wrong.  I did not know gay men very well.  Gay men believe that every man has a gay bone in there somewhere whether they know it or not.  Three good examples would be Lynn, the drag queen, Disco Dave and now Gabriel.  All three men hit on me without the slightest hint that I was interested (although Lynn definitely had his hopes up).  Apparently the Branard apartment men agreed.  Since they believed any man could be persuaded to expand his horizons, if anything, they were even more intrigued.  With the right combination of wooing and whiskey, sooner or later my resistance would disappear and someone would get lucky.  The contenders could not wait to see who would bag me first. 

Gay men in the Seventies had to be the horniest creatures on earth.  Promiscuity was rampant and sex was all they ever seemed to talk about.  By playing hard to get, I became a rock star to these men, a virgin of sorts, a valued commodity.  Forgive my lack of modesty, but from this point on the men could not get enough of me.  Due to my virtue and obvious ignorance to their tricks, I became the most coveted man in this small world we inhabited.  The thought of scoring with the only so-called straight guy in the complex was a topic of neverending mirth and merriment to these guys. 

One night I had the strangest conversation with Melvin.  When I came home from basketball, it was after 10 pm.  Melvin was sitting alone by the swimming pool, so I sat down next to him.  In retrospect, I think he had been waiting for me.  He was by far my most ardent admirer.  Perhaps the victim of too many pink martinis, Melvin was in a maudlin mood.  After bringing up the subject of love, Melvin decided to confess he was impressed by my muscular body.  Squeezing my forearm, he sighed, then murmured, "Rick, you're soooo big!  I can't even wrap my hand around your arm!  Do you work out?  I dream about hopping in your arms!"

How did I ever get so lucky?  Melvin had a crush on me.  What an honor.  Still, I admired his courage.  Melvin was a plump, middle-aged guy.  He was short, out of shape and balding.  Even if I was gay, Melvin would never have stood a chance.  I suppose he knew that too, but that didn't stop him from pouring his heart out.  I liked Melvin.  He was warm, friendly, unthreatening.  I took his hand and said, "Melvin, you are a kind soul.  Thank you for the compliment."

Big mistake.  Melvin thought I was encouraging him.  Apparently the pitcher full of pink martinis was his way of working up the nerve to reveal his deepest feelings.  Melvin was so lost in Martiniville, the island next to Margaritaville, that he went icky-gooey on me. 

"Rick, you are the Queen of Sheba, the man of my dreams."

Huh?  The Queen of Sheba?  That made no sense.  "Melvin, I am confused.  First I am the Prize, now I'm the Queen of Sheba.  What are you talking about?" 

"Oh, sorry, I forgot you don't know our language.  It's a compliment, Rick, take my word for it.  The Queen of Sheba is gay slang for The Bomb, the absolute epitome.  The Queen of Sheba is a mythological creature, the most wonderful of all."

"Is the Queen of Sheba a man or a woman?"

"She is a mythical being, part man, part woman, part god.  The Queen of Sheba is the greatest sex prize of all because she is unattainable.  The Whore of Babylon will fuck anything in sight, but not the Queen of Sheba.  She is just the opposite because she bestows her love only on someone who is special."

"I thought 'Queen' was a derogatory term for a gay guy who is overly flamboyant."

"There are all kinds of Queens, Rick.  There are drag queens, nelly queens, butch queens, mean queens.  I'm a nelly queen.  The Queen of Sheba is something completely different.  She is the Beauty Queen, someone who is better than the rest.  The Queen of Sheba is the ultimate, sort of like Marilyn Monroe to a heterosexual man."

"Help me out, Melvin, this is all new.  Why do you guys make such a fuss over me?  I shouldn't tell you this, but I'm an ordinary guy, nothing special.  Ask any woman.  Women don't even know I exist."

"That's because you stay hidden from them.  I like you because you are a man's man.  There are gay men who cannot stand effeminate men.  They want the same men that the women want, you know, a big, strong, masculine guy like Burt Reynolds or Sean Connery.  They want a guy with a hairy chest and big shoulders, a guy who looks dangerous, a guy who can handle himself.  They want a big, virile guy like you with muscles, a guy who will fuck them silly and make them beg for more."

"Fuck them silly"?  I could not believe what I was hearing.  Nor had anyone ever referred to me as 'virile'.  Obviously Melvin did not know I had flunked my 'Tough Guy' test.  However, compared to these guys, I guess I was the closest thing.  Playing sports and lifting weights in my apartment, I was tall, slender, and strong.  Being surrounded by 40 sex-crazed gay men put me in a unique position.  Due to this truly strange twist of fate, I had a rough idea how Marilyn Monroe felt surrounded by a sea of men on a USO Tour.  I was just as much a target to their sex fantasies as Marilyn was to these vast hordes of army men. 

LOST YEARS:  LEARNING TO TALK DIRTY

The irony was overwhelming.  To gay men, I was The Prize, to women I was the proverbial Flop with Chicks.  Here in September, I had just entered the ninth month of my Epic Losing Streak.  Words cannot adequately describe just how utterly bewildered I felt.  On the one hand, I could not find my way to First Base with a girl if my life depended on it.  Simultaneously, I was the most desired man in my apartment complex.  This was not only absurd, it was kind of pathetic. 

I have discussed Good Luck and Bad Luck.  Talk about Bad Luck!  If I lived at any singles complex in Houston, I would have had a girlfriend by now.  Instead I was stranded in Gay Mecca with these horny men fawning over me.  Oddly enough, there was a Silver Lining here.  They say the Lord works in mysterious ways.  Deep down, I knew Melvin was right.  If I could just conquer these demons in my mind, I was an attractive guy.  It was my own fault that I didn't have the guts to go looking.  Until I could find my courage, these men offered a much-needed tonic for my battered self-esteem.  But what the men really did for me was give me back my voice. 

Vanessa's deceit had made me gun-shy around women to begin with, but it was Dr. Fujimoto who truly beat me into submission.  Fujimoto had stolen my voice.  His endless harangues over my lack of the 'therapeutic personality' had done a number on my head.  Trying to prove that I could be a quiet listener, I had done everything in my power to suppress my tendency to speak my mind.  While on the one hand I appreciated the lessons in politics I received, I had sacrificed my power to express myself spontaneously in the process.  Fujimoto was not fooled for a moment.  He knew it was an act.  The sad thing is that once I turned my natural personality off, I could not find the switch to turn it back on again.  In conversation, I had become a dull, uninspired robot who made sure to hesitate before saying a word lest it be offensive in any way. 

Now I was exposed to gay men who had no filters whatsoever.  I could not believe the things that came out of their mouths.  Nothing was sacred with these guys.  Gay humor revolves around the art of the put-down.  These men lived to insult each other, the more sarcastic, the better.  There were not many social skills that came naturally to me, but sarcasm I could do.  I not only liked gay banter, I could give as well as I took.  Pretty soon I was exchanging barbs just like the rest and laughing in the process.  Once I gave free rein to my sarcastic nature, their appreciation grew.  Not only was I sexy, now I was sassy too.  Tickled by my willingness to participate, these guys could not get enough of me.  Whenever someone gave me a hard time, I gave it right back to them.  Because I was The Prize, I had a built-in advantage.  Since these guys would do anything to curry favor, invariably my retort was judged the funnier.

Most of their lines revolved around sex.  They loved to come on to each other, especially when other people were watching.  That was part of the fun.  If ten minutes went by without someone publicly propositioning another man, I would have been shocked.  'Let's go upstairs and get more comfortable...' was the standard line.  To my surprise, every now and then two men would get up from their seats and do just that.  I guess all that sex talk got them worked up.  Maybe that was the idea all along.

There were insults... "I never forget a face, but in your case I will make an exception."

There were pickup lines... "You look like a Boy Scout.  Come upstairs and practice tying knots on me."

There were pickup lines... "You make me breathless, hurry up and kiss me before I die!"

There were less than subtle hints... "I was going to tell you a story about my dick, but it's too long."

There were putdowns... "Jack be nimble, jack be quick, I don't want your toothpick, you promised me a candlestick."

Fielding their zingers kept me on my toes.  Strange as it might seem, I was a part of their group.  This is how I learned about a world I previously knew nothing about.  One thing that fascinated me was their fondness for talking about sex.  Throughout September, I learned more about talking dirty than all my previous 24 years combined.  An odd thought crossed my mind.  If I listened to these guys long enough, maybe I could learn how to talk to women.  Seriously, these gay guys were pros at flirting.  Since I was receptive to any coaching I could get, I would pull up a chair and just listen.  Gay banter was pretty incredible.  It was catty, bitchy, nasty, and funny all at the same time.  Thanks to my sheltered life, I had never heard people talk this way before.  So much sex talk.  Constantly!  There was lots of bragging about countless conquests, but another favorite topic was the enormous size of their penises. 

"Three Texas cowboys were drinking at the bar.  Pretty soon they were bragging about how long their dicks were.  The bartender said he was tired of listening, so why not settle the bet?  All three men whipped out their dicks and laid them on the bar.  A gay guy walked in, did a double-take and said, 'Hey, Bud Lite, and I'll take the buffet!!'"

Say what you will about my walk on the wild side, these men were bringing me out of my shell.  I believe these men got a kick out of the fact that I was making an effort to fit in.  Every time they teased me, I teased them right back.  Back and forth.  I came to realize this clever repartee was something I enjoyed.  I liked the gay style of humor.  It was fun and it made me think on my feet.  Best of all, these guys helped me become 'me' again.  I was born with a smart mouth, but Fujimoto had kicked it out of me.  Now my voice was back.

Our sex-laden exchanges made me wonder.  Why could I trade insults with these crazy men, yet be so totally terrified around women?  It just didn't make sense.  If I could talk this freely around women, my loneliness problem would be solved.  I knew I had a personality hidden in there somewhere.  Why didn't I have the courage to use it around women?  For that matter, I couldn't even get close enough to try.  Phobia is irrational.  I avoided women because I was sure I would end up getting hurt again.  I needed to get tougher, but how would I get tougher if I was afraid to try?  Unable to solve my Dilemma, I settled for being the Belle of the Swimming Pool crowd.

LOST YEARS:  PLAYING THE GAME

It was now October.  I was starting to feel the pressure of being The Prize.  No, I'm not talking about sex.  The more I was around them, the more I realized how little interest I had.  What I mean is the constant attention that required me to always be on my toes.  I could either tell these guys to knock it off with the sexual innuendos or I could play along and let them have their fun.  Flattered by the attention, I decided it was easier to be a good sport about it.  And so I became the reigning sex symbol with the swimming pool crowd.  One night things got a little carried away.  The topic was to guess which man would be the winner of The Prize competition.  They conducted this discussion with me present by the way.  They were all drunk, so each man took turns bragging about why he expected to win.  I was incredulous at how bold they were as they discussed how they intended to overcome my resistance.  Since my odd status was an open secret, I guess they saw no need to talk behind my back.  I listened in bemusement as the men took turns claiming he would win The Prize.  Finally I had enough.  It was time to take control. 

"Will you men listen to yourselves?  You talk like I'm not even here.  Do you really think I'm going to get turned on?  You talk constantly about how you are going to get me into bed, but maybe there's something you need to know.  Not one man has actually propositioned me.  Not once.  You guys are the worst.  You're all talk, no action."

These men loved being insulted.  They lived for it.

"That's not fair!  We proposition you every time you are here!"

"Oh sure, I get offers every night I sit here, but your offers are full of shit.  You make your big moves out in the open with other men watching, so you aren't actually risking any skin.  You're just bragging and preening.  I am just a sport to you guys."

"Will you say yes if we proposition you in a sincere way?"

"No, of course not.  How many times do I have to tell you are wasting your time?  I am immune to you and you know damn well I'm telling the truth.  Besides, you only like me because I'm a challenge.  The moment I give in, I will be old news."

"That's true, Rick, we don't actually like you, we just want to see you naked.  So why won't you give in and make us happy?"

"Give me a break.  You don't want me to give in.  That would spoil all your fun.  If I gave in, I would be boring and then you wouldn't have anything to fuss about.  That's probably why none of you ever make a serious move because then the game would be over."

"Oh stop it, we know you're just a tease.  Deep down you love us madly.  If you give in like we know you will, we promise whoever wins will never say a word."

I laughed out loud.  "You guys are the worst liars I have ever met!!"

"Not only that, we will respect you in the morning."

"You don't even respect me now.  You just like me because I'm half your age and I let you pick on me.  Good lord, if I actually did give in, the rest of you would be worse than a pack of wolves.  Once you heard how wonderful I was, then you would all beg to be next.  I would never have a moment's peace."

Naturally they protested and argued, but it was all just a silly game.  So why did I put up with it?   It is embarrassing to admit, but I enjoyed being the center of attention.  Considering how low my self-esteem was, I was getting more compliments from these guys than I had received my whole life.  I would have preferred the flattery come from a pretty girl, but beggars can't be choosers.  Sure, these guys got a little carried away, but I got used to it.  It helped that I was the youngest guy.  That made teasing me even easier.  In a manner similar to Melvin's Queen of Sheba reference, they treated me like a debutante or the belle of the ball.  They propositioned me practically every time I walked by, but always in a joking way.  A group would be sitting at the pool having a beer in the evening.  I would walk past in my basketball shorts and they would whistle in appreciation. 

"Such long legs!  Such big shoulders!  Come here and give us a kiss."

I would always reply in some manner.  "Not tonight, boys, I am going inside to pump some weights and make you want me more."

"Oh Rick, come have a beer with us and turn us on."

"Not tonight, boys, no beer for me.  If I don't watch my figure, then you won't either."

"Oh Rick, what a shame, there are no chairs, why not sit on my lap?  If you whisper something in my ear, I'll grant you a wish!"

"Perfect.  I'll turn you into a sex-starved woman."

"Oh Rick, you are such a tease!  You're all yak and no sack.  Why won't you please us?"

"I'm saving myself for a younger man.  You guys are so old, you might die in my arms."

The repartee went back and forth.  They enjoyed the put-down game and I enjoyed delivering the put-downs.  However, I made sure not to be vicious.  For their part, they were light-hearted about their neverending disappointment.  Besides, I didn't win every exchange.  Once in a while, the gay men got the upper hand.  Suggesting I jump in the pool naked was a major part of the greeting ritual. 

'Oh, Rick,' they would say, 'you have such an athletic body.  Why not strip down for us and jump in the pool?  It is such a hot night, don't you want to cool off?  Give us a thrill!'

I would just laugh.  "You guys never give up, do you?  If I was short and fat, you would simply change your pitch."

"If you were short and fat, we wouldn't even talk to you."

"What if I was ugly?"

"We would offer you a bag for your face."

Touché.  I smiled.  "Okay, guys, you got me on that one." 

The men grinned.  Since I was a good sport about the silliness, we got along fine.  I never felt threatened.  Besides, I enjoyed the compliments, but don't tell anyone.  These gay men had done more to heal my self-esteem than I could have ever imagined.  However, it did cross my mind that as long as I hung around these guys, I wasn't making much progress with women.  In fact, deep down I knew I was using these men for companionship to avoid dealing with my problems.  That is the nature of Phobia.  No one ever licks the fear because it is easier to avoid the problem than it is to deal with the anxiety of fighting it.

LOST YEARS:  STRIP TEASE

One morning in early October I had some bad luck.  An older man named Chandler passed by my apartment just as I opened the door to leave for work.  He glanced inside and saw my pool table.  Chandler stopped to stare. 

"Is that what I think it is, Rick??"

"Yes, that is a pool table.  You are welcome to have a look."

"Oh my, it is so beautiful.  Such an interesting choice of furniture." 

Chandler smiled innocently enough and soon left.  I should have known better.  That night after basketball, there were a dozen men waiting for me by the pool.  This was the largest group I had ever seen this late, so I suppose I should have been suspicious.  Nevertheless, as always, I stopped by to chat and pass inspection.  Big mistake.  I should have kept walking.  That was the night I learned that allusions to shooting pool are a popular metaphor for sexual activity in the gay world.  When the jokes came one at a time, I could handle it.  However, tonight the clever comments were coming from every direction. 

"You can put your pool stick in my corner pocket any time."

"I am speechless around you.  Will you put some English on my balls?"

I was already feeling on guard when someone called me 'The Big Ball Buster'.  I didn't care for that one and felt the heat rise inside.  This was a reference to someone who teases but not pleases.  I could see they were testing me. 

"Sorry, guys, you have me all worked up with your clever lines.  I need a cold shower to rebuild my resistance." 

Feeling threatened, I left.  I groaned over this new development.  I had apparently opened the door to a new, more aggressive line of teasing.  For a while there I had become one of the guys, but now I was back to being the resident sex symbol. Sure enough, the pool table incident seemed to pin a new target on my back.  Whenever I came home, I was given the kind of reception generally reserved male strippers.  A week after Chandler noticed my pool table, I returned from a night of volleyball all hot and sweaty. 

Thanks to daylight savings time, there was still a bit of twilight left.  Because it was a balmy, pleasant fall evening with a nice breeze, a big group was gathered by the pool.  The gang saw me coming and raised their glasses in salute to the Queen of Sheba.  Oh great, here it comes.  I had not bothered to shower.  I could just as easily shower in my apartment.  The problem was my form-fitting wet tee-shirt. 

"Oh Rick, look at those bulging muscles!  You are all sweaty.  Why not take off that nasty tee-shirt and show us your big chest?"

To be honest, I did want to take off my sweaty tee-shirt.  The dozen men here at the pool were all shirtless, so what was stopping me?  To begin with, I was modest by nature.  Moreover, I knew that taking off my shirt was inviting trouble.  Baring my chest to these guys was the same as Marilyn Monroe sharing her ample chest to a legion of male admirers.  This was a bad idea.  I would never hear the end of it.  However, just then the oddest feeling came over me.  I had heard that women in New Orleans loved to flash their breasts at Mardi Gras.  Right now, the only flattery I was receiving was coming from these crazy gay men.  I suddenly understood why women enter wet tee-shirt contests... if you got it, flaunt it.  So I made a suggestion. 

"You guys call me a tease all the time and I am getting a little tired of it.  If I take off my shirt, are you going to behave any better from now on?"

"Oh my God, Rick, absolutely!  We will be the best behaved boyfriends you ever had.  If you take off your tee-shirt, we promise we will never tease you again!"

"How can I trust you?  You men have such terrible reputations."

"For you, we would behave.  You are a Prince.  If you will just strip down for us, we will shower you with more adulation than you can possibly imagine."

So with that I turned my back, took off my shirt, then turned back around and posed.  They went nuts, absolutely nuts.  I could not shut them up.

"Oh my God, it's David in the flesh!  Michelangelo surely had you in mind!"

At this point, the calls came for me to continue.  I don't know what came over me.   These guys were completely full of shit, but I guess flattery does get you somewhere.  I stood at the swimming pool where they all could see me.   I slowly took off one shoe.  Then the other.  Next came my socks.   I laughed because the men were absolutely mesmerized.  I only wished I had more clothing to tease them with.  Now all I had left were my gym shorts.

As I stood there with my hands on my hips in defiance, they began to clap and cheer.  The applause was deafening complete with pleas and demands to continue.

 "Oh, Rick, don't stop now!  Finish us off with your naked glory.  We all have our rulers out!"

I drew the line at removing my gym shorts.  But the cheering and jeering didn't stop.  They were egging me on.  Something inside me snapped.  Ordinarily I am extremely modest about my body.  But not tonight.  It was getting pretty dark, so I threw caution to the winds.  First I jumped in the water, then I removed my gym shorts and placed them on the edge.  The men erupted with laughter and clapping.  To wolf whistles and cat calls, I did my best Esther Williams impersonation and began to swim around the pool. 

In the gloom of the 9 pm October evening, I doubt seriously they could see much, but I didn't really care one way or the other.  All I can say is that I was in a very odd mood.  As I swam my first lap, the men went absolutely nuts.  I mean it, they went absolutely stark raving mad.  They thought this was the funniest thing in ages.  Now that The Prize had stripped naked before their very eyes, my cool factor went off the charts. 

As I swam around in the pool, I had no idea what had possessed me to do this.  This was highly out of character.  I had gone streaking one night back at Colorado State at 2 am, but that was no big deal.  After all, how much courage does it take to run naked at night with no one looking? 

My unexpected exhibition had me baffled.  There was something about the way they dared me to strip that made me want to defy them, to prove I wasn't afraid.  If they wanted to look, let them look.  If they got a glimpse of my naked butt in the water from thirty feet away, more power to them.

As I dog paddled around the pool to wild applause, I noticed there was someone sitting in complete darkness at the far end 180° from the men.  As I drew closer, I saw a dark-haired Hispanic woman sitting by herself.  She was sipping a glass of wine and staring directly at me.

I had never seen this woman before.   I assumed she had been watching the hoopla, so I was embarrassed, especially when I saw the wide-eyed expression on her face.  On the next lap, I noticed she was still staring intently.  This time I smiled and waved.  In response, she raised her glass.

The entire time, the men were hooting and hollering. 

"Rick, you have such a beautiful body!  Come sit with us so we can honor your boldness."

One lap was enough.  I was ready to get out, but someone had removed my gym shorts from the pool's edge.  I suppose they hoped I might just climb out bare naked.  Forget that.  Not with these sex fiends.  So I grabbed someone's towel at the edge of the pool and spoke up.  "Okay, guys, you got your show, now hand me back my shorts.  If I am your Prince, then show the respect you promised me." 

Sure enough, one of the men threw me my shorts.  Lifting a towel, another man said with a leer, "Can I help you dry off?"

I smiled and politely declined.  While I was in the water, I pulled my shorts back on.  Once I got out of the pool, I wrapped the towel around my gym shorts, then pulled up a seat.  Instantly a beer appeared in my hand followed by one backslap after another.  When someone suggested a toast, the men raised their glasses to offer a salute to my grand gesture. 

"To our Prince!" 

It was fun having them make such a big fuss over me.  I had taken a pretty big risk, but it had paid off.  Yeah, I might be a tease, but at least I had a sense of style.  My stunt had turned out better than I expected.  Maybe I should take chances more often.

After ten minutes of extreme silliness, the fuss began to die down.  At this point, the mysterious Hispanic woman walked over as I sat there.  It was dark, but there was enough light to see she looked pretty good.  Too good.  Phobia kicked in and I was quickly nervous. 

Standing before me, she introduced herself.  "Hello, my name is Gloria.  That was quite a show you put on.  Do you do that every night?"   

Sensing a challenge in her voice, I wanted to offer some sort of defiant retort.  I opened my mouth, but not a word came out.  I was startled.  It defied understanding... this woman had just given me an opening, but I could not say a word!  What was wrong with me?

I had stripped naked for these men because I could not care less what they thought, but now I was unable to respond to a woman who had seemingly made the first move.  It made no sense why I was so tongue-tied around this woman, but obviously Phobia had interfered.  Based on her smirk, this woman was curious.  I had to say something.  Unable to muster anything clever to say, I stuttered, "Uh, hi, are you visiting somebody here?"

"No, I live here. I am up in Apartment 16."  Gloria pointed directly to her apartment on the second floor just in case I was too stupid to count that high.  "And what is your name?"

"Rick."

"Well, Rick, that's an interesting coincidence.  That is also my son's.  He's probably about your age.  Well, Rick, I guess I will see you around.  In case you have your clothes on and I don't recognize you, be sure to say hello."  

Gloria touched me lightly on the top of my hand with one finger, smiled faintly and left.  I could not take my eyes off Gloria as she climbed the steps.  Watching her move those hips, I felt that stirring sensation.  Gloria moved well.  Too well.  I took a deep breath. 

I turned to see if the gay men had noticed.  Are you kidding?  They were all grinning over Gloria's visit.  The razzing came fast and furious.  However, I don't think they saw Gloria touch my hand.  For that, I was eternally grateful.  I was so rattled by the potential implications of Gloria's touch, the last thing I needed was for these guys to tease me about it. 

Hoping to avoid suspicion, I made certain to put in another 20 minutes after Gloria left.  As I guessed, one by one the party broke up.  When there just a few men remaining, I said farewell and went to my apartment.  As I showered, I thought about Gloria in Apartment 16.  I had the distinct impression her touch had been an invitation.  With all those men milling about, she had been very discrete.  However, her touch was electric.  Gloria was twice my age and a complete stranger.  I wanted her, but felt intimidated.  Do I dare??  The moment I dried off, I decided to act on that hunch.  With my heart in my throat, I worried that I would get flustered and be unable to speak.  So I wrote down what I was going to say, then repeated it several times.

It was 11 pm.  I opened my apartment door to look around.  After checking to make sure there were no men around the pool to spy on me, I climbed the stairs.  This was by far the boldest move I had ever made towards a woman.  As I knocked softly on Gloria's door, I was trembling.  I would kill myself if I guessed wrong.  I stopped breathing as I heard Gloria come to the door and unlock it. 

"Hi, Gloria, now that we've met, I wondered if you would like some company."

Gloria did not say a word.  She just stood there sizing me up with a poker face.  My heart was thumping so hard I thought I was going to have a heart attack.  Oh my God, please tell me I didn't guess wrong.  If Gloria turned me down, I swore I would throw myself off the balcony and die young.  I could not take another rejection.

10 seconds passed.  She just stared at me.  10 seconds is a long time.  Those were the longest 10 seconds of my life.  Full of panic, did I misread her signal?  What was she thinking about?  As each second passed, I grew more certain she was going to shoot me down.  What is it about women that gives them the power to drive me up a wall? 

Without warning, Gloria took a small step back and smiled imperceptibly.  When she opened the door wider, I nearly cried with relief. 

"Please come in." 

With a smile, she added, "After all that swimming, I am surprised you found the strength to visit.  Would you like a glass of wine?"

Later as we talked in bed, I asked Gloria a question.  "How did you know I was straight?"

"Actually, I had no idea.  But I liked your stunt.  You made me laugh.  I figured if you were straight, you would find your way up here.  And if you weren't straight, what did I have to lose?"

"To be honest, I wonder about myself sometimes.  I think I'm straight, but these guys are trying their best to convince me otherwise."

"Well, in that case, maybe it's a good thing I came along when I did."

I smiled.  "A most interesting coincidence." 

I pulled Gloria to me.  God, it was good to have a woman in my arms again.

LOST YEARS:  MARK

Shortly after I met Gloria, I made a second friend named Mark.  He worked in the same building at a community center named Ripley House.  Mark was the supervisor of a State Welfare office just down the hall from my office.  Mark made his living handing out welfare checks.

Our friendship started in the office hallway.  Every time we bumped into each other, Mark always had a smile.  One day we just started talking in the hall.  Mark decided our subject was interesting, so he suggested we go back to his office and continue.  Just like that, I had a friend. 

I had a strong hunch that Mark was gay.  After all, so was everyone else these days.  So I asked and promptly got the answer I expected.  Mark's candor amused me.  I smiled and told him I was just curious.  Mark replied he couldn't care less if I knew.  I didn't care either.  All that mattered was that Mark was friendly.  Lord knows I needed a friend.  Since Mark was outgoing and easy to relate to, we began to talk about everything under the sun. 

Mark was a small man, perhaps 5' 7".  He had an average build, light brown hair and brown eyes.  Mark was handsome, well-groomed, and extremely outgoing.  Mark was one of those people that everyone liked.  I was glad to meet Mark. 

When I was a boy, on three separate occasions men had come up to me at a public swimming pool and stuck their hand in my bathing suit.  For this and other reasons, I was leery of letting down my guard around gay people.  However, the men at my apartment swimming pool had recently opened my eyes to the good side of the Gay Community.  Mark was so harmless I was not afraid to be alone with him.  Besides, I outweighed him by a hundred pounds. 

Gays will be the first to admit they have their share of predators.  On the other hand, there are a legion of heterosexual men who are predators with women.  In other words, both groups have their evil contingent.  Mark helped me see the positive side of the gay world.  Thanks to Mark, I would discover that most gays are kind-hearted, decent people. 

LOST YEARS:  MAYBE FUJIMOTO WAS RIGHT

My job at Child Welfare was a real eye-opener.  As part of my job investigating child neglect, I had to visit some pretty rough places.  Exposed to the Real World, I was learning all sorts of things about people.   One day I might be in a Hispanic home, the next day in an African-American home, the next day in a blue collar Anglo home.  At night I played volleyball with Jewish men over at the Jewish Community Center.  Then I would come home to my gay apartment complex.  I was getting an education on many ethnic fronts. 

They say sheltered lives prevent people from seeing life as it really is.  No kidding!  My job exposed me to people who were really poor and led undeniably miserable lives.  I thought I had it rough growing up.  And yes, compared to my wealthy classmates at St. John's, I did have it rough.  However, now that I realized what real poverty looked like, much of my own bitterness about growing up poor began to dissipate.  Maybe I didn't have it so bad after all. 

Things had been especially rough with some of my neglect cases lately.  I tried as hard as I could to help these people, but I wasn't getting anywhere.  I was getting fed up with people who took absolutely no responsibility for their problems.  All they did was whine and complain endlessly.  Meanwhile they never lifted a finger to help themselves.  Watching them wallow in their misery, I felt myself getting angry at them for their do-nothing attitude and disgusted with myself for my inability to light a fire under them.

After a particularly frustrating day at work, I finally accepted that I didn't have what it took.  These people refused to do a single thing to help themselves and I was tired of trying to help.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not seem to reach anyone.  In a sense, I felt helpless to accomplish anything of value.  I didn't like that feeling one bit.  Unable to make a difference in their lives, strangely enough the person who did me in was Mother Teresa.  One day I ran across an article that quoted Mother Teresa.

"We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless.  The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty.  We must start in our own hearts to remedy this kind of poverty."

I was very discouraged after reading that story.  I took a good look at myself.  I thought I had a big heart, but I had my limits.  I could not imagine dedicating my life to alleviating poverty and desperation in the slums of Calcutta.  Mother Teresa was obviously a lot further along in her spiritual development than I was.  I had my limits.  I was willing to help to a certain extent, but this was not a rewarding job in the least.  Every day I tried a little bit less.  It hurt to admit, but I really wasn't very good at this job despite good intentions. 

Right now I was awash in guilt for being unwilling to dedicate myself to mankind like Mother Teresa.  I was also ashamed at my lack of results at this job.  I recalled how Dr. Fujimoto kept saying I had too aggressive a personality to heal people.  That thought froze me in my tracks.  Maybe the man was right.  I wanted to help people, but I was ineffective.  Maybe I just wasn't cut out for this line of work.  Since I was prone to depression to begin with, maybe I needed to switch jobs before I got any more depressed. 

I turned to my new friend Mark to cheer me up.  As I got to know him, practically every afternoon I would go visit his office.  Since Mark was the supervisor, he didn't have to answer to anyone.  He would just close the door and sit back in his chair. "What do we talk about today, Rick?"

That was Mark's standard opening line.  Now we would chat.  Mark had a special gift.  He had the most uncanny ability to put people at ease.  In addition to his natural warmth, Mark was a great listener.  

Pretty soon we were talking about everything and anything under the sun.  As our friendship developed, I began to tell Mark about my year at Colorado State.  Bless his heart, Mark was willing to help me sort out the problems still haunting me from my year at CSU, especially the ones involving Vanessa.  It felt so good to finally get those awful stories off my chest. 

One day an odd thing happened.  I had started to talk about all sorts of painful things that had been bottled up much too long.  At the moment I was going on and on about how mad I used to get when Dr. Fujimoto would rattle me or chew me out in front of the class.  

Mark had been listening intently to everything I said.  He didn't interrupt a single time.  Mark put me so much at ease that now I was telling him stuff that absolutely burned inside of me.  I got so angry that for a moment it was like I was back at Colorado State arguing face to face with Fujimoto again.  Here I was ranting and raving at Fujimoto's ghost and Mark never batted an eyelash.

Suddenly I became aware that I had let myself get out of control.  I stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Mark.  How did he do that?  Mark had practically hypnotized me.  What magic did Mark have to draw all this venom out of me?   In that exact moment I realized that Mark possessed the exact people skills that my professors had accused me of lacking.  I stared at Mark for a moment with my mouth open.  Then I shook my head in wonder. 

"What's the matter, Rick?  Why did you stop?"

"Oh, I just realized you are the best listener I have ever met in my life.  You have to be the closest thing to a natural therapist there could possibly be.  If I possessed just one-tenth of your talent, I would probably still be in graduate school.  You have helped me understand the value of someone who cares enough to listen."

Now that I had met Mark, I finally understood where Fujimoto was coming from.  There was no way I could ever develop the listening skills of someone like Mark.  This was exactly what Fujimoto had been trying to tell me... it was not in my nature to sit back and listen.  Considering how much I hated listening to my clients complain, I was beginning to see what Fujimoto meant about my lack of patience.  It irritated me to think maybe Fujimoto was right all along, but lately I had caught myself agreeing with the man on all sorts of things.  Maybe cold-hearted Fujimoto was right all along.  For whatever reason, despite my good intentions, I wasn't wired properly for social work or therapy.  It was painful to admit, but I wasn't cut out for this social work job, was I?  No, probably not.  I was adequate, but definitely lacked some important ingredients.  My heart sank as I accepted that I was a failure at my job.  It seemed like I was a failure at everything I tried. 

My biggest regret was that I had no idea what I was good at.  Since I had no answer to that question, I might as well keep my social work job and keep drifting along till I figured it out.  While I was at it, I might as well keep dancing in the Magic Mirror as well.  

step-together-step, step-together-step...

LOST YEARS:  THE DRIFTER

As the October leaves began to fall, my birthday was around the corner.   This was the one year anniversary of meeting Vanessa.  I thought of Van Morrison's Moondance, our song.  It was hard to believe at this time a year ago the wheels had been set in motion to shatter my life.  I was embarrassed at how cocky and self-confident I had been at this time last year.  Those days were over.  Now I was a sniveling coward who was terrified of any woman with a pretty face.  I should have been over Vanessa by now, but I thought about her all the time. 

Still reeling from the effects of Vanessa's betrayal, I determined she had been lying whenever her lips moved.  It was my tough luck to fall for a dangerous woman at a time when I had virtually no experience with women.  Nietzsche might say that which doesn't kill me makes me stronger, but I wasn't so sure about that.  I hardly felt stronger or wiser for the experience.  To tell the truth, a year had passed and I still had not recovered.  The memory of Vanessa's poison followed me wherever I went.  Due to my preoccupation with the Mistress Book, I asked myself how Jim Deane, master of all things concerning women, would have handled a deceitful woman like Vanessa.  Deane was champion of the Tough Guy approach.  His inherent distrust of women was apparent.

"Men who treat women as equals are asking for trouble.  They say nice guys finish last.  Well, they're right.  Time and again, women mistake kindness for weakness.  Women cannot be equals.  They can only respect a man who is tougher and meaner than they are. 

Sorry, guys, but it goes all the way back to survival of the fittest.  Women refuse to reproduce with a man who can't protect them from dinosaurs or bring home the brontosaurus meat.  No woman has ever fallen for a guy whose best quality is gentleness.  That's what women have girlfriends for.  A man had best acquire some dinosaur-slaying ability or he's going to get left in the sand while the guy with muscles runs off with the gal."

I wanted to tell Deane that 65 million years passed between the death of dinosaurs and the appearance of cave men, but I got his point... nice guys finish last.  I had a long history of finishing in Second Place to the Better Man. 

Train Station Emily, the girl from my Freshman year at Hopkins, had a choice between two young men.  One was on scholarship to college and forced to work countless work-study hours just to pay for his dormitory room and meals.  Another was the son of a Texas oil man with enough money to take her up to New York for a weekend of wining, dining, Broadway plays and romantic walks in Central Park.  It wasn't that tough a choice.

Kansas City Carol spent six months persuading me to transfer from Hopkins back to Rice University in Houston so we could be together.  One week before I drove down to be reunited, she sent me a letter saying she had decided to attend Art School in Kansas City of all places.  I never got the truth behind her strange excuse, but I assume she left me for a guy who lived in Kansas City.

Vanessa had a choice between two young men.  One was a disgraced graduate student with absolutely no future in the Psychology program.  The other was a handsome man who parlayed his star status on the baseball team into the kind of athletic swagger that makes girls swoon.  It wasn't that tough a choice.

Good grief, I had even come in Second to Robbie, the human bowling ball biker guy with tattoos from head to toe.  A skinny, well-curved Hispanic girl named Yolanda had picked him over me.  Obviously it wasn't that tough a choice.  First I lose to oil men, then artists, then athletes, and now bikers.  I could not imagine where this progression would take me next.  Clearly when it came to dinosaur-slaying ability, I didn't have much going for me.  I was a loser, a failure in every important sector of my life.  When it came to attracting a female, what accomplishment could I point to?  Maybe I should tell the next woman I met that I was the darling of a bunch of sex-obsessed gay men who sat by the swimming pool.  That was bound to impress her. 

Awash in a cesspool of self-pity, I went to dance class on the same morning that I was dealing with all this self-doubt brought on by Vanessa's anniversary.  Nothing bothered me more than the continued snobbery of the River Oaks Seven.  Not one of those society matrons ever smiled at me.  Not once!!  Nor would they speak to me, not even to say hello.  For three months, those women had kept their backs to me.  Not a glance, not one small sign of acceptance for Bigfoot, the sub-humanoid Sasquatch who insisted on ruining their perfect Saturdays.  What the hell was wrong with these women?  Their behavior was rude and deplorable.  We were sharing a dance lesson together.  On this floor, we were equals of a sort, you know, 'classmates'.  How hard would it be to act cordial?  How about a smile or a simple moment of eye contact to indicate a shared experience?  Nope.  Not those women.  They refused to acknowledge I even existed.  Those damn women really irritated me.  They had to see I took this class seriously, so why didn't they ease up?

It was Saturday, October 26, two days after my 25th birthday which I had not bothered to celebrate.  I concluded the women ignored me because I wasn't worthy of their attention.  First they had been irritated by my presence.  Then they feared my size and frowning demeanor.  But that fear had been replaced by disdain.  Once they sensed what a failure I was, I had become invisible to them just like I had been invisible at St. John's.  In their minds, I should feel grateful they allowed me to continue.  They could afford to hire a few thugs to beat me off.  As insecure as I was, I took their coldness as an insult.  How did these women ignore someone so effortlessly?  Was 'snobbery' a trait these women learned or was it inherent?  I fantasized over what they said about me behind my back. 

"Oh no, here comes that clumsy Bigfoot boy who keeps tripping over his own feet." 

"Maybe if we gave him money, he would leave."

"Who let that awful homeless person in?"

"Where does that boy get his clothes, Salvation Army?"

"If I have to watch Bigfoot dance one more time, I might get sick." 

They were rich and I was poor.  They were successful and I was a failure.  Since I no doubt descended from vermin, I was not worthy of their attention.  Apparently Chip on the Shoulder decided to take today off because my guard was way down.  Throughout dance class, their cold shoulder treatment reawakened my feelings of inferiority from high school.   In their eyes, I was simply not important enough to bother with.  They became a living reminder for every doubt I ever had about myself back at St. John's.  Truth be told, I wanted to quit this dance project.  Here in late October, I wasn't getting anywhere.  I had been practicing for three solid months and had yet to find the courage to go to a club and ask a girl to dance.  Instead I came to class every Saturday only to realize these women were still far more graceful than I was.  I felt really discouraged, especially since I was so gutless about dancing in public. 

These women did not respect me because they could see right through me.   They sensed I had accomplished nothing.  I was a loser, a nobody.  Right now I had only one goal in life... become a better dancer.  What kind of ridiculous goal was that?  If I ever expected to date the equivalent of a St. John's girl, this dancing idea wasn't going to cut it.  St. John's girls respected advanced degrees, achievement, status, and well-paying jobs, not the mastery of Step-Ball-Change.  Nevertheless, for lack of anything better to do, every night I continued to aimlessly practice in the Magic Mirror.  Right now, dancing was the only positive direction I had going for me.  The odd thing is that without these River Oaks women, I would have quit by now.  This Dance Project was going nowhere.  Those nasty women were the only reason I continued to show up, but I could see it that learning to dance was a waste of time.  In my heart, I knew I was never going to find the guts to ask some girl to dance.  However, I was so determined to prove to the River Oaks Seven that I was their equal that I kept practicing.  How weird was that for motivation? 

One day I was up, next day I was down.  Staying alive, drifting.  Happy Birthday.  I was 25 and going nowhere. 

LOST YEARS:  THREE STRIKES AND YOU'RE OUT

Thank goodness Mark took a liking to me.  Right now Mark was the only thing keeping me from a serious relapse.  Realizing I had some serious issues, he gravitated into Jason's place as my impromptu therapist.  It was unofficial, of course, but Mark enjoyed my stories and let me ramble on.  He became the main reason I did not go off the deep end with my constant self-criticism.  Mark never judged me or criticized me.  Mostly he just listened.  However, whenever I came up for air, Mark might say something to make me think.  Mark was brilliant as he helped me work through my problems with Vanessa.  Every time I would finish a story, Mark would say, "Well, Rick, knowing what you know now, how would you handle the situation if it came up again?" 

I hated Mark every time he said that!!  If I had known what to do, I would have done it the first time.  But I saw his point, so I tried to imagine a better response.  One year had passed since Vanessa's deceit.  Knowing what I knew now, if I could go back and try again, I asked myself what would I have done.  It was difficult to face those questions because it dredged up painful memories and made me feel anxious all over again.  But I did it because Mark was willing to go there with me.  One day I complained to Mark about Vanessa's constant excuses which of course were all lies.   Unfortunately, she was good at it.  Vanessa never made an overt mistake.  Whenever she needed to ditch me to go see Kenny, Vanessa usually said something plausible. 

"What do you think, Mark?  Should I have confronted Vanessa about her constant change of plans?  I mean, everyone changes their plans occasionally."

"First of all, I think you need to quit beating yourself up all the time.  Some people lie so often, they become very good at it.  There is no reason why you have to hate yourself for being fooled in the beginning.  Your mistake was continuing to stay silent once you became suspicious."

"I am not sure I understand.  How was I supposed to give voice to my suspicions over something as harmless as changing one's plans?"

"That's a good question because any single one of her excuses standing alone was probably no big deal.  That is why you need to learn to take a step back and look for patterns in someone's behavior.  I have a favorite saying, 'Burn me once, shame on you, burn me twice, shame on me'.  

"What does that mean?"

"Aren't you a basketball player?"

"Yeah, but so what?"

"What is the first thing you do when you meet a new player?"

"I figure out which hand he shoots with."

"And how do you do that?"

"Ordinarily I watch ahead of time, but sometimes I don't have that chance.  After the guy goes past me a few times, I know enough to guard his strong hand."

"Okay, that's my point.  You don't feel guilty the first time the guy burns you because you are learning, but if he does it a second time, it's your own fault.  Vanessa was able to fool you because you were inexperienced.  You simply did not know what you were up against.   All right, you know Vanessa's moves now.  So how would you prevent her from fooling you again?" 

"Well, Mark, that is my biggest fear, getting walked on again.  I guess the next time some girl says something that doesn't feel right, I should ask a couple of questions and see what her reaction is.  If she seems evasive, then maybe ask a couple more questions."

Mark nodded agreement.  "Good for you, Rick, you're catching on.  I think you are starting to learn how to play the game."

"That remains to be seen.  Vanessa got away with murder.  When her ex-boyfriend Kenny re-entered the picture, Vanessa had to lie to keep both of us unaware of the other's presence.  Vanessa became reluctant to commit to dates.  Instead she would appear out of nowhere and of course I would drop what I was doing to accept whatever crumb she would throw me.  Whenever Vanessa said something dubious, I accepted her excuses at face value rather than ask inconvenient questions.  I tried to be understanding rather than say what I was really thinking.  I often suspected something was wrong, but I was scared to confront her.  There was some part of me that feared I would lose her completely if I made a nuisance of myself.  So I kept my mouth shut and hung on for dear life."

Mark asked, "And what message do you think that sent to Vanessa?"

"I suppose she realized she could lie any time she wanted and I would stick around anyway."

Mark nodded.  "That is what I would have concluded too.  What do you suppose would have happened if you had confronted her?"

I rubbed my jaw and thought about it. 

"I think I would have lost her sooner.  I think Kenny had the inside track, so I believed if I stood up for myself, Vanessa would have been forced to cut her losses.  After all, she was leaving town anyway.  Why try to salvage something that was going to end soon anyway?"

"And if you were to do it again?"

"Our relationship seemed so fragile, I guess I let her do what she wanted.  I was so insecure that I believed I would never find another woman as fascinating and as beautiful as she was.  My self-esteem was so low that I clung to her."

"Give me an example of what you would do differently."

"I never confronted her to explain why she changed her plans so frequently.  Over Thanksgiving she changed her plans three times in three days.   One day we were supposed to visit the Rocky Mountains.  Then she said she was going to drive to Iowa to see her grandmother.  Then on Friday she claimed she had spent the day with some bizarre creature named Teresa the Lesbian.  I was so stupid I didn't realize Vanessa had forgotten her previous excuse about Iowa, so she had to use Teresa, her standard excuse when she could think of something better."

"Who is Teresa the Lesbian??"

I started to laugh in spite of my pain.  The story of Teresa was so pathetic I couldn't help myself. 

"Oh my gosh, Mark, Teresa the Lesbian was Vanessa's stock excuse for practically every imaginable last-minute change of plans.  Although her Teresa excuses made little sense, I never challenged her.  Hey, I have a question.  Are lesbian woman unusually uncomfortable around straight men?"

Mark smiled.  "Not that I know of.  I suppose it's possible in rare cases, but unless a man is rude, hostile or condescending, I can't imagine what difference it would make.  Lesbians have to learn to get along with the straight world just like the men do.  Personally, I would have told Vanessa that was hogwash and asked her to come up with a better excuse."

I turned crimson with shame.  "Gee, Mark, you are so right.  What was wrong with me?  Why didn't I speak up?"

Mark smiled at me.  "Your mistake, Rick, is that you were a rookie.  Your rookie mistake was to ignore that ever-present pain in your gut.  I gather you have spent your life trying to use your brains to solve every problem.  Instead of analyzing everything, perhaps you should learn to pay better attention to your feelings.  I believe that gut feelings usually give out a warning signal long before we actually understand what is really going on.  Listen to your feelings!"

"How do I know my feelings are right?  Don't people ever guess wrong?"

"We all guess wrong sometimes.  So definitely keep track of the hits and misses.  But it sounds to me like you continued to accept Vanessa's word on things even though your guts were screaming something was wrong.  In my opinion, if you wait for the details to surface, by the time you learn the truth, the damage is done.  Instincts are the soul's early warning system.  You would not have gotten hurt nearly as much if you had not overridden your own natural defense warnings against deceit." 

"I see your point.  Whenever I thought Vanessa was lying, a simple cross-examination might have forced her to admit the truth.  My mistake was failing to protest."

"Okay, Rick, tell me what you would do now if you had another shot." 

"I would follow my instincts like you suggest.  I would challenge her any time I got that funny feeling.  I would not wait until things got so badly out of control." 

"Yes, that sounds good."

I looked at Mark.  "You know what, Mark, when all these strange things started to happen, I did not understand what was going on.  I had no previous experience with lying or cheating in my life.  How do you know when a person is lying?"

"I have a rule.  I call it my 'Three Strikes Technique'.  In my book, one time is an incident, two times is a coincidence, and three times is a pattern.  I usually let the first suspicious thing pass, but I raise an eyebrow.  If another curious event ensues, I activate my alert system and stay vigilant for a third event.  If there is a third event, my patience runs out.  That is when I begin the cross-examination.  If something that doesn't seem right happens three times within a relatively short period, this is a very dangerous sign.  Don't ever ignore it." 

I nodded my head.  "So when Vanessa changed her Thanksgiving plans three times, I should have said something."

Mark smiled.  "Absolutely.  Had you done that, I think you would have exposed her lies."

"But that would have pushed her in a corner and forced her to break up with me.  So I would have lost Vanessa either way."

"Yes.  But at least you could have salvaged some of your dignity."

Ouch.  That really hurt. 

"What about trust, Mark?  Aren't we supposed to trust the one we love?"

"I don't believe in blind love.  Your mistake was to extend trust blindly.  I think you risked too much early in the game.  Your mistake was to let your feelings go too far for this girl without enough collateral commitment on her part.  You always have to take some risks when your heart is concerned, but that doesn't mean you have to gamble foolishly.  From now on, I would learn to check out every story in the beginning.  Next time, make the woman earn your trust.  Don't just hand it to her."

I saw Mark's point.  Vanessa had long passed the Three Strikes limit, but I kept hanging on out of desperation.  Mark's Three Strikes suggestion made a world of sense to me.  That would become a piece of advice that I would live by from now on.  In the meantime, I owed Mark a lot.  Mark was helping me regain my sanity.