On the day I was hired for my Child Welfare job in July 1974, the main office was located on Branard Street in the Montrose area.  As I left the office, I spotted a small apartment complex two blocks away with a 'for rent' sign.  Incorrectly assuming I would be working at the same building where I had been interviewed, I parked the car.  Ten minutes later I had my new home.   

According to Jim Deane, an excellent way to meet girls is to move into an apartment project which caters to singles.  Good idea, but the Mistress Book did not appear until until one week after moved in.  Now that I had a lease, I was stuck here.  One week later, I ended up in the arms of Lynn, the drag queen who lived down the street.  One week after that, Disco Dave suggested I join him for lunch at his Montrose apartment.  Dave and Lynn were my first clue that Houston's Montrose area had undergone a major transformation since my high school days. 

After I moved in, I kept wondering where the girls were hiding.  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 apartment project was gay.  My surrounding neighborhood was gay.  My dance teacher was gay.  A large portion of the Child Welfare agency was gay.  My mind did major somersaults adjusting to this startling new reality.  I was a straight man living in Gay Paradise.

Would my life have been different if I had moved into an apartment project populated with single women?  Oh my gosh, absolutely.  By the way, these were the Seventies.  According to rumors, there was a Sexual Revolution going on out there.  Was that true?  Beats me, how would I know?  I was the Solitary Man.  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, mailbox, hot tub, or swimming pool.  Who knows, maybe I would trip and some girl would ask if I was okay.  Maybe the girl in the apartment next to mine would be friendly.  Perhaps I would meet a girl at the sand volleyball court.  I imagine Monday Night football in the clubhouse or Saturday Night Beer Bust by the pool might have led to something. 

Here is my point.  Although I did not know it at the time, I was actually a reasonably attractive young man.  If the cat got my tongue as it usually did in those days, eventually some woman would have taken the initiative and spoken to me first.  Alas, such was not to be.

Thanks to where I lived, I had no women as neighbors.  There were no single women where I worked.  I did not go to church, a good spot to meet young ladies.  Given that my limited imagination could not think of any other place to look other than bars, my only option was to figure out how to hustle women who more than likely would have their guard up.  Given my precarious state of mind, that bold maneuver 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.  How would I know what we had in common if I could not even force myself to approach her in the first place? 

At a singles apartment project, this would not have been an issue because we automatically had our living location in common.  By the laws of random encounter, I have to believe I would smile at some girl and she might smile back.  Even someone as hopeless as me would have found a way to speak to this woman after the 27th time we passed by.

Now that I had cut my hair, I looked okay.  In fact, if I took my glasses off and remembered to smile, I looked good enough for some girl to take a chance on me.  With the slightest indication of interest on her 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.  You have no idea how much I wanted to kick myself.  Stupid me, I had just moved into the only place in Houston where meeting single women was impossible.  This was 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 and Lesbians.  This pathetic situation was further proof that I must be cursed when it came to women.  Oh, by the way, there's something I forgot to mention.  Since every man who lived in Montrose was gay, the men at my apartment project assumed I must be gay too. 

Hey, I promised you would be entertained.  And it gets better!

My strange situation led to a very bizarre development.  I would guess there were 35 or so gay men living in 28 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, chat and flirt. 

In order for me to get from the parking lot to my ground level 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 speculate as I went by.  This lack of communication is the reason 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 the swimming pool crowd realized I did not bite, they got friendlier.  Every day after work the gay men sitting by the swimming pool would say hello.  An hour later I would be greeted again when I left for basketball or volleyball.  If the weather was nice, the men would sit outside till late in the evening.  Now I would be greeted a third time when I returned from a night of sports.

No matter what time I walked by, 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 figured out that they were gay, what was there to talk about?  However, one Friday in early September I changed my mind.  I played basketball and volleyball at the local Jewish Community Center.  The JCC was closed on Friday nights, so sports were not an option.  With nothing to do after work, one Friday night I accepted their offer to join them.  I went inside to change, then came back out in shorts and a tee-shirt.  I located a folding chair and made myself comfortable by the pool.

Someone handed me a beer and the introductions began.  Given my past history of being molested and propositioned, one can see why I had a bad attitude.  Recent adventures with Dave and Lynn put me even further on guard.  On the other hand, I had met several gay men at my social work job who were friendly.  Tonight I decided to keep an open mind.  I was a good 10 to 20 years younger than the dozen men I joined at the pool.  Most of them were pudgy, middle-aged guys whose idea of exercise was hoisting a drink.  That made them less threatening.  Unlike the monsters who molested me as a boy, they seemed harmless enough.  Besides, what did I have to fear?  I was a powerful young man, tall and husky from years of sports and weight lifting.  After a couple beers, I realized these men were good-natured and gentle, so I relaxed a little.  I soon found myself enjoying their company.  Listening to their banter and jokes, this was my first-ever conversation with gay men that went beyond superficial chatter.  The men were fun to be around due to the outrageous things that came out of their mouths.  Practically every sentence included an insult, a joke or a sexual innuendo. 

"You look like a Boy Scout.  Would you like to practice tying your knots on me?"

"Do you believe in love at first sight or do I need to walk by a second time?"

"Jack be nimble, jack be quick, you promised a candlestick, I got a toothpick."

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

"You make me breathless, kiss me before I die!"

"I was going to tell you a story about my penis, but it's too long."

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.  However, I never could have imagined where this would lead next.

THE PRIZE

I did not talk to these men very often.  Mostly on Friday night, maybe an occasional Saturday afternoon after I came home from morning class with Disco Dave and the enchanting River Oaks women.  Oddly enough, despite their obvious curiosity, none of the gay men ever hit on me.  This surprised because I knew from college that gay men are very aggressive.  I think these men hesitated because I was their neighbor.  Or maybe because I was big enough to snap them in half.  Unfortunately, my grace period ended abruptly.  Just when my life could not get any weirder, it got weirder.  One night I made an outrageous discovery.  Over one too many pink martinis, a nebbish guy named Melvin, 50, let a giant secret slip.  Melvin was chatting with the guy next to him when I overheard him refer to 'The Prize'.  Instantly, the other four men glanced at me with worried looks.  Instantly suspicious, I asked, "Uh, Melvin, what is The Prize?"

Melvin looked sheepishly at his friends who in turn shot darts at him for opening his big mouth.  Watching Melvin squirm, I suddenly had an inkling.  However, I wanted to be sure.   Melvin was a small Danny Devito sort of guy who was easy to bully, so I put the squeeze on.  At first he was reluctant to confess, so I added more pressure.  "Come on, Melvin, what is the Prize?  Or should I ask who is the Prize?"

Melvin turned red 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 might be 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 laps of penitence around the pool, the other men grinned and nodded.  In fact, now that the cat was out of the bag, the men were delighted to discuss the issue.  Apparently 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 were surprised at how choosy I had been so far.  Or how discrete I had been.  So far I had not been linked with anyone.  As a result, my sexuality was a frequent item of discussion.  In addition, every man in the complex made it a habit to keep an eye on my door.  It wasn't difficult.  The men could see my door from their swimming pool perch.  One night their dedicated watch paid off.  I had a male visitor.  I had met Gabriel at a nearby church which sponsored a men's volleyball league.  Looking to make a friend, I 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 my rejection well enough.  He looked embarrassed, so I reassured him no harm done.  After he left, I sat there wondering why I had charisma with men but not women.  All I had to do was open the door.  One whistle and a dozen men would come panting.  I recalled the classic Mae West line.  "Ten men knocking at my door?  Forget it, I'm really tired.  Be sure to send one home."

For the record, although I admit I had some confusion on the issue, I am straight.  So where did the confusion come from?  My years at Hopkins left me wondering why so many gay men approached me in the library.  Did they know something I didn't know?  And why were women always so quick to dismiss me?  Did these women know something I didn't know?  Fortunately, once that strange experience with Drag Queen Lynn confirmed I was not interested in sex with men, I stopped worrying about it.  As a result, the swimming pool men mistook my aloof attitude as being coy.  Did that quell their ardor?  Unfortunately, no.  They decided I was playing hard to get and that increased their curiosity.  Any ordinary gay man would have surrendered his virtue long ago.  Monogamy was unheard of.  These were the days when gay men had sex at the drop of a hat.  I generalize of course, but gay men loved variety so much they weren't picky.  They did not need a name or a reason.  Romance was unnecessary, any place was good enough.  If the man they wanted was not available, ask the one next to him.  I had the Hopkins library to thank for that insight.

Melvin finally had the courage to return from the swimming pool.  When he realized we were still discussing The Prize, Melvin grinned.  "Well, Rick, it is time to answer the burning question."

I glared at him with a combination of suspicion and amusement.  "And what might that question be?"

"Who was that tall, dark and handsome man who visited your apartment the other night?  Is he your lover?"

I didn't see that coming, so I turned red.  "Uh no, Melvin, sorry to disappoint you, but Gabriel is just a friend from volleyball."

People hear what they want to hear.  Melvin didn't believe a word.  Grinning with delight, Melvin replied, "Oh, this is good news.  I am so thrilled to know you are still available.   Sometimes I can't sleep at night knowing you are all alone in your apartment." 

"You don't need to worry, Melvin.  My gun sleeps right under my pillow.  Whenever I get lonely, I fondle it."

I didn't own a gun, but it was only thing I could think of on short notice to discourage him.  Melvin turned beet red as the other men gave him a hard time.  When the fuss died down, Melvin continued.  "Rick, you need to put us out of our misery.  We can't bear the suspense.  If it isn't me, then who is it?  Have you made your mind up yet?  Who will win The Prize?"

That got their attention.  Five sets of eyes stared intently awaiting my answer.  I was astonished at Melvin's candor.  These guys were so matter-of-fact in their curiosity that my jaw dropped open.  I guess since they assumed I was gay, they had no idea I might take offense.  Before I could answer, Henry, the only good-looking man present, mentioned he was very well hung.  Oh really?  I took this as a less than subtle hint.  Stunned by this strange development, it took a moment to regain my equilibrium.

When I finally found my voice, I said, "Sorry, guys, but I'm straight.  I prefer women, so you're all out of luck."

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

"No, Melvin, I'm straight.  There must be something wrong with me.  I'm only interested in women."

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

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

"No one told me.  My guess is that Lillie, the manager, assumed I was gay.  It is all just an accident." 

Which was true.  It was just an accident.  Or was it?  At that moment, I went on supernatural alert.  Was I led to this place for some reason?  I had to admit this was all very weird, just like having those awful River Oaks women in dance class was weird.

Now Henry spoke up.  "An accident, eh?  You can call it whatever you want, but right now you have a giant target on your back."

That cracked everyone up.  To these guys, the presence of a straight man in this den of iniquity was the funniest thing that ever happened.  A straight guy living in a gay apartment complex, who would have ever thought?  Hahaha!  Listening to their raucous laughter, I 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.  None of them believed me.  Gay men are convinced that every man has a homosexual bone in there somewhere whether they know it or not.  Three good examples would be Lynn, Disco Dave and Gabriel.  All three men hit on me without any signal that I was interested.  As things stood here at the the swimming pool, my admirers tacitly agreed it was only a matter of time till I gave in.  They believed any man could be persuaded to expand his horizons under the right circumstances.  With the right combination of whiskey, frisky and woo, sooner or later my resistance would disappear and someone would get lucky.  The contenders loved the challenge.  Who would win The Prize?  They 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 these men ever seemed to talk about.  Playing hard to get, I became a rock star, a virgin of sorts, a rare and valued commodity.  Forgive my lack of modesty, but from this point on the men could not get enough of me.  I became the most coveted object in this small world we inhabited.  The thought of scoring with the so-called straight guy was a topic of neverending mirth and merriment. 

THE QUEEN OF SHEBA

Despite my strong disgust, I decided to satisfy my curiosity.  "I thought 'Queen' was a derogatory term for a gay man who is overly flamboyant."

"There are all kinds of Queens.  Drag queens, nelly queens, butch queens, mean queens, biker queens.  The Queen of Sheba is completely different.  He is the Beauty Queen, the man who rises above the rest.  The Queen of Sheba is the ultimate conquest, 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 a lot of gay men who cannot stand effeminate men.  They want the same guys the women want, big, strong, masculine guys 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."

I could not believe what I was hearing.  No one had ever referred to me as 'virile'.  Obviously Melvin did not know I had flunked my 'Tough Guy' test with Yolanda.  However, surrounded by 35 sex-crazed gay men, I was 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 for their sexual fantasies as Marilyn was to vast hordes of army men. 

LEARNING TO TALK DIRTY

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 Siberia with a legion of horny men fawning over me.  The irony was beyond comprehension.  To gay men, I was The Prize, to women I was the proverbial Flop with Chicks.  Here in early October, I had just begun Year Eleven of my Epic Losing Streak with no end in sight.  Words cannot adequately describe just how utterly bewildered I felt.  I could not find my way to First Base with a girl if my life depended on it, yet I was the most desired man in this gay community.  My situation was not only absurd, it was also quite pathetic.  And yet, to my surprise there was an unexpected Silver Lining.

How does someone make a sassy kid with a big mouth become a mute?  Scathing criticism.  During my Interviewing class, Dr. Fujimoto beat me into submission.  It is said that more men get hung by their tongue than their necks.  If anyone should know, it's me. 

Fujimoto's endless harangues over my lack of the proper 'therapeutic personality' did a serious number on my head.  Once I realized my big mouth was about to get me thrown out of the program, I stopped speaking.  Responding to accusations that I had an aggressive personality, I tried to prove that I could be a gentle person and a quiet listener.  For the final month of the class I did everything in my power to suppress my tendency to speak my mind.  I became a dull, uninspired robot who made sure to hesitate before speaking lest I further infuriate Fujimoto.  Unfortunately, it did no good, I got thrown out anyway.  Fujimoto was not fooled for a moment.  He knew my silenced tongue 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.  Vanessa's deceit contributed mightily.  Fearful she would dump me if I questioned her lies, I bit my tongue around her too.  I never regained my voice.  

On my last day at Colorado State, Fujimoto demanded I see him for an Exit Interview.  The moment I sat down, Fujimoto got right to work.  He began by reminding me I had too aggressive a personality to be a therapist. 

"You are understandably bitter because you tried as hard as you could and came up short.  I could defend my decision at length, but I doubt seriously you would find my explanation satisfying.  So let me be brief.  In my opinion, Therapy is not a profession you are suited for.  I have made the determination that you are a square peg trying to fit a round hole.  This is a trite cliché, of course, but it is an analogy which fits my observation precisely.  I am sorry your time here has been bittersweet."

It took a long time, but the day would come when I would accept that Fujimoto was probably right.  Deep down, I knew I did not possess the proper personality to be a therapist.  I would rather talk than listen.  Unfortunately, my voice disappeared after Fujimoto performed his lobotomy on my self-confidence.  In the process of altering my personality to conform to Fujimoto's vision of the passive, receptive listener, I paid a far larger price than I realized.  Along the way I forgot how to speak, a tendency which regrettably followed me to Houston. 

I had no business living here at the Branard Apartments, I think we can all agree on that.  However, they say the Lord works in mysterious ways.  Pertinent to our story, maybe there was a purpose for me being here.  Why couldn't I meet women?  Because I refused to approach a woman I did not know.  And what was my excuse?  Because I would not know the first thing to say.  Gay Siberia solved that problem by restoring my voice. 

I was being exposed to gay men who had no filters whatsoever.  I could not believe the things that came out of their mouths.  Nothing was sacred to these guys.  Gay humor revolves around the art of the insult.  These men loved to put each other down, the more sarcastic, the better.  There were not many social skills that came naturally to me, but sarcasm I could do.  I was the master of saying the exact opposite of what I meant.  I not only liked gay banter, I could give as well as take.  I stumbled at first as my voice came back to life, but 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.  Frequently I was the one who made them laugh.  Tickled by my willingness to participate, these guys could not get enough of me.  I loved matching wits.  Fielding their zingers kept me on my toes.  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 of the riposte. 

There is something known as the perfect squelch.  My problem is that I could never think of the perfect thing to say in time for it to make a difference.  But I did have the ability to memorize, so I laid a trap for Melvin. 

"Hey, Melvin, I know what they should put on your gravestone."

That got everyone's attention.  Melvin took the bait.  "What would it say??"

“I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I'm under the table,
after four I'm under my host.”

Of course Melvin blushed as everyone gave him a hard time, but he loved the attention.  Strange as it might seem, it was goofy moments like this that helped me become part of their group in addition to my position as the reigning sex symbol.  This is how I learned about a world I previously knew nothing about.  In one month, I learned more about talking dirty than all my previous 24 years combined.  An odd thought crossed my mind.  If I could talk so freely with these men, maybe I could learn how to talk freely to women as well.  Maybe less crude, of course.  In the meantime, I was learning fast.  These gay men were real pros at flirting, flattery, teasing, seducing.  Receptive to any coaching I could get, I made sure to take notes.  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.  There was constant sex talk and lots of boasting about sexual conquests numbering in the millions.  Another favorite topic was the enormous length of their penises.

"Three 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?  The three men whipped out their dicks and laid them on the bar.  Just then a gay guy walked in.  He did a double-take and screamed, 'Bud Lite and I'll take the buffet!!'"

Say what you will about my walk on the wild side, I hung around because I could tell these men were coaxing me out of my shell.  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 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 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 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 too afraid to try? 

PLAYING THE GAME

A week passed.  I was starting to feel the pressure of being The Prize.  No, I'm not talking about the fear of giving in.  The more I was around these men, the more I realized how little interest I had.  What I resented was the constant need to parry their come-ons.  Should I tell these guys to knock it off or I should continue to tolerate their veiled invitations?  To be honest, I was flattered by the attention, so I decided it was easier to be a good sport and play along.  Unfortunately, the stakes were raised due to some bad luck.  One morning 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??"

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

Chandler took one step inside.  "Oh my, it is so beautiful.  And such an interesting choice of furniture." 

Chandler smiled innocently enough and 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 at night, so I should have been suspicious.  When I heard the whistles, I should have kept walking.  Nevertheless, as always, I dutifully stopped to chat and pass inspection.  Big mistake. 

This was the night I learned that shooting pool is a popular metaphor for sexual activity in the gay world. 

"If you want to find my balls, just look in my side pocket."

"Is that a pool cue or are you just happy to see me?"

"You can put your pool stick anywhere you want ."

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

Things were already awkward when someone crossed the line.  Some jerk called me a 'Ball Buster'.  This was a reference to a tease who doesn't please, all yak and no sack.  I didn't appreciate that crack and felt my anger rise.  I could see they were testing me, so it was time to make a quick getaway before I said something I might regret.   

"Sorry, guys, you have me all worked up with your clever lines.  Time for a cold shower." 

Feeling threatened, I left.  I groaned over this new development.  I had just opened the door to a new, more aggressive line of teasing.  Sure enough, the pool table incident seemed to energize the gang.  For the next week, each night I came home I was given the kind of cat-calls generally reserved for male strippers.  Or so I supposed.  I had never been to a gay bar and didn't intend to start now.  For that matter, why bother?  I'd probably end up meeting these same guys anyway.

Not long after Chandler noticed my pool table, I returned from a night of volleyball all hot and sweaty in my gym clothes.  Thanks to daylight savings time, there was still a bit of twilight left.  Due to a balmy, pleasant October evening with a nice breeze, a big crowd was gathered by the pool.  The gang saw me coming and raised their glasses in salute to The Prize.  Oh great, here we go again. 

Melvin took one look at my clinging tee-shirt and whistled.

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

The dozen men at the pool were all shirtless, so what was stopping me?  I had always been modest by nature and that has never changed.  But for that one moment in time, 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 came from these sex-crazed, but ultimately harmless men.  I suddenly understood why women enter wet tee-shirt contests... if you got it, flaunt it.  I was embarrassed to admit, but maybe I was a tease after all. 

"You guys call me a tease all the time and I am getting a little tired of it.  Tell you what.  I'll make a deal with you.  If I take off my shirt, will you men 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!"

I gave them a skeptical look.  "How can I trust you?  You men have such terrible reputations."

"For you, we would behave.  You are The Prize, we are your humble admirers.  If you will remove your shirt, we will bestow with more adulation than you ever imagined."

That did it.  I turned my back to take off my shirt, then faced the men to pose.  They went nuts, absolutely nuts.  I could not shut them up, especially Melvin, my greatest admirer.

"You are a Greek God!  You are David in the flesh!  Michelangelo surely had you in mind!"

Seeing the others agree, I smiled.  Hmm, not bad.  Maybe I should take my shirt off more often.  At this point, the calls came for me to, uh, go a little further.  I don't know what came over me, but the feeling was probably similar to those girls on the balconies at Mardi Gras who choose to please their adoring masses.  I guess flattery does get you somewhere. 

Standing at the swimming pool where all could see, I slowly took off one shoe, then the other.  I made direct eye contact the entire time and kept a bemused smile.  Next came the socks.  I laughed because the men were absolutely mesmerized.  I only wished I had more clothing to tease them with.  All I had left were my gym shorts.  Standing there with hands on my hips in defiance, they clapped and cheered.  The applause was deafening complete with pleas and demands to continue. 

Melvin screamed, "Don't stop now!  Satisfy us with your glory.  We all have our rulers out!"

I drew the line at removing my gym shorts.  But the cheering and jeering didn't stop.  As they egged me on, something inside me snapped.  Like I said, ordinarily I am extremely modest about my body.  But not tonight.  It was getting pretty dark, so I threw caution to the winds.  After jumping in the water, I removed my gym shorts, then placed them on the side of the pool.  The men erupted with laughter and clapping.  To wolf whistles and cat calls, I did my best Esther Williams impersonation and began to dog paddle around the pool. 

In the gloom of the October evening, I doubt seriously they could see much.  I didn't really care one way or the other.  All I can say is that something had come over me and I was in a very strange mood.  As I swam my first lap, the men went absolutely nuts.  I mean it.  Keep in mind they were already drunk, so it didn't take much to light their fire.  The men went stark raving mad.  They thought this was the funniest, most exciting thing in ages.  With The Prize stripped naked before their very eyes, my popularity was off the charts. 

I had no idea what possessed me to do this.  This was highly out of character.  I had gone streaking one night back at Colorado State at 2 am.  It was the fad at the time, so I wanted to try it.  It turned out to be no big deal.  How much courage does it take to run naked at night with no one looking?  However, this time I had a rabid audience and the motives for my unexpected exhibition had me baffled.  I guess 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 dark from thirty feet away, more power to them.  At least they had the courtesy to stay in their seats.  I suppose they could have jumped in.  Then what? 

As I paddled around the pool to wild applause, at the far end I noticed a figure sitting alone in the darkness.  As I drew closer, I saw a dark-haired Hispanic woman sipping a glass of wine.  She was staring directly at me.  I had never seen this woman before.  Hidden in the dark, I assumed she had been watching the hoopla from afar.  I was embarrassed when I saw the wide-eyed expression on her face.  Curious about her, I decided to take a second lap.  On the next trip around, she was still staring intently.  This time I smiled and waved.  In response, she raised her glass as I swam by.

Two laps were enough.  I was ready to get out, but someone had removed my gym shorts from the pool's edge.  They probably hoped I would climb out bare naked.  Forget that.  Not with these sex fiends.  I grabbed a nearby towel in case they refused to hand over the shorts.  "Okay, guys, you got your show, now give me back my shorts.  Melvin, I know you did it.  If you wish to live, hand them over."

With a big grin, Melvin threw them to me.  Still in the water, I put my gym shorts back on, then got out of the pool.  I used the confiscated towel to dry off, 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 The Prize, hip hip hooray!" 

I tried to stay cool, but it didn't work.  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.  My life had taken a severe turn for the worse about this time a year ago.  Maybe my luck was about to change.

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

"Hello.  I'm Gloria.  That was quite a show you put on.  Do you do that every night?"  

The crowd hushed.  They wanted to hear this.  Meanwhile my heart beat rapidly.  Who is this woman?  Where does she find the nerve to make a pass at me with all these men watching?  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 care less what they thought.  Now I was unable to respond to a woman who had made the first move.  It made no sense why I was so tongue-tied around this woman, but obviously my Phobia had interfered.  Based on her smirk, the woman was curious at me.  I had to say something.  Unable to muster anything clever to say, I finally stuttered, "Uh, do you live here?  Or are you just visiting?"

"I live in Apartment 16."  Gloria pointed directly to her apartment on the second floor just in case I was too stupid to count.  "And what is your name?"

"Rick."

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

Still paralyzed, the best I could do was nod.  Gloria discretely touched my hand with one fingernail, then left.  She was so smooth I am not sure anyone noticed.  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, then turned to see if the men had noticed.  Are you kidding?  Of course they noticed!  This was a night to remember.  They were all grinning at me over Gloria's visit.  Sure enough, the razzing came fast and furious.  "Hey, Rick, there's your big chance.  You need to hit that hard before she changes her mind!"

"Knock it off, guys, she was just being polite, something you wouldn't understand.  Besides, that woman is twice my age, forget it."

Of course I was lying through my teeth.  I was so rattled by the potential implication of Gloria's visit, the last thing I needed was for these guys to know my intentions.  I put on a poker face and prayed they could not read my mind.  I think my act worked.  The razzing continued for a while, but the conversation eventually shifted.  Hoping to avoid suspicion, I made certain to put in 20 minutes after Gloria's departure.  It was getting late, 10:30 or so.  Most of these guys had jobs, so one by one the party broke up.  When there were just a few men remaining, I bade farewell and went to my apartment.  As I showered, I thought about Gloria.  I had the distinct impression her visit had been an invitation.  With all those men milling about, she had been tactful, but her smile was electric nonetheless.  And when she touched my hand, I nearly jumped out of my skin.  What should I do?  Gloria was twice my age, maybe 50, maybe a little younger.  But who cares about her age?  Gloria was a serious babe, curved to perfection.  That was all that mattered.  I wanted her, but since she was a complete stranger, I was taking a real chance here.  Do I dare??  The moment I dried off, I decided to act on my hunch.  With my heart in my throat, I worried I would get flustered and be unable to speak.  So I wrote down an opening line to say if she answered the door, then repeated it several times. 

Around 11 pm I opened my door to look around.  I was so damn nervous!  Checking to make sure there were no men at the pool to spy on me, the coast was clear.  I was so nervous I nearly tripped as I climbed the stairs.  This was by far the boldest move I had ever made towards a woman, even bolder than propositioning Yolanda.  I was about to invade the privacy of a woman who was much older than me and a complete stranger.  And what was my biggest fear in life?  Rejection from an attractive 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 open the door.

"Hi, Gloria, I was wondering if you would like some company." 

Gloria did not say a word.  She just stood there sizing me up with a blank expression.  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 this balcony and die young.  I could not take another rejection!

Five seconds passed.  She stared at me expressionless.  10 seconds, 12 seconds.  12 seconds is a long time.  One chimpanzee, two chimpanzee, three chimpanzee, the longest 12 seconds of my life.  Full of panic, did I misread her signals?  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?  Just then Gloria took a small step back to open the door wider.  When she smiled imperceptibly, my knees buckled with relief.  At last!

"Please come in.  After all that swimming, I am surprised you found the strength to visit.  Would you like a glass of wine?"

Later as we spoke 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?  All I did was say hello."

"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.  It was good to have a woman in my arms again.  Maybe there was hope for me after all.