LOST YEARS: the mistress book
 

The Mistress Book promised to teach a man how to find a Mistress and keep her on his own terms.  Considering my miserable track record, this was an impressive sales pitch.  A cursory glance through the book revealed the spirit of a man who was very bitter towards women.  Somewhere along the line his heart went cold.  Love was for suckers; he would dedicate his life to conquest.  And so he did if his statistics can be believed. 

As for me, I was reeling from the pain of recent betrayal, so I had a clear idea where the author was coming from.  Fortunately, my cynicism was not quite as dark as his.  I still believed there was hope for True Love.  Turned off by the author's misogyny, I went to place the book on the shelf.  Just then, I wondered what year the book was written.

The page I turned to said, "This book is dedicated to Vanessa.  Who's sorry now?"

Oh my God...

The song immediately began to play in my head.  Solitary Man.  How could I ever forget the opening line to this song?   

"Linda was mine till the time that I found her.  Holding Jim, loving him.  Then Sue came along, loved me strong.  Me and Sue, that guy too."

Me and Vanessa, that guy too...

I assumed God wanted me to read this book, so I got to work.  It did not take long to conclude that 'Jim Deane' was a pseudonym.  Deane said some incredibly demeaning things.  His bitter words on how to dominate women would have gotten him lynched if he had been foolish enough to use his true identity.  However, although his cynical attitude towards women did not sit well with me, I needed coaching in the worst possible way.  Besides, this book had God's fingerprints on it.  So I skipped the parts that made me wince and combed the book for any suggestion that might solve my problem. 

To my relief, I found exactly what I was looking for.  Jim Deane said women have been attracted to excellence since the dawn of time.  As a result, the number one principle in meeting women is to let them see a man in the spot where he looks his best.  Mick Jagger was a good example.  Jagger was not exactly a pretty boy who probably got ignored a lot.  Put his pale, scrawny body on Miami Beach without his reputation and Jagger wouldn't rate a second look.  Put him up on a stage and let him strut, much different story. 

Deane's suggestion was to identify the area in a man's life where he not only looks good, but women can see him in action.  And be good to the point of Excellence!  I nodded with approval.  That made sense.  What good does it do to sing in the shower?  Better to sing on stage.  And sing well. 

There was a major problem with Deane's suggestion.  I racked my brains, but the only areas where I excelled were sports and education.  They both struck me as Dead Ends.  There was not a woman in sight when I played basketball.  As for education, I had just been tossed from Graduate School.  I was at a complete loss to think of what activity I could use to impress women.  In the next chapter, Deane listed the three best ways to approach women.  His first suggestion was to walk up to a woman and talk to her.  Oh, we can forget that.  Talking to women was out of the question.  Deane's second suggestion was learn to cook.  Invite a girl over for a meal, wine her and dine her, good things were sure to happen.  Oh, we can forget that too.  If it didn't involve peanut butter and jelly, I was out of luck. 

The third suggestion was take a dance class.  Deane said Dancing was the fastest way he knew to get a girl in his arms 'willingly'.  I got goosebumps when I read this.  Here at my wit's end, I seized upon this idea like a drowning man would seize a life ring.  For the first time since returning to Houston, I felt a ray of hope.  This was the light at the end of the tunnel.

But then I stopped cold as the memory of Connie Kill Shot came back to haunt me.  I had good reason to believe I was not much of a dancer.  Due to the acne problem, I had been too intimidated to try dancing in high school.  At a college mixer, I caught two women laughing at my clumsiness as their friend Connie danced with me.  The two friends spotted Connie giving me the dirty look when my was back turned and laughed hysterically.  Except that I turned abruptly and freaked out when I caught them laughing at Connie's disgusted expression.  Humiliated, I had never shaken that memory.  Ever since then, I refused to venture near a dance floor and I was not about to start now.  Dancing was a very bad idea.  And so, back to the drawing board. 

LOST YEARS:  YOLANDA

My new job at Child Welfare would not start till August, so I continued to work my temporary social work job.  Two days after I began leafing through the tough guy talk of the Mistress Book, I met a sexy Hispanic woman through my temporary job.  Yolanda took an immediate interest in me.  Yolanda was a very attractive woman with light brown skin, brown eyes and dark brown hair.  Thin, short and blessed with an impressive figure, Yolanda was unusually provocative.  To be honest, I had never met any girl quite this brash. 

"Don't you think I'm pretty, Rico?  Don't you want to date me, Rico?  Why not ask me out and take your chances?  Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky."

That was quite an invitation.  Since I was having all kinds of trouble working up the courage to talk to women, Yolanda's aggressiveness helped considerably.  Yes, I did think she was pretty.  Yes, I did want to ask her out.  How about lunch?  Afterwards, I suggested we go to dinner later in the week.  After dinner, I asked Yolanda if she wanted to shoot pool. 

This was an unusually bold move for me, never before tried.  With a nod to the Burt Reynolds Shamus movie, it was part of my new tough guy image.  It was also the by-product of two pieces of advice from the Mistress Book... "Learn to cook and invite her to your apartment" and "Find a spot where a girl can see you doing what you do best". 

Yolanda's eyes grew wide.  I guess she didn't figure me for a pool shark, but then she smiled.

"You're on, Rico.  I like to shoot pool.  You are making a beeg mistake, Rico.  I am dangerous, I am a hotshot.  You don't want to play me!  I will make you look bad.  Oops, too late now.  You shouldn't have asked.  A beeg meestake!  Okay, so where are we going?" 

Although I was taken aback by her brash display of confidence, I was very proud of my clever move.  Yolanda had not hesitated to accept my dare, so now it was time to spring the trap.  

"How about my apartment?"  

Yolanda stared at me impassively for a second, then smiled.  "You have a pool table?"

I nodded.

"Okay, muchacho, you're on."

As we walked to my car, Yolanda offered a further bit of warning. 

"You will be sorry you ever messed with me.  I will keeeck your ass beeg-time!"

No truer words have ever been spoken.  To my embarrassment, Yolanda didn't just beat me, she annihilated me.  Yes, indeed, Yolanda cleaned my clock.  For one thing, I was extremely nervous.  And I had badly overestimated my skill level.  However, I could not have cared less about losing because I had this girl right where I wanted her.  Thanks to Yolanda's brazen display during the pool match, I could barely concentrate.  Yolanda was not particularly tall.  In order to reach certain shots, she had to stand on one leg and lift her other leg backwards for counterbalance.  Yolanda was not particularly modest.  I doubt she even knew what the word meant.  She could have cared less that I was usually in a position to watch. 

The sight of Yolanda stretching for shots in her short skirt had a powerful effect on me.    Catching glimpses of her white panties accentuated by the dark skin of her thighs, there was no need for imagination.  Considering Yolanda held that position for a considerable time while she lined up the shot, the possibilities took my breath away.

But why stop there?  Yolanda had worn a low-cut dress which offered an equally enticing view.  Several times as she stretched I was convinced one of her ample breasts was surely about to pop out of her bodice.  Considering I had not been near a woman in ages, I was so turned on I could not see straight.  Surely Yolanda knew I was watching.  And yet she did not seem to mind.  In fact, I would bet money Yolanda knew what she was doing.  Yolanda could have asked me to stand elsewhere, but she didn't.  Therefore I concluded she was putting on a show.  And what a show it was.  Yolanda had me drooling.

After she beat me, Yolanda turned and stared at me with a smile wider than a Cheshire cat.  She wasted no time rubbing it in. 

"I warned you, Rico!!  You should have known better.  I know my way around a pool hall.  You're messing with the wrong girl!"

Yolanda was a born tease.  I had never met a woman remotely like her.  Assuming her brash talk and lack of modesty was an invitation, I decided this was the time to step up to the plate and take a swing. 

"Yolanda, you are something else.  You really excite me.  Will you go to bed with me tonight?"

When a big smile crossed her face, my heart leapt for joy.  But then to my surprise, Yolanda shot me down.  

"A most intriguing offer, Rico, but I theenk for now I will stay faithful to my boyfriend Robbie.  But don't stop asking, gringo boy, you never know, I might change my mind next time.  Hey, it's getting late.  Time to go, amigo."

I was crestfallen.  I could not believe I had guessed wrong.  Her body said yes, but her mouth said no.  I was crushed, but I accepted her refusal without protest.  We left immediately.  In the car, my heart was pounding.  What the hell went wrong??  Certain she would say yes, I asked myself over and again if I had read her signals wrong.  How was that even possible?  Her gleaming white underwear practically advertised availability.

Soon enough we were at her house.  When Yolanda got out of the car, she turned and grinned.  "Hey, I'm sorry I beat you so bad, Rico.  Go home and practice your stroke.  You never know, maybe I'll give you another chance.  And if you can beat me, maybe you'll get lucky."

Is it possible to desire and despise a woman at the same time?  Of course it is.  However, this was new to me.  I had never met a prick tease before and she had caught me totally off guard.  Right now I wanted to murder Yolanda.  Or myself.  Take your pick.  When I returned home, I stared at the pool table in disgust.  "Let her see you do what you do best..."  That goddamn book had set me up for exactly the kind of humiliation I was desperate to avoid.  And what about Yolanda?  She should be ashamed of herself for teasing me like that.  She was fortunate I possessed a conscience.  The Burt Reynolds character would have asserted his will, but not me.  So much for my new tough guy identity.  I laid awake that night analyzing the strange turn of events.  Whatever I had done wrong was lost on me.  I groaned.  Here we go again with the Blind Spots.  I was furious with myself at my helplessness to solve this mystery. 

Yolanda had suggested I try again, so when I saw her at work the following week, I asked her out for the second time.  Yolanda readily accepted, but not after rubbing it in again how badly she had beaten me at pool.  Expecting a rematch, I spent the next three days practicing furiously for the Friday night rematch.  Only one problem.  Yolanda was not at home when I drove by.  I was incredulous that she had stood me up for our date.  I waited for half an hour, growing ever more furious as each minute passed.  I returned home and spent a long night on my floor-level foam mattress staring at the ceiling in frustration.  Images of Christine tormented me no end.  Christine had been the last girl to stand me up.  She had left a note on the door of her dorm room saying she had decided to go drinking with her girlfriends instead.  What was I doing wrong with women?  Why did this same crap keep happening? 

All night long, the words 'no more groveling' raced through my mind.  Ordinarily I shied away from confrontation, a bad habit that had allowed Vanessa to walk all over me.  No more of that.  From now on, I wanted answers and apologies.  I decided the following day I would drive back over to her house.  So what if Yolanda blew me off?  At least I would have the satisfaction of standing up to her, something I had never done with Vanessa or Debbie or Christine or any other woman for that matter.  I was tired of being the Underdog.   I thought of Dr. Hilton... "You have to play the game to get better."  I thought of Jason... "Try, try again." 

Well, let's follow their advice and see how it turns out.  Tomorrow was Saturday.  In the afternoon I intended to drive to Yolanda's house and chew her out.  Tomorrow she would meet Mr. Tough Guy, the new Me.  Haunted by the Curse of Vanessa, I was mad as a hornet.  My days of letting women push me around were over. 

LOST YEARS:  CONFRONTATION

On Saturday afternoon, I drove to Yolanda's house to chew her out.  As I neared her house, I was so proud of myself.  Meet Mr. Tough Guy.  Today I would actually stand up to a girl who had rejected me not once, but twice. 

To my surprise, I spotted Yolanda as I drove up.  She was standing in her front yard talking amiably with some guy who weighed 250 pounds.  They appeared to be examining his shiny Harley-Davidson motorcycle on the driveway.  The man was a short, squat Mexican guy with heavily-tattooed arms.  Considering Yolanda was a slender girl with a perfect figure and this guy was larger than a whale, the two of them were so completely mismatched I did not give the man a second thought. 

Assuming the Mexican guy was her next-door neighbor, I parked my beat-up Volkswagen Beetle on the curb, then walked over in a huff to demand an explanation.  Yolanda saw me coming and waved hi with considerable enthusiasm.  Her reception was so warm and energetic that I was confused.  Did I get my wires crossed and misunderstand what night our date was scheduled for? 

"Ola, Rico!  I want you to meet Robbie.  Robbie es mi novio, my boyfriend."

Her boyfriend?  Yolanda turned me down for him!?!?  I was aghast.  When Robbie stuck out his hand, I had no choice but to reluctantly shake the hand of my surprise rival. 

Before I could say a word, Yolanda took the lead.  In her usual animated style, she exclaimed, "Hey, muchacho, I am sorry I missed you last night.  I missed my ride home from work.  Oh, Rico, Rico, will you forgive me?  Puleeeze?"

I had no desire to go through with my confrontation, so I muttered something lame about dropping by to make sure Yolanda was okay.  Then I just stood there speechless as a million thoughts hit at once.  If this guy was really her boyfriend, why would Yolanda discuss standing me up for a date in front of him?  I was instantly on guard.  Was this some sort of set-up?  Meanwhile Robbie's big grin indicated he knew exactly who I was.  I didn't get it.  Wasn't Robbie supposed to threaten me or punch me out for making a move on his woman?  Instead, he was pumping my hand like I was his mucho favorite amigo on Planet Tierra.

Boyfriend?!?  How on earth does a woman who looks like Yolanda pick this human bowling ball to be her steady?  But it was even worse than that.  Something in the way Robbie smugly looked at me and the grinning expression on Yolanda's face made it obvious that Robbie had spent the night.  This just blew my mind.  First Yolanda teases me upside down and sideways, then says ho-hum, try asking again sometime.  But Yolanda has no problem sleeping with Robbie, a guy who belonged at the back of the line in Life's mating dance.

I was beyond flustered.  I had no idea what was going on here.  How much did Robbie know?  Did he know I had propositioned his girlfriend?  Did he know she repeatedly displayed her underwear?  Did he know she flirted with me shamelessly before turning me down?  Did he know Yolanda had promised to be faithful to him with about as much conviction as flipping a coin?  Did he know she had invited me to ask her out again?  Did he know she stood me up last night? 

As all my fight drained out, my new Tough Guy personality deserted me.  I was an idiot to walk right into this trap.  Why didn't I see this coming?  I saw the guy ahead of time, but failed to give him a second thought.  I really must lack any sort of innate common sense.  Overwhelmed with embarrassment, I just wanted to crawl back to my car and get the hell out of here.  I apologized for interrupting their conversation and told Yolanda I would talk to her next week at the job.  With a short nod to Robbie, I turned abruptly and walked briskly back to my car.  Now I was angry at myself for being rude on top of everything else.  I couldn't take this anymore.  I needed some place to lick my wounds. 

Are we done with this story?  No, course not!  You should know me by now.  It gets worse. 

My car wouldn't start. 

I turned the key.  Whirr, whirr.  The engine turned over, but wouldn't catch.  I tried again.  Whirr, whirr.  No luck.  Panic-stricken at being stranded here in No Man's Land, I tried again.  Whirr, whirr.  The engine turned over more slowly, a sure sign the battery was running down.  Oh my God, I am stuck in enemy territory!  How could this be?  I dropped my head onto the steering wheel and cursed my lousy fate.  The word 'impotent' was surely coined for this situation.  How do I get myself into spots like this? 

At this point, Robbie and Yolanda strolled over with big grins on their faces.  They knew what that sound meant and were clearly amused by my predicament.  Robbie said, "Yo, amigo, you need a puuush?"

Putting sense before pride, I smiled wanly.  "Yes, Robbie, that would be great.  Thank you."

I got out of the car, then said to Yolanda, "Why don't you trade places with me?  If you can work the gear shift, that will free me up to help Robbie push."

With two men pushing, we quickly got the small VW Bug moving.  Like a seasoned pro, Yolanda engaged the clutch and the car started immediately.  As Yolanda got out of my car, she somehow managed to let her skirt ride up high on her dark-tanned thigh.  It was the return of the white panties just in case I was still interested.  Yes, I was still interested and yes, I had never hated the utter cruelty of my life quite like this before.  My mouth dropped open.  Did Yolanda do that on purpose?  Then I noticed Robbie had seen it too.  Our eyes locked for a second.  When he just kind of grinned at me, I was beyond flustered.  What is it with these two?

After thanking them both profusely, I jumped in the car and left as quickly as possible.  Yolanda and Robbie waved goodbye with big smiles.  Peeking in the mirror before I turned the corner, I saw them convulsed with laughter.  I burned with shame.  This debacle had been a stinging blow.   The vision of Yolanda's derisive laughter conjured images of Vanessa, Christine, Debbie, and the bored attitudes of the 50 'try, try again' girls during my Colorado State Dating Projects.  Some defeats are worse than others and this one belonged with the all-time worst.  Sick to my stomach, I realized the Losing Streak had just gone 'Epic'.  At this point I had lost count of the number of women who had gotten away.  I didn't even care anymore.  Right now I just wanted to curl up in a ball and go fetal.

LOST YEARS - RICK GOES FOR A WALK

I was in no mood to risk my car not starting again, so I headed home after the Yolanda debacle.  I slammed the door to my apartment and screamed at the top my lungs.  That weird situation with Yolanda had left me very shaken.  I was beyond humiliated and it made no sense.  This big-breasted, skinny toothpick of a woman could have any man she wanted.    I don't care how badly my face is scarred, I was still better looking than the overweight biker guy she called her boyfriend.  Right now the thought of Yolanda having sex with Robbie was more than I could handle.  I seethed with jealousy, rage, and a profound sense of impotence.

At one time, the Curse of Vanessa was a psychological mind set.  No longer.  Now that my car had failed to start at the worst possible time, I had all the creepy proof I needed to place the Curse of Vanessa into the Realm of the Supernatural.  Previously I had a 'Losing Streak' with women.  Thanks to Yolanda's exclamation point, today my Losing Streak had just gone 'Epic'.

Fearful I must be living under a dark cloud, right now the safest thing I could do was stay home.   I tried shooting pool, but it did no good.  To begin with, the pool table reminded me of Yolanda.  The vision of how she had teased me that night elevated my frustration to a fever pitch.  How was it possible for me to lose a babe like Yolanda to Jabba the Hut?  There really was something wrong with me, something very serious.  Unable to read a book or settle down, I had to do something.  Filled with anxiety, I decided to take a long walk around the neighborhood.  Maybe that would let off some steam.  Besides, what could possibly go wrong? 

After walking for an hour, I began to head home.  It was around 8 pm.  Twilight Time.  As I passed an apartment project two blocks from my apartment, I noticed a young black woman about my age struggling to open her front door.  Since it was obvious the girl was very frustrated, my sense of chivalry kicked in.  Walking over, I offered to help. 

"What's wrong with your door?  Is it jammed?  Maybe I can help."

The woman looked up and smiled.  Damn!  My heart instantly went aflutter.  When I had spotted her in the dark from a distance, I had no idea she was so good-looking.  And friendly too.  She seemed very glad to see me. 

"Oh, thank you so much!!  My name is Lynn.  I am so stupid, I locked myself out.  You came along at the perfect time!  If you can help me, I would be very grateful." 

I could not take my eyes off Lynn.  This girl was seriously attractive.  Even better, she seemed to like me.  Lynn was tall for a woman, maybe 5' 9".  Husky too, obviously an athlete.  What a knock-out!  Considering the warmth of her greeting, I felt some vibes.  Hmm.  Maybe the worst day of my life carried promise after all.  After all the misery I had been through, I had the funniest feeling my luck had finally turned.  If so, it was about time! 

Hope springs Eternal, but first I had to meet the challenge.  I tried the door, but it was locked tight.  Since I had no idea how to pick a lock, I suggested we look at her windows.  To my relief, I discovered an elevated window left slightly ajar.  The window was seven feet above the ground, so I would need something to stand on.  However, the window was definitely not locked, so this would work.  I turned to Lynn.  "Where does this window lead to?"

"It is right above my kitchen sink."

"Do you mind if I climb through your window?"

Lynn smiled, but looked skeptical.

"No, by all means, please give it a try.  But are you sure you can you do this?  The window is very high."

Lynn obviously had no idea I was a seasoned cat burglar.  I ruefully recalled the time I used this same trick to break into Vanessa's house.  I sure hoped tonight would turn out better than that one had.  With my kind of luck, maybe Lynn's boyfriend would show up.  Thinking of Robbie earlier this afternoon, that's probably exactly what was going to happen.   Nonsense, I told myself.  This girl clearly likes me.  Relax, concentrate, and things will work out. 

"Don't worry, Lynn, I think I can do this, but first I need something to stand on.  I need to find a trash can or something similar."

Lynn and I looked around, but there was nothing in sight that would do the trick.  Lynn turned back to me and said, "What if I helped lift you up?"

I weighed 200 pounds at the time, so the thought of a girl lifting me up was pretty far-fetched.  I looked at Lynn skeptically.  "What do you suggest?"

"Let me put my hands together and give you a boost."

This girl was going to lift me?  Yeah, sure.  However, Lynn was a big girl, much larger than Yolanda, so I decided it wouldn't hurt to try.  Lynn clenched her hands together and I put my right foot inside for a boost.  To my surprise, it worked.  That got me high enough to push the window up a little bit higher.  I jumped back to the ground to let Lynn regain her strength.

Lynn said, "That opening is not wide enough.  You can't climb through that."

"No, but now I can get one hand to grip the ledge and use my free hand to push the window higher.  Let's try again."

On my second try, I pushed the window higher, then jumped back down.  Lynn stared at me wide-eyed.  "Holy smokes, I had no idea that window could be opened so easily.  If you had a ladder, you can be inside in one minute or less.  That is pretty scary.  A girl could get attacked that way."

"Good point, Lynn.  To be on the safe side, lock the window from now on and get a hide-a-key for the next time you get absent-minded."

"That's a good idea.  Are you ready to try again?"

I used another boost from Lynn to put both hands inside the window frame and get a firm grip.  From there, I struggled mightily to pull my body halfway through the opening.  After resting for a moment, I was able to wiggle head first a little at a time.  Finally I was able to reach down and put my hands on the kitchen sink.  That allowed me enough balance to squirm the rest of my body through.  To be perfectly honest, once I finished, I was impressed with myself.  It had taken three tries and ten minutes to complete this slow, painstaking work.  It was difficult, but the hard part was over.  Now let's see if this noble deed would lead to where I hoped.

I walked to the door and unlocked it.  Lynn was waiting for me beaming with delight.  Gee, it had been a long time since I had seen a girl smile at me like that.  Lynn gave me a huge hug and gushed breathlessly, "Oh, Rick, you are my knight in shining armor!!  You have saved me and I am so grateful!"

Feeling her body pressed to mine longer and closer than necessary, I was getting turned on.  My imagination was going wild.  After all, I was her knight in shining armor and I could really use a reward.  It had been a long time...

"Rick, you must be exhausted!  That did not look easy.  Now that you are here, please stay a while.  Come in and let me get you a beer.  I'm sure you're thirsty."

Given the direction my mind was wandering, I was ecstatic.  For one thing, I dreaded going home.  And who could blame me?  The memory of Yolanda had already poisoned that pool table.  Plus my demons were surely awaiting me.  The recurring vision of Robbie having sex with Yolanda plus their side-splitting laughter was maddening.  But why think about that when I had Lynn to cheer me up?  Right now this friendly young lady wanted me to stick around, so I followed her inside and sat down at the kitchen table. 

"Do you like Motown music?"

"Sure, of course."

"What about Marvin Gaye?"

"Marvin Gaye is awesome.  'Heard it Through the Grapevine' is my all-time favorite song."

Lynn brought me a beer, then put on Marvin Gaye's Let's Get it On album.  As subliminal messages go, interesting choice of music.  I also noticed Lynn turn off two living room lights.  If I didn't know better, I was going to get lucky tonight.  Unless of course Lynn turned out to be another tease like Yolanda.  Or like Vanessa, an ex-boyfriend like Kenny would show up.  I frowned.  Let's not go through that again.  No bad endings!  Not tonight.  Tonight I break my Epic Losing Streak.  Let this woman wrap her arms around me and maybe I can begin to crawl out of this neverending trap of desperation.  A journey of a thousand miles begins with one smile.

My thoughts were interrupted when Lynn asked me a question.  "Do you know how to dance, Rick?"  She opened her arms and beckoned.

At first I hesitated, then decided it wouldn't hurt to try.  "No, but I would like to learn.  Can you show me?"

"Sure, I can teach anyone!"

Lynn surprised me.  I thought she was going to show me a few Soul Train dance moves, but Lynn wanted to partner dance.  Lynn grabbed my right hand and put it around her back.  I had never partner danced in my life, so I immediately tensed up.  Before I knew it, we were moving close together in the darkened living room.  Even in the gloom, I could not help noticing how good-looking she was.  I trembled with anticipation.  This was too good to be true.  What is a girl who looks like Lynn doing alone on a Saturday night?  I hate to admit this, but so many things had gone wrong over the past year I was almost certain something would go wrong again tonight.  This thing with Robbie was the perfect example.  Women who looked like Lynn and Yolanda always had men hanging around.  Surely Lynn had a boyfriend.  Or maybe even a dozen boyfriends.  If so, I prayed none of them came pounding on the door like Kenny had at Vanessa's house.  Goddamn, this girl's got me in love again!  For once, how about a happy ending?

Speaking of happy, Lynn was very happy.  She was humming the tune.  "I love to dance.  In the black clubs, we do something called the Swing-Out.  It's not too hard; you can do it."

Although Lynn was unusually pretty, she wasn't exactly petite.  Lynn moved me around without much effort.  It was weird being pushed around by a woman.  Unfortunately I began to trip, probably because I was guessing what to do instead of feeling.  I could not figure out what Lynn was doing with her feet and stumbled repeatedly.  In addition, her black dialect made it difficult for me to understand what she was telling me to do.  Fortunately Lynn was patient.  She didn't want me to quit, so I tried again. 

We stayed with it a good ten minutes, but I wasn't getting the hang of it.  I had only danced a single time in high school.  That had been a drug-induced experience, so it didn't count.  I had tried again in college, but I had been so spastic a group of three girls led by Connie Kill Shot had scorned me.  With a frown, I recalled the overwhelming humiliation I had felt over being such a lousy dancer.  Obviously the passage of time had not improved my dancing ability.  Right now I felt clumsy and foolish.  After Yolanda and Robbie, my self-esteem could not take any more failure tonight, especially not in front of this girl I was trying to impress.  

"I'm sorry, Lynn, I'm just not getting this.  Maybe I need to be black.  I used to watch Soul Train and wished I could move like they did.  They seem to have dancing in their blood."

"Oh, I know just what you mean.  I grew up watching Soul Train.  That's where I learned my moves.  But you are doing okay, Rick.  I think you're just nervous and giving up way too easily.  Let's try again."

I shook my head.  "No, I'm sorry, Lynn, but I am really confused.  I don't know which foot to move or where to step.  I have no idea what you are doing.  I know you are trying to help, but I am clearly not catching on.  Listen, I've had a tough day.  I'm in no mood for more aggravation, not tonight anyway.  How about a rain check?  I want to try again, but let's wait for a time when I feel better."

Lynn was clearly disappointed at my lack of persistence, but maintained her smile nonetheless.  I was disappointed too.  I assumed my lack of progress on the dance floor was the same sort of bad omen as losing the pool game to Yolanda.  In the clutch, it seemed like I couldn't do anything right.  When it came to women, apparently my only skill was climbing through windows.  Was Lynn going to turn me down too?  Immediately my confidence took a hit.  Why would any girl want to sleep with a loser like me?  However, I guessed wrong.   Just as I prepared to leave, Lynn reached out and pulled me back.  "Okay, Rick, I understand if you don't want to dance.  In that case I have a better idea." 

With that Lynn put her right arm around my back and pulled me to her like I was weightless.  I was astonished at Lynn's strength.  Then she put her left hand on my face and softly kissed me.  To my dismay, the kiss didn't feel right.  Something was wrong, the thrill was missing.  I had never kissed a black girl before, so I wondered if they kissed differently.  Her body did not excite me either.  However, I was in no mood to give up so fast.  Maybe if I hung in there, things would improve. 

Sensing my reluctance, Lynn took matters into her own hands.  She led me to her bed and pulled me on top of her.  We resumed kissing, but something was still wrong.  I was having real trouble getting turned on.  We continued to kiss, but I felt no enthusiasm.   This had never happened before.  Considering my long dry spell, where was the passion?  Ordinarily I would be throbbing with desire, but I did not even have an erection.  I was confused.

Lynn had her jeans on and so did I.  Since I felt awkward, I was in no hurry to undress.  We had been at this for three minutes and I still had no appetite.  I started to disengage when Lynn aggressively put my hand on her pelvic area.  She moaned as she rubbed herself using my hand.  To my alarm, I discovered a mysterious bulge down there.  What on earth?  A giant tumor?  No, that couldn't be it.  I was so confused.  I wondered if black women were built differently.  No, don't be ridiculous.  That was absurd, so what could it be?

In a blinding flash, the answer arrived.  Oh shit... what have I gotten myself into this time?  Withdrawing from her embrace, I swiftly sat up.  "Uh, Lynn, we need to talk."

Upset, Lynn grabbed a pillow and covered herself.  Or should I say 'himself'? 

"I know, Rick, I know.  Bad move.  I should not have forced things.  I could tell you weren't into this scene.  I was selfish and I took a chance.  Now I am incredibly sorry.  Will you forgive me?" 

I groaned.  If this doesn't take the cake, nothing will.  I had just been seduced by a drag queen.  Unbelievable.  What a day!  First Yolanda, now Lynn.  And here's the funny thing... it never once crossed my mind that Lynn was actually a man until I felt the bulge.  Not once!  In my defense, it was dark.  Furthermore Lynn was too good-looking.  I suppose I was so lonely I saw what I wanted to see.  Even when I noticed how strong Lynn was, it never crossed my mind what was going on. 

At this moment, the words to Lola, a song by the Kinks, popped into my mind.

Well, I'm not dumb but I can't understand
Why she walks like a woman and talks like a man

I'm not the world's most physical guy,
But when she squeezed me tight she nearly broke my spine

Oh Lola, lo lo lo lo Lola

I frowned at the realization I had acquired a Lola of my very own.  I shook my head at the irony of it all.  The last thing I said to myself when I left my apartment was that nothing else could possibly go wrong if I just walked around the neighborhood.  Remind me to never say 'nothing else can possibly go wrong' again.

I noticed Lynn had covered her face.  She was crying into a pillow.  Although I was upset at being so completely deceived, I wasn't particularly mad at Lynn.  In fact, I felt kind of sorry for her.  Then I caught myself.  Odd, but I still saw a woman when I looked at Lynn.  He... she... whatever... had crumpled up into a ball wrapped around another pillow.  When I saw that, I remembered how I had gone fetal over Yolanda when I got home earlier tonight.  If I had to guess, this guy had it just as bad as me.  I sensed that Lola-Lynn did not have an easy life.  For all my problems, for the first time in a long time I realized I wasn't the only person struggling to fit in. 

Lynn finally looked back up.  He was so apologetic that I just shrugged my shoulders.  In fact, I found myself curious about her, uh, him.  We moved back to the kitchen table and Lynn offered me another beer.  I said sure, why not.  Oddly enough, I was in no hurry to leave.  Lynn was a gentle soul, so I did not feel threatened.  Plus there were some things I wanted to know.  Lynn was very candid about his strange lifestyle.  Lynn admitted he was just as lonely as I was.  He said it was loneliness that made him take some very serious chances.  That sounded familiar.  After hearing him out, our talk came to a pause.

There was a frightening question that I needed ask.  It was Now or Never.

"Lynn, I had no idea you were a guy.  I was completely fooled.  I need to know if you think I'm gay."

Lynn smiled wanly.  "Take my word for it, if you were gay, you would be naked and we would be in bed together.  Men go crazy over me.  You could be bi if you gave it a try, but that's not your basic nature."

"What is 'bi'?"

"'Bi' is short for bisexual.  You know, AC-DC, swing both ways."

I nodded.  "Ah, now I get it.  Am I the first guy to ever fall for your disguise?"

"Oh, heaven's no.  You would be surprised.  I have very good luck with men.  Men are so horny, I fool them all the time.  Some decide they like it and continue, others disengage like you did.  But most stay with it.  I never know how they will react till the action starts."

Knowing I fit the profile of horny men who are easily fooled, I squirmed a little.  "Do these guys know you are a man ahead of time?"

"Some do, but most don't.  Most guys are clueless.  They see what they want to see."

Feeling more than slightly embarrassed, I nodded.  That's me all right.  I guess I saw what I wanted to see.  On the other hand, even with the knowledge that Lynn was a guy, he possessed exotic features that projected the illusion of a beautiful woman.

"Lynn, I had no idea you were a man.  I mean, how do you do it?  You look really good!"

When Lynn smiled broadly at my compliment, I laughed.  I had never seen a black person blush before.  I wanted to understand how I fell for his trick, so I put a finger under Lynn's chin and lifted his face to the light.  As I took a good look, Lynn blushed again at my interest.  I was incredulous.  Even knowing what I knew, I could not see a man in front of me.  The makeup was too perfect.  The facial structure was soft, feminine.  The smile was alluring.  Lynn was as attractive as any woman I had ever looked at.  Furthermore, in his demure mannerisms, he came across as a woman. 

"Lynn, you are too damn beautiful!  I mean that.  There are a lot of women out there who would kill to look as good as you do."

"Thank you, Rick.  You should see me when I have all my make-up on.  I am an expert at make-up.  You would never ever know that I am not a woman."

"I don't doubt it.  You are quite the knockout."

I grinned at his confidence.  Even drag queens have their vanity.  Lynn was definitely beautiful.  So beautiful in fact that I continued to have trouble seeing Lynn as a guy.

"Lynn, now I have another question.  Tell me the truth.  Am I the worst dancer you have ever met?"

Lynn grinned.  "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Rick, but yeah, probably.  You are obviously athletic.  Not many guys can climb through a window seven feet off the ground like you did.  I know I couldn't do it, even if it meant getting laid.  But when it comes to dancing, you are way too tense and critical of yourself.  Plus you think too much.  Dancing is about feeling, not thinking."

I nodded in agreement.  "I don't know what's wrong with me, Lynn.  I've wanted to learn to dance ever since high school, but I must have some sort of mental block.  I don't know why, but I am just not very good at this."

Lynn was sympathetic.  "Oh, Rick, don't be so hard on yourself.  Even if you are a slow learner, I bet you could improve if you found a teacher who knows how to explain it better than me.  Why not take lessons?"

I froze as a truly eerie feeling took hold.  Today I have seen my car stall, I have endured humiliation, I've been forced to wonder if I'm gay and now the subject of dance lessons has come up.  This dance lesson suggestion cannot be an accident.  This is the same thing as seeing Vanessa's name highlighted in the Mistress Book.  I have already refused to consider dance lessons, but God refuses to take 'No' for an answer.  First God sabotages my car, blocking any normal path to a sexy woman I am very attracted to.  Clearly my Tough Guy approach is a waste of time.  Then He sends a Drag Queen to twist my arm on dance lessons.  Can this day get any weirder?  No! 

If ever there was a time to leave, this was it.  I stood up and so did Lynn.  He gave me an affectionate hug just in case I wanted to change my mind.  When I grinned at him, Lynn gave me a shy smile.  He said, "You know what I'm doing, don't you?"

When I nodded, Lola-Lynn looked like the bad boy with his hand in the cookie jar.  "You aren't leaving because you're mad at me?"

I laughed.  "Nah, don't worry about it.  No damage done and no hard feelings.  Like I said, it's been a long day and I am pretty rattled.  But I'm sure I will get over it."

"Well, if you change your mind about dancing, come back and see me for another lesson.  You can climb through my window any time.  Or better yet, next time just knock."

I grinned in spite of myself.  Lynn was quite a character.   Despite our mishap, I liked Lynn.  Too bad he wasn't a woman.  As I walked home, I shook my head in consternation at this crazy day.  I felt sorry for Lynn.  His deception masked a desperate lifestyle.  Like the spider to the fly, Lynn lured unsuspecting men into his trap.  I could not imagine the risks he took.  No doubt Lynn faced frequent disappointment like tonight.  Or worse he faced a serious beating.  Some day he might pick up the wrong guy.  There was bound to be some man who reacted in an ugly way after learning the truth.  And what about me?  I breathed a long, sad sigh.  What in the world was wrong with me?  Speaking of the terrible things loneliness does to people, my own loneliness had gotten me into trouble twice today. 

It was 9 pm when I reached my apartment.  After flipping on the light, the first thing I saw was my pool table which of course reminded me of Yolanda.  I frowned with the realization that my new Tough Guy personality was off to a terrible start.  This sort of stuff never happened to Burt Reynolds.  I was just about to close the door when I changed my mind.  On a whim, I went back outside.  I passed the swimming pool and walked to my nearby car.  As expected, my car started on the first try.  I turned the car off and tried again.  Sure enough, it started a second time without a problem. 

So why didn't my car start earlier today when it mattered?  The first thing to pop into my mind was Yolanda was somehow connected to Lynn and that they were both connected to the Mistress Book.  Lynn had suggested dance lessons.  Maybe he was right.  It was obvious I did not have the first clue how to deal with a woman like Yolanda.  So if shooting pool wouldn't work, then maybe dancing would. 

Dance lessons, eh?  The book had specifically said "Dancing is the fastest way known to man to get a willing woman in his arms." 

Hmm.  Now that I thought of it, Dancing works pretty well on drag queens too.  That made me laugh.  This had been the craziest day of my life, definitely a Day to Remember.

LOST YEARS:  MEDITATION ON THE STALLED CAR

July 20, 1974.  A Day (and Night) to Remember.  It was 9 pm on a Saturday night.  I had just gotten home from Lynn's apartment and decided to see if my car would start.  Of course it did.  I don't know why I had been so sure, but I had expected it would start.

I could not think of a single reason why my car did not start at Yolanda's house.  My car had started without trouble during my year at Colorado State.  My car had started for the past two months since returning to Houston.  Nor were there any warning signs.

The curious refusal of my car to start reminded me of a story known as the Church Choir Coincidences (Chapter 23, Book Two).  On a cold winter night, leaking gas caused a church to explode in flames at the same time Choir Practice was supposed to begin.  Everyone should have died, but no one died.  That is because all 17 people had been delayed for 9 different reasons.  One of those people was Royena Estes.  Royena was ready to leave on time.  However, to her dismay, her car refused to start on the cold Nebraska night.  Bad Luck, right?  Ordinarily yes, but on this night the stalled car had saved Royena's life.  Good Luck. 

I had long believed that Coincidence was the word used when we can't see the levers, pulleys and Leprechauns.  My imagination suggested the Invisible Man had manipulated Royena's car in order to save her life.  Now the Invisible Man had done the same thing to me.  But why?  What could possibly be the purpose?   The only thing I could think of was Lynn's curious mention of dance lessons.  Considering I had been thinking about dance lessons for the past week due to the Mistress Book, what else could it be?

After returning to my apartment, I reviewed what the book said about dance.

"There are certain skills which on occasion might stimulate a girl to turn her head in your direction instead of the other guy who is competing for her.  Dancing is one of them.  I won't say that everyone can be a great dancer, but if you put your mind to it, most men can be good dancers. 

What is odd about this idea is that very few men have a clue what I am talking about.  These guys are fools.  Asking a girl to dance is the fastest legal way to get a woman in a man's arms.  Dinner, chocolate, roses, jewelry, cool pickup lines, give me a break.  In certain situations there is no easier way of meeting a girl than asking her to dance.  But I suggest you find a place to dance first.  Or for that matter, a few dance lessons in advance would definitely help.

The stakes of the game being what they are and the effort involved being as slight as it is, there's no reason why a man should not learn to become a good (or at least a tolerable) dancer."
 

This was all well and good.  However, I could be completely wrong. The memory of how poorly I had danced at Lynn's apartment refused to leave my mind.  If you had seen me struggle with even the simplest of moves, you would understand why I was absolutely convinced that Dance Lessons were a very bad idea.  Just the thought of taking a dance class made me sick in stomach.  And so my thoughts drifted back to Yolanda. 

LOST YEARS:  THE GREAT TOUGH GUY DEBATE

Upon review of that awkward situation at Yolanda's house, I realized she had attempted to apologize. 

"Oh, Rico, Rico, Rico, I am soooo sorry.  I meeesed my ride, so I had to call my boyfriend Robbie to come get me."

If anything, Yolanda had greeted me enthusiastically on Saturday afternoon when she saw me coming up the driveway.  I also remembered what she said on the night I propositioned her in my apartment. 

"Intriguing suggestion, Rico, but I think for now I will stay faithful to my boyfriend Robbie.  But don't stop asking, gringo boy, you never know, I might change my mind the next time."

I would be the last person to ask, but as rumor had it, the current sexual climate had relaxed the age-old prohibition against multiple partners. 

"If you can't have the one you love, Love the one you're with."

I did not have the slightest idea what Yolanda's arrangement was with Robbie, but the bottom line is she had not shut the door on seeing me again.  Furthermore, based on Robbie's casual attitude when I approached Yolanda, perhaps the two of them had an understanding that permitted them to see other people.  If that was the case, then it made a heck of lot more sense to ask Yolanda out again than try an obvious dead end like dance lessons.  The whole point of dance lessons would be to help get a girlfriend.  Why not just get the girl first and save myself a lot of wasted effort? 

Considering how opposed I was to dance lessons and how badly I wanted to wrap my arms around Yolanda's body, forget the dance lessons.  Let's give Yolanda a call.  

Only one problem.  I was terrified of being rejected again. In addition, I was serious confused about how to act if Yolanda pulled another one of her stunts.

Yolanda was an exceptionally sexy woman who got her kicks from teasing men.  In my opinion, Yolanda was playing a dangerous game.  According to Jim Deane, the master, any woman who goes to the apartment of a young man on her first date implies she is willing to have sex.  Furthermore, in Yolanda's case, she had tempted me all night long with her brazen sexuality.   There was nothing subtle about Yolanda's behavior.  A so-called Respectable Girl would not dream of offering a deliberate view of her underwear while we were alone. 

From my point of view, this enticing preview indicated consent.  That explains why I was so flabbergasted when Yolanda subsequently turned me down.  It had taken all my nerve to work up the courage to proposition her in the first place.  That explains why I died a million deaths when she said no.  To my thin skin, her rejection was further proof that I was not attractive.  I was fun to provoke, but not cute enough to bother satisfying.  That made me angry.  I did not appreciate being toyed with, especially not after all the crap I had taken from women lately.

Following my problems with Vanessa, Jason had told me the only way to conquer my fear of rejection was to have some victories.  Easier said than done.  In the eight months since the Curse of Vanessa had struck, I had experienced nothing but defeat.  In addition to dramatic set-backs with Christine and Debbie, there had been fifty small disappointments with various coeds last spring.  Unfortunately, even those small let-downs added up.  And now Yolanda.

I was doing something wrong... but what?

Yolanda never seemed to worry that she was taking her little quips and suggestive body movements a bit too far.  This sexy Latina was alone in my apartment to shoot pool at a time when I was beyond horny.  Watching her wiggle as she stretched for a tricky pool shot made it tough to keep my hands to myself, especially with her white panties glowing like a beacon under her short dress.  Assuming this teasing was a clear invitation, I was shocked when she said no.  When Yolanda turned me down, for a moment there I was so frustrated I had been tempted to use force.  As far as I was concerned, Yolanda was 'asking for it.'  We were alone with a mattress six feet away from the pool table.  I was twice her size and she was wearing a dress.  There was nothing stopping me except my Code of Honor. 

My Code of Honor had won, but the philosophy of the Mistress Book was making me seriously question my decision.   A serious debate raged in my mind over what I should have done.  Was my Code of Honor out of date? 

The sub-title had stated: "How to Find a Mistress and Keep Her on Your own Terms."

Jim Deane was a self-described expert on Female Psychology.  Based on his personal observations, Deane had become a firm believer in Male Dominance.  He firmly believed a man should impose his will on a woman 'for her own good'. 

"Half the time, women don't even know what they want themselves, so don't listen to what they say, but rather watch how they behave.  Women are taught to say 'no' from the moment they are born.  The smart guy will learn there are two kinds of 'NO'.  One kind of 'NO' means business.  The other kind of 'NO' has the girl licking her lips, batting her eyelashes, and laughing coquettishly.  My attitude is to pester them to death until they either cooperate or slap me in the face.  Women don't say no to me very often, but it happens to the best of us.  Considering I have only been slapped twice and gotten laid about 20 times in these bullshit all yak-no sack situations, the odds are in your favor to keep trying.  Take them for their own good."

If ever there was a perfect Test Case for Jim Deane's Tough Guy stance, it was Yolanda.  Yolanda had put my 'Nice Guy' approach to the test and yet again I had come up empty.  At the moment, the 'Nice Guy' label felt synonymous with 'Loser'.  If I had been Jim Deane, I would not have hesitated.  Jim Deane was a man of action.  Jim Deane knew exactly how to deal with confusing women.

Jim Deane was very firm on this issue.  In his Mistress Book, he made it clear that although women desired sex, many automatically said 'no' on the assumption that men would respect them more.  Why bother putting up with that nonsense?  Deane insisted that men go ahead and take them.  After all, isn't that what women secretly want men to do anyway? 

I thought long and hard.  Yolanda's sudden reluctance fit Deane's description precisely.  If I accepted Deane's premise, brute force would have taken Yolanda's conscience off the hook.  Indeed, with just a little force, maybe Yolanda would surrender and breathlessly give me what I wanted.  In Deane's opinion, Yolanda was playing a game called "How bad do you want me?"   If I were to believe Deane, my aggressiveness would give her permission to enjoy herself conscience-free.  If I accepted his argument, I would be doing her a favor.  All I need to do was show a little urgency.

Maybe Jim Deane was right.  All Yolanda needed was a little persuasion.  It was clear that Yolanda wasn't entirely opposed to the idea of having sex with me.  After all, Yolanda had agreed to come to my apartment knowing full well one thing could lead to another.  Furthermore, Yolanda's suggestive flirting strongly reinforced Christopher's point that she was the kind of woman who said 'no', but wanted to say 'yes'.  

However, I never laid a hand on Yolanda.  Nor did I protest her decision.  I may have been bitter towards women and maybe I was a 'Nice Guy' loser, but I valued my decency.  I wasn't going to use my bitterness towards women as an excuse to use force.  My Code of Honor still said women deserved to be treated with respect.  Deane had a right to his opinion, but to me, 'No' still meant 'No'. 

However, the Mistress Book logic was sabotaging my long-held views about women.  What if Jim Deane was right?  What if 'No' really did mean 'Yes, do me a favor and make it tough for me to resist you'?   As the Great Tough Guy Debate raged on, Yolanda's refusal sent me into a giant tailspin because I wasn't sure I had made the right move.  What do women expect? 

If I were to accept Christopher's point of view, right now he would be laughing at me.  Christopher's imaginary words taunted me at every turn... "You are a damn fool, Rick, the girl was begging for it.  What did I tell you?  It is time you learned to act like a man." 

My sensitive Nice Guy side had won the day, but my newly-emerging Tough Guy side was driving me crazy with recriminations.  How was I supposed to be a tough guy when I let a skinny, barely-clothed woman half my size dictate terms while standing six feet from my bed??

I shook my head in dismay.  In my mind, I was a loser and a wimp.  'Act like a man.'  I kicked myself because I was increasingly certain I had given up too easily.  I recalled an old joke.  "What is foreplay for a Jewish American Princess?"

The answer was two hours of begging.  So what was foreplay for a Latin Princess?  Probably the same thing.  A Turkish rug salesman deliberately states a ridiculous opening price because he knows half the fun is haggling over the price.  Ditto Yolanda.  Yolanda most likely came from a world where women were expected to tease men to madness, then surrender once the man showed the proper amount of interest.   A tough guy would have found a way to take a Yolanda in his arms and persuade her to change her mind. 

Not me.  I just let her walk out the door.  And with that, I made up my mind.  The Great Tough Guy Debate was over.  The verdict?  Yes, I had given up too easily with Yolanda.  However, I would never use force.  While I was tempted to believe Deane's arguments, it was not my nature to strong-arm a woman under any circumstances, even an extreme one like Yolanda.  However, in the future, if this happened again, I would not give up so easily.  Don't use force, but don't give up so fast either.

Immediately my Macho Side delivered an ultimatum... "Okay, you've made up your mind.  Now call Yolanda and try again!"

I stared at the phone.  Should I or shouldn't I? 

LOST YEARS:  FLY ME TO THE MOON

Should I call Yolanda?  I trembled with indecision.  The temporary summer job where I met Yolanda had ended.  If I failed to call her, I would never see her again.  By asking me to forgive her for standing me up, Yolanda had specifically left the door open.  However, the memory of Yolanda and Robbie laughing their heads off over my stalled car burned in my mind.  Why would any woman want to date a loser like me?  Assuming Yolanda was certain to laugh at me again, I could not seem to make myself pick up the phone. 

I tried as hard as I could, but I was panic-stricken.  Filled with a sense of impending doom, my heart was racing, I was sweating, I was burning up, I was trembling.  I sat there staring at the phone for a good three minutes, then finally I gave up.  In that moment, I hated myself as much as I have ever hated myself.  Crushed to let the Phobia win again, my cowardice caused the collapse of what little remaining confidence I had.  In the frame of mind I was in, I could not risk another defeat.  I was sick and tired of letting women push me around.  Vanessa, Debbie, Yolanda and the cast of thousands back at CSU.  Now I had failed again with Yolanda for the specific reason that I had been too cowardly to insist she follow through on her signals.  Feeling like the biggest loser to ever walk the earth, I hated myself in the worst way.  Why even bother?  No matter what I did, I always managed to mess up.  Right now, I was so intimidated by women I did not want to go anywhere near a pretty girl. 

But I had to do something!  There had to be something.  With that thought, I stared at the Mistress Book.  To be honest, I did not want to touch the book.  I was so tired of excessive worrying about right and wrong in my approach to women, I did not want to revisit Jim Deane's boast about Male Dominance and his sexual prowess.  And the other hand, right now I was desperate.  This was Rock Bottom.  I was completely out of ideas how to beat this damn Phobia.  Reluctantly, I picked up the book.  What else could I do?  There was no one I could call and I needed answers in the worst way.  Besides, maybe I had missed something. 

At the time of the Great Tough Guy Debate, I had not finished reading the Mistress Book.  In the first part, Jim Deane had discussed his principles.  Let the woman see you where you look the best, learn how to dominate women, use force if necessary, and so on.  Towards the end of the book, Deane used some of his conquests to illustrate his principles in action.  Calling himself the Master of the Pick Up, one of his stories demonstrated how a knowledge of dance could come in very handy in certain situations.  Here is the story. 

LOST YEARS:  LOVE POTION #9

I took my troubles down to Madame Ruth
You know the gypsy with the gold-capped tooth

She's got a storefront at Thirty-Fourth and Vine
Selling little bottles of Love Potion Number Nine

I told her that I was a flop with chicks
I'd been that way since 1956

She looked at my palm and she made a magic sign
She said what you need is Love Potion Number Nine

 -- Love Potion #9, The Clovers

Jim Deane's dance story hit like a ton of bricks.  The moment he wrote that 'Dancing is more powerful than Love Potion #9,' I stopped breathing.  I had found what I was looking for.

I needed something to help overcome my debilitating shyness around women, some kind of magic to make me feel more attractive.  Dancing could become my secret elixir.  I would not need any fancy pick-up lines.  Just ask her to dance.  Heck, even I could pull that off.

When I returned to Houston, this had been the perfect time to start over in my relentless search for a girlfriend.  However my abject failure with Yolanda forced me to accept nothing had changed.  The Epic Losing Streak had followed me from Colorado and I was still a sniveling coward around women.  If there was ever a certifiable 'Flop with Chicks', I was up for nomination. 

My fear of another rejection felt so insurmountable that after getting shot down by Yolanda three times in a row, I was about to start avoiding women again.  I had been down this road many times before... high school, college, graduate school.  Not once had I solved my problem by avoiding it.  All I ever did was kick the can down the road and stay lonely in the process. 

Was it possible to cure a Phobia on my own?  Dr. Hilton had failed.  Jason had failed.  And so far I had failed too.  In fact, I had failed miserably.  My inability to call Yolanda was undeniable proof of my extreme helplessness.

Many people with a Phobia do not require treatment.  Avoiding the object of their fear is enough to control the problem.  However, it may not always be possible to avoid certain phobias.  The fear of flying is a good example.  It is one thing to solve an irrational fear by sidestepping a swimming pool or keeping a safe distance from a mean dog, but if I ever intended to have a relationship, I could not avoid women for the rest of my life. 

I had to take action, but where to start?  The obvious solution was talk to women at bars.  That's how the other guys did it.  However, this was out of the question.  I would not know the first thing to say to a woman I did not know.  I had no pickup lines, no clever conversational tricks.  I had to find a way to approach a woman I did not know, some way to get to First Base.

Could Dancing break my Epic Losing Streak?  Perhaps.  I still believed in myself to some extent.  If a woman liked me and didn't care about my scars, I could open up.  It was bridging that initial gap where I needed help.  Dancing seemed like the perfect ice breaker.  If I could make it to First Base, from there I would be okay.  I had no trouble speaking to women at that point.  But first I had to know that the scars on my face were not a problem for the woman.  My scar face was the barrier that stopped me cold. 

Asking a girl to dance is something I believed I could manage. If she turned me down for a dance, it would sting, but I could live with that.  And if she said yes, then I could read her expressions as we danced and know whether to continue or break it off.  If she smiled, I could take it from there.

And with that, my mind was made up.  In the morning I would call around for a dance studio.  Despite my certainty that this would be a tough hill to climb, I could not see another option.  Fortunately, what was the hurry?  I was 24 years old.  I knew I would be a slow learner, but if I stuck with dance lessons, sooner or later I was certain that Dancing was the skill that would conquer my Phobia. 

Besides, I comforted myself with the knowledge that maybe with a good teacher I would turn out to be a better dancer than I thought.  Better yet, maybe in the meantime I would meet a girl some other way.  If we clicked, then I could ditch the dance lessons and concentrate on the lady instead.

As Footnote to this story, in Hindsight I can report this turned out to be the smartest move I ever made.  However, at the time this decision was a long shot.  When I assert I was fighting a serious Phobia, please take me at my word.  When I say that the Point of No Return was trailing me everywhere I went, I mean that too.  I was borderline mentally ill.  That is the truth.

Furthermore, as we shall see, the dance lessons turned out to be even more gruesome than I ever imagined possible.  Using Hindsight, I can report that I never met anyone in my 40 year career who was worse than me when it came to learning how to dance.  It is, of course, a Cosmic Absurdity that a guy who openly admits he is not a natural dancer, never won a dance contest, refused to perform, never received a teaching award or one ounce of professional recognition, somehow managed to create the largest dance studio in Houston and quite likely in the entire United States. 

Considering my humble start compared to where I ended up, I am convinced that it was my Fate to take dance lessons whether I liked it or not.  All I had to do was open the door.  I tried to resist, but it was no use.  God had twisted my arm.  There were no other options and I was desperate.  And so I went through that door.  When Fate is involved, anything is possible.  

LOST YEARS:  FINDING A DANCE CLASS

The strange combination of the Mistress Book, Yolanda's scorn, a stalled car and the unsettling experience with Lynn sent me reeling.  I spent most of the next week involved in the Great Tough Guy Debate.  After all that worry about Yolanda's virtue, the irony came at the end of the Debate when I was unable to force myself to call Yolanda.  That is when I realized the Point of No Return was knocking on the door.  At this stage I had no will whatsoever to approach a woman I did know.  Desperate for a lifeline, I ran across Jim Deane's 'Fly Me to the Moon' story.   

Now that this story had persuaded me to commit to a Dance Project, on Friday, July 26, I looked in the Yellow Pages for a dance studio.  I called the three dance studios closest to my apartment, but none of them had classes in 'nightclub dancing'. 

The fourth call went to Dance City USA.  This studio was located on Richmond Avenue in the Galleria area 5 miles from my Montrose area apartment.  I spoke with a lady named Edna on the phone.  Edna wasn't busy, so she took the time to talk to me.  After I explained what I wanted, Edna said I had come to the right place.  She recommended the studio's brand new Disco Freestyle class on Saturday morning.  This class had only met two times previously. 

Edna explained that Dance City was primarily a Ballroom Dance studio.  However, David, one of their Ballroom instructors, had fallen in love with this new type of music called Disco.  Edna said a couple of David's students had seen him dance and asked him to teach a class for them.  Now I asked Edna if I could ask a dumb question.  She laughed and said sure. 

"What is Disco music?  I've never heard of it."  

Edna laughed again. 

"That's not a dumb question.  Disco music is fairly new.  The word comes from discothèque, the French word for 'dance club'.  However, the music cannot be described over the phone.  It is sort of a cross between Motown dance music and syncopated Latin music.  When you take David's class, you will find out."

I had no idea what Latin music sounded like, but Motown music was something I understood.  I was a huge fan of Aretha Franklin and Marvin Gaye.  However, I still had no idea what I was getting myself into.  Edna sensed my reluctance so she continued talking.  She said there weren't many people in the class so I would get lots of attention.  Now I understood why Edna was taking extra time with me... she was trying to build the class.  Her sales pitch worked; I promised I would be there tomorrow morning for David's Disco class.

This was a pretty big step for me.  When I describe my Phobia as an extreme anxiety disorder, I am absolutely serious.  I was an emotional cripple, a walking basket case.  Besides my problems with women, I was still upset over being tossed out of graduate school.  Riddled with loneliness and depression, I was able to function at my Child Welfare job and play basketball, but that was it.

In the privacy of my apartment, I spent every night criticizing myself for my inadequacies and faults.  Right now I was concentrating on the Rejection Phobia, but there were other problems as well.  I did not have a friend in the world and my ever-present loneliness was killing me.  The extent of my hostility towards women frightened me and I was worried about Blind Spots.  I still no answer to the mystery of what I kept doing wrong that made women like Yolanda brush me off.  My problems were so profound I had actually begun to believe there was some sort of Supernatural Curse hanging over me.  Or maybe I was secretly gay, a new worry that had surfaced thanks to Lola-Lynn.  Did women sense this about me?  That might explain their lack of interest. 

I was a deeply confused young man who was on the verge of giving up and taking a Siesta from women for a while (or maybe longer).  And yet at the exact moment I asked if I was destined to strike out with women for the rest of my life, this incredible 'Fly Me to the Moon' story had appeared.  This story about the power of dance to meet women had captured my imagination.  Not only that, but the timing was so perfect, I believed it was an answer to my prayers.  Seeing dance lessons as a lifeline of sorts, this goofy dancing idea had become magnified in my mind as the only possible solution to my Phobia problem. 

LOST YEARS:  THE ORIGIN OF DISCO MUSIC

Prior to my first dance lesson, I wondered again what Disco music was.  If it wasn't the Doors, the Eagles or Marvin Gaye, then I had no idea what to expect.  During my year at Colorado State, I had never heard of Disco music.  That is no surprise.  Most people agree the first Disco music appeared in New York in 1972, but the songs were not released nationally until 1973.  I would soon discover Disco was a fusion of Jazz, Motown and Latin\Salsa dance music. 

The origin of Disco music can be traced back to World War II.  After the Nazis banned live music in Paris, the French switched to phonograph records.  They danced to Swing music in underground jazz clubs known as Discothèques.  The word “Discothèque” mixes the French word “bibliothèque” (library) with “disque” (phonograph record).   As time passed, the abbreviated term "Disco" came into common use. 

Disco music evolved in several ways.  Here in America, it started with Sixties Motown.  In 1971 Isaac Hayes mixed soul with funk to create the theme song for Shaft.  When Hayes won the Academy award for most original song, the rush was on.  One Afro-American musician after another looked for ways to Jazz up the music.  Not to be outdone, Latin artists found ways to add Salsa rhythms to Soul music. 

Meanwhile, a pretty soul singer named Donna Summer got her big break in Europe.  She had gone to Germany to sing songs from Hair such as 'Aquarius'.  After several years of touring the country with her music troop, Summer met an Italian music genius named Giorgio Moroder.  Teaming up, Moroder added a pulsating, hypnotic electronic background beat to Summer's endless cooing of suggestive lyrics.  Together they created smash hits like 'Love to Love You, Baby' and 'I Feel Love'.  This sexy new sound was so popular in Europe that Summer's hit records became referred to as 'Disco music'. 

In 1974 Donna Summer crossed the Atlantic to join forces with the American influence.  Once Summer arrived, this new style of music caught on quickly.  Moroder would later be known as the "Father of Disco" while Summer was called the "Queen of Disco".  Together with Isaac Hayes they were the pioneers of this new music genre. 

Many people think the Disco Era began with Saturday Night Fever in 1978.  That is not true.   The embers of Disco began smoldering six years before the movie came along.   SNF was smart to place the action in Brooklyn since the New York area was where both Disco music and dancing first became popular here in the USA.  They say the great cultural trends start in New York.  When it comes to music and dance, there is definitely some truth to that.  Take Swing music and Swing dance for example.  Jazz music originated in New Orleans while Charleston dancing got its start in South Carolina.  However both trends stayed under the radar until Jazz and Charleston collided in Harlem following the completion of World War I.  Jazz and Charleston teamed up to become a signature part of the Roaring Twenties.  The fusion of Jazz and Charleston eventually led to the Big Band Swing Era with New York again serving as the epicenter.

As my story unfolds, it will be important to understand the Disco Era was divided into Act One and Act Two.  The problem with popular music is the limited life span.  No matter how wonderful the music, eventually people tire and move on.  First came the Jazz Era of the Twenties which morphed into Swing music.  Who would have guessed the fabulous Big Band Sound of the Thirties would ever come to an end?  But people were worn out following World War II.  Swing music was replaced in the Forties by lullabies and blues.  Rock 'n Roll, country, and rockabilly emerged in the Fifties.  The Sixties saw a wide variety of sounds such as surf, pop, folk, R&B, psychedelic, rock and Motown. 

Music was all over the place in the Seventies.  Funk, smooth jazz, jazz fusion, Latin, soul, hard rock, punk rock, soft rock, outlaw country, progressive country, Disco, you name it.  Although Disco music was an important music trend of the Seventies, during Act One it was never mainstream.  Due to a limited audience, the Disco cycle faded badly in late 1977.  However, just in the nick of time, Saturday Night Fever came out of nowhere to create Act Two.  Not only did the movie rescue Disco from the grave, it propelled interest in Disco music and dancing to unimaginable heights.  Thanks in large part to the popular Bee Gees movie soundtrack, Act Two saw Disco music become the dominant form of pop music form for the next two years.  Disco was not quite as popular in 1980, but it was still going strong.

Disco music featured great dance rhythms accompanied by uncomplicated, repetitive lyrics.  Since the point was to allow the rhythm to dominate, Disco lyrics were at best a mindless afterthought.  For that matter, some Disco music didn't even bother with lyrics.  As Disco music evolved, synthetic electronic rhythms were emphasized to create a hypnotic feel.  

The lack of emphasis on lyrics was a major complaint.  Unlike Country-Western music which tries to tell a story, only the beat mattered with Disco music.  In a way, this was a shame because a song that told a story had the best chance to reach people on an emotional level.  To this day, Aretha Franklin's 'Respect' and Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive' resonate due to their powerful message while other songs fade into memory.  Let's face it, some people liked Disco music, some hated it.  As for me, I loved Disco music right from the start. 

Disco dancing first caught on in New York's gay bars in 1973.  From there it moved to other U.S. cities, usually starting in the local gay bars before crossing over to the straight bars.  When I took my first dance class in July 1974, Disco was just beginning to catch on here in Houston.  However it was not until 1975 that Disco broke out.  KC and the Sunshine Band (Shake Your Booty), Gloria Gaynor (I Will Survive), and Donna Summer (Love to Love You, Baby) released Disco songs that became big hits on the pop charts.  Three years later, the stage was set for Saturday Night Fever to turn both Disco music and Disco dancing into a social phenomenon at the start of 1978. 

I knew nothing about Dance City, the place where I took my first dance class.  I would later learn this studio was a major fixture on the Houston dance scene.  Dance City was by far the largest dance studio in Houston.  The studio gave birth to two legendary figures.  George Ballas was the man who created Dance City.  Ballas met his wife Maria during a Tango lesson.  Maria was a gifted flamenco dancer who also taught Ballroom.  Maria persuaded George to become a dance instructor like herself.  Performing together, they made quite a team.  After moving to Houston in the mid-1950s, George and Maria worked at the Arthur Murray and Fred Astaire Ballroom dance franchises.

In the late 1960s, Ballas opened his own studio in a vast, underutilized building located next to a Houston cinema.  Timing is everything.  When the fabulous Galleria was built a couple years later, property values in this part of town skyrocketed while the lease on the dance studio remained low.  Dance City became the newest hot spot with the rich.  In its heyday, Dance City employed 120 teachers and covered 43,000 square feet.  Boasting that his giant dance studio was the largest in the world, Ballas referred to it as "a supermarket of dancing with babes, booze and big bands all under one roof."

After selling his studio in 1970, George Ballas acquired fame for a different reason.  Ballas used his free time to fidget with a weird lawn trimming device.  Consequently Ballas would one day become known as the inventor of the Weed Eater.  Not only that, his son Corky Ballas was a talented dancer who would one day become an International Ballroom champion.  Mark Ballas, son of Corky Ballas, continued the family legacy when he became a fixture on the popular TV show Dancing with the Stars.

Dance City gave rise to another celebrity in the dance world.  A gracious lady named Patsy Swayze would one day own Houston's most prestigious jazz-ballet dance studio.   Early in her career Patsy taught at Dance City several times a week while her rambunctious 10 year old son Patrick ran around terrorizing the place.  Although Patsy was long gone from Dance City by the time I showed up in 1974, our paths would later cross in a very significant way.   

LOST YEARS:  RUNNING THE  GAUNTLET

After hanging up the phone with Edna on Friday afternoon, I tried very hard to find a reason to chicken out.  I knew I was taking a real chance with this dance class.  Jim Deane's dance story had been encouraging, but now my fearful side had taken over with dire predictions.  After all the problems I had been through over the past year, I didn't have much courage left. 

Tossing and turning all night, I awoke the following morning convinced this was the worst idea I ever had.  Since there was nothing in my past to suggest I had the slightest bit of dance talent, surely I was doomed to screw up and hate myself even worse.  On the other hand, I was 24 years old and going nowhere.  The Mistress Book suggestion about dance class was the first constructive idea I had encountered in ages, so I decided to go through with it. 

Saturday, July 27, 1974, was not quite as big a calamity as Pearl Harbor, but in my case it came close.  This was a day that would live in infamy.

With no idea what I was getting myself into, I was a nervous wreck as I walked into Dance City at 10 am.  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.  However, Edna had made two persuasive arguments.  First she said this was the perfect class to prepare me to dance at a nightclub.  Then she insisted this was the only class of its kind in the city.  Considering the three other studios I had called said they had no such class, I assumed Edna was telling the truth.  This class seemed like my only choice.

Hoping for reassurance, I asked for Edna at the registration desk.  I was out of luck; Edna did not work weekends.  Oh well.  I had promised myself that no matter how afraid I was, I would not back out.  Filled with anxiety, I paid for my class and got directions to the dance room.  

On my way to the Disco class, I noticed a group of ten well-groomed, nicely-dressed men lined in a row.  Each man wore a coat and tie.  Standing in front of the knee-high wall that lined the edge of a giant Ballroom dance floor, I had to walk past these men to get to my classroom.

Since Edna had told me Dance City was primarily a Ballroom dance studio, I assumed these men were Ballroom instructors waiting to greet their dance students as they arrived.  Noting two couples already dancing behind the line of ten men, I guessed that Saturday mornings were a prime time for private lessons.  I also assumed these men congregated here because this was the entrance to the main dance floor. 

As I approached the men, they were engaged in conversation with each other.  Suddenly they all stopped talking to look me over.  As I walked up, they eyeballed me so closely that I was taken aback.  Good grief, these men were practically leering!  What was this all about?  As I got closer, I did a double-take when I realized each man was likely gay.  In my sheltered life, I had never seen more than two gay men together.  Now there were ten.  With each man staring intently at me, this was by far the weirdest welcoming committee I had ever faced.  Except I had been wrong about the leering.  Yes, some were leering, but half of these men were frowning.  Noticing the strange expressions and mixed reaction, I felt very much on guard.

As if I was not feeling shaky enough at coming to this foreign place, those men upset me with their strange stares.   I could not figure out what was going through their minds.  What was their problem?  Based on their frowns, it clearly was not lust.  So why were they staring at me like this?  What did I do wrong?  Was I invading their space or something?  Talk about being put on the spot!  I groaned to myself.  I was already nervous enough about my first dance class and now I had to deal with gay dance instructors checking me out.  Feeling extremely self-conscious, my gay fears resurfaced.  It had only been one week since Lola-Lynn the drag queen had picked me up.  Thinking back to the eight times I had been propositioned in college, I wondered why gay men took so much interest in me.  Do I look gay?  Do they know something I don't know?  I suppressed my panic as best I could, but it was not easy.  Their wide-eyed, poker-face stares rattled me badly.  

Well, I wasn't going to let this stop me.  I made it this far, so I might as well keep going.  Since the only way I could get to my room was to walk past this gauntlet, I gritted my teeth and kept my eyes focused straight ahead.  You know how I am about omens.  As omens go, this reception committee was about as bad as it gets.  My nerves were shot and I had not even made it to class yet. 

I hesitated in front of the closed door.  Hearing the dance music, this was it.  Last chance to turn around.  Possessed by a very bad premonition, I did not want to go in.  Looking at my watch, I was 10 minutes late.  Why not just leave?  However, I had hit such a complete dead end in my life that right now the only hope seemingly available to me was this powerful urge to take dance lessons.  Committed to a project for which I had little natural ability, I clung to the hope I was not as bad as I thought I was.   

I could hear dance music inside the room, but the Gay Gauntlet had unnerved me so much I continued to waver.  I turned around to see if they were still looking at me.  Yes, they were.  If anything, those men helped me make up my mind.  Rather than chicken out liked I wanted to do, I did not want them to see me turn tail and run.  So I decided to go through with this class.  Anything to avoid passing those guys again.  Who knows, one of them might say 'boo!' and grab me.  Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself as best I could. 

It was Time to open the door... 

LOST YEARS:  DEFIANCE

I was so stunned by what I saw that I froze on the spot.  There were 8 people in the room.  Standing in front was David, the tiny gay dance instructor.  Behind Dave stood seven women lined in a row side by side.  One glance was all it took to realize these seven women came from the cream of Houston society.  It was beyond weird to see seven highly sophisticated women dressed to the nines in a lowly Beginning Freestyle class.  The whole point of this class was to learn how shake your booty, but these women were so thin they didn't even have one to shake. 

The seven women took one glance at me and reacted with horror.  That expression was quickly replaced by intense hostility.  These women did NOT want me in here.  It reminded me of the time a St. John's woman had chased me away in a very offensive way.  10 years old at the time, I had committed the crime of standing in the hallway as a group of socialites sipped tea in the SJS Commons area.  I had many bad memories of women like Mrs. High and Mighty.  And now I had seven more just like her staring at me in the same way. 

This was my unpleasant introduction to the River Oaks Seven, a group of society women who would become immortal to my story.  No doubt these well-dressed ladies of privilege lived in nearby River Oaks, home to Houston's elite.  I never learned their names, but they looked like they had been ripped out of the Houston Chronicle's Best Dressed List.  They reminded me so much of the mothers of my former classmates I automatically assumed they lived in River Oaks.

River Oaks was the Houston area where the millionaires lived.  Lined with luxurious mansions and extraordinary age-old oak trees, River Oaks was synonymous with wealth.  Although I grew up poor, I knew all about wealth.  That is because I attended a River Oaks private school known as St. John's for nine years on a scholarship.  Although I did well academically, spending nine years on the bottom rung of the SJS Status Ladder had created a deep sense of social inferiority.  The moment I saw these women, all those years of feeling like the underdog came rushing back.

These seven women were twice my age, half my size, and a million times wealthier.  They stared at me with utter contempt.  I could understand irritation at having their class interrupted, but their disdain went way past that.  A homeless person could not have received a more haughty look than the seven gazes directed at me with laser intensity.  Their immediate dislike felt personal.  There was so much scorn in their eyes that I could see they wanted me to leave. 

These imperious snobs were so perfectly matched I was certain they knew each other.  Thanks to my years at St. John's, I knew the 'High Society Look' well.  They exuded prosperity.  Elegant clothes, tasteful scarves, expensive jewelry and impeccably coifed hair gave these ladies a cultured, aristocratic appearance.  The women had matching petite figures.  They wore expensive tailored dresses which fit perfectly on their human toothpick bodies.  

Based on their cold, hostile stares, I felt like I was trespassing.  Their instant dislike evoked a painful flashback.  I used to feel the same way back at St. John's.  Their grimaces were startlingly reminiscent of the stares I received during my Leprosy days of acne.  Indeed, these seven women were so much the spitting image of the rich women who had once intimidated me at St. John's that I felt teleported straight back to High School Hell.  Who on earth were these women? 

The seven ladies reminded me of the St. John's Mother's Guild.  The Mother's Guild sponsored dance parties after each home football game.  The parties were held in the River Oaks homes of a different Mother's Guild member each week.  I recalled arriving at their doorstep with my blotched face.  Those mothers would take one look at Leper Boy and frown as if I was imposing.  I wasn't welcome, but to their chagrin they were duty-bound to let me in anyway.  After all, I was an SJS student, my red Freddy Krueger mask of pimples notwithstanding.  I shuddered at the memory. 

This could not be happening.  This was pure Twilight Zone moment, too weird to be believed.  I could not fathom what circumstance could possibly have arranged this eerie revival of my high school trauma.  It was uncanny how much these hateful women reminded me of similar tormentors from yesteryear.  As the River Oaks Seven glared with their arrogant patrician expressions, I recognized the same disdain I had received in the past.  Their hostility triggered all kinds of bitter memories including the vicious taunts from my nemesis Harold... 'Leper Boy', 'Dick the Hick', 'Clearasil Kid', and of course 'Creepy Loser Kid', the insult of my nightmares.

A tidal wave of anxiety washed over me.  Those were memories I preferred to forget, but too late now.  St. John's was six years in the rearview mirror, but those memories had returned to haunt me anew.  As they stood there staring with arms folded across their chest, the sight of these pit bulls in lipstick brought waves of teenage pain and humiliation back again.  I was reminded of the pathetic, disfigured boy made to feel he should apologize for his unwanted existence at a school where only the privileged and beautiful belonged. 

I wanted to run, but then I steeled myself and looked around.  Where could I hide?  That was impossible.  Due to my height, I was unbelievably conspicuous.  The room was small and lined with tall 8-foot mirrors on three walls.  Due to my ever-present Rejection Phobia, I was sick in my stomach. Just then the strangest thought crossed my mind.  This moment transcended Reality.  A Hollywood cast chosen to torture me could not have picked seven more perfect villains.  Something strange, something very strange was going on here.

The Gay Gauntlet had been bad enough, but this was so much worse.  Caught off guard, I was very intimidated by these women.  Given my current vulnerability, I was totally unprepared for this frosty reception straight out of my tormented past.  On a day when I had used what little courage I had just to make myself show up, my demons and fears had risen from their coffins to haunt me anew.  I couldn't take it any more.  I took one step to the door to leave, then stopped when a powerful thought crossed my mind.  These women want me to leave!  

I had to hand it to those women, the moment they saw me, they had banded as one.  Greeting me with uniform expressions of horror, I came close to leaving the room.  Did I have the guts to stand up to this kind of hostility?  To my surprise, the answer was yes.  Although it was seven arrogant women against one emotional cripple, it did not matter.  Once my ancient St. John's defiance returned, so did my courage.  Those women had a lot of nerve acting like this was their private country club.  Who did they think they are?  I paid for this class and I had a right to be here!  Feeling a burning anger, I finally had a worthy target for all my pent-up Colorado State rage.  Unwilling to back down, I gave them my best Go to Hell look, then stayed in the room specifically to spite the women.  Class warfare had begun.  It was the Creepy Loser Kid squared off against the Seven Sardonic Snobs of High Society. 

Determined to stay, I turned my attention to the teacher, a diminutive man who stood before an 8-foot mirror.  His name was David Dumas.  David was not at all frosty like the River Oaks Seven.  When David greeted me with a warm smile and invited me in, I thought the women would have a heart attack.  They were aghast to see David give me permission to stay.  Shocked that David wasn't going to toss me out for the sin of existing, much less invading their class, the seven women turned their backs to me in a disgusted huff.  No doubt David would hear from these women later for the crime of sticking up for me. 

David was Hispanic and unusually handsome.  He was a nattily attired, 5' 7" wisp of a guy a year or two older than me.  David was thin and very tan.  He had dyed his hair blonde most likely to accentuate his deep tan.  Leaving his shirt open down to the last two buttons on his flowery shirt, David's chest had no hair whatsoever.  He wore a colorful purple sash wrapped around his waist and the tightest hip-hugging pants I had ever seen on a man.  By his mannerisms, speech and the way he dressed, there was little doubt David was gay.  I could have cared less.  I had nothing against people who were gay.  Half my agency was gay.  Same for my Montrose neighborhood.  After last week's adventure with Lola-Lynn, living in a complex populated with older gay men, and walking this morning's gauntlet of 10 gay dance instructors, I was starting to get used to it. 

I retreated to the back corner of the room.  Once I found my spot, I turned around to watch what David was doing in the front.  Although his back was turned, I could see him staring at me through the mirror. The seven women were also using the mirror to stare at me.  It was not hard to see me.  I was Goliath compared to everyone else.  But why so much interest?  Can't they just leave me alone?  Just then I happened to glance at myself in mirror for the first time.

Oh my God!!

LOST YEARS:  MOUNTAIN MAN

In the mirror staring back at me was the spitting image of Paul Bunyan.  It had been so long since I had looked in the mirror, it took a second to realize this was me.  I knew I was a big guy, but I had never quite grasped my size until I saw these tiny Lilliputian women staring up at me half in terror, half in disgust. 

I was ashamed of my appearance.  I looked like a giant hillbilly oaf in comparison to David and the petite women.  At 6' 1", 200 pounds, I was not only a head taller, I was twice as wide.  Thick as an oak tree, my shoulders alone were the size of two wafer-thin women placed side by side.  With my bulging muscles, I could have snapped any one of those toothpick snobs in half for the fun of it.  No wonder they were afraid of me. 

But my size was not the only problem, it was my appearance.  I was wearing blue jeans, a red plaid flannel shirt, plus my thick Colorado mountain boots.  This was appropriate clothing for 50° Rocky Mountain weather, but hardly for 100° Houston heat.  I guess in the back of my mind I was still living in Colorado.  Or more likely, I had been so depressed since returning to Houston, I had not paid attention.  I was quite a sight... and not a pleasant one either. 

There's an old saying, 'Take a look in the mirror.'  Due to my acne-related revulsion, I rarely looked in the mirror.  This was a bad habit left over from my terrible acne years in high school.  Once Vanessa left, I felt so ugly, I stopped looking completely.  I guess it had been several months since I last took a glance.  Now, however, I had no choice.  Trapped in a room of mirrors, I was shocked by my appearance.  The shame was overwhelming.  The presence of these River Oaks women reminded me of the days when I had been the ugliest boy at St. John's.  Gee, lucky me.  Just like old times!  

The worst part had to be the long hair.  Understand that long hair was fashionable in 1974 Colorado.  Lots of young men at Colorado State had long hair back in those days, but not here in Houston. The unkempt mop I bore that day was unwelcome in ultra-conservative Houston. 

During my miserable year at Colorado State, I did not get a single haircut.  Once Vanessa broke my heart, I stopped caring about my appearance.  In the span of nine months I had gone from an acceptable Prince Valiant haircut at the start of the year to some sort of macabre Charles Manson look.  Geez, put a beard on me and I was a Charles Manson lookalike.  Not a pretty sight.  For the first time, I had an inkling it wasn't my scars, but rather my wild appearance which had contributed to my lukewarm reception with the Colorado State coeds.

I noticed the River Oaks women continued to stare by way of the mirrors.  They tried to disguise their disgust with a poker face, but their eyes gave it away.  Seeing the utter disdain, I turned crimson with shame.  Now I knew why the gay men had gawked at me.  It could not possibly have been sexual attraction as I had feared at first.  They stared at me for the exact same reason these women did... I looked like a freak.  

Shaking my head in disbelief, I was truly embarrassed.  It was painful to know I resembled some sort of grotesque backwoods clodhopper.  The embarrassment was overwhelming.  I was Sasquatch in comparison to these model-thin women with perfect figures.   These women resembled the mothers of my former classmates to perfection.  St. John's had been the Land of the Beautiful People.  With their flawless make-up and precious petite bodies, these women upheld that tradition nicely.  Thin was in, stout was out. 

This dance class had turned into a nightmare.  The constant sneers made it clear how unhappy they were with my presence.  The shock of seeing how truly ugly I was had removed most of my defiance.  As waves of shame coursed through me, I looked down at the floor to avoid further eye contact.  Due to the excruciating tension, my hands balled into fists and I began to grind my teeth. 

It was impossible to hide... no, not from them, but from myself!!  I had long feared mirrors and this room reminded me why.  It was painful to look at myself.  However, with mirrors on three walls, that was unavoidable.  There I was, Sasquatch, a wild hillbilly Mountain Man towering over a Lilliputian world of seven tiny rich women and their tiny gay dance instructor.  It was a bizarre sight indeed.

Damn it, those women would not stop glaring at me!  No doubt it was fear. Who could blame them?  With just one misstep, I might fall and crush someone with my clumsiness.  Or worse, I would go Helter Skelter and slash their throats!  Using their blue blood as finger paint, I would smear hideous Disco messages on the mirrors.  Hmm, the way I felt, that might not be such a bad idea. 

It took a while, but eventually the women decided I wasn't homicidal.  Assuming their lives were no longer in danger, the seven women returned to snobbery, their natural state of being.  Their pained looks made it clear they didn't like having their dance party interrupted by a wilderness monstrosity.  However, since there was nothing they could do about it, now they pretended I did not exist. 

The damage had been done.  I could not bear to stay in here much longer.  I swear to God, I felt exactly like I did back in high school on that terrible day when people stared in shock at my overnight acne explosion.  Memories of walking down the hallway with students staring in horror at my swollen red face came flooding back.   Facing a terrifying rerun of my years of humiliation during High School Hell, I accidentally looked at myself in the mirror again.   Bad move.  The sight of my sunken pock-marked cheeks made me sick with revulsion. 

I should not have looked in the mirror.  That mirror destroyed me the same way kryptonite crippled Superman.  The horror of seeing my disgusting long hair in combination with my inappropriate clothes and scarred face was more than I could handle.  Sick to my stomach, I wanted to leave in the worst way.  I would have left right there except for my desperation to solve my fear of pretty girls. 

Recalling what my friend Jason had once said, I was down to my last silver bullet and the wolves were closing in.  Despite feeling spooked by these calamitous circumstances, I still believed these dance lessons were my last chance to conquer my loneliness.  Fearing the Point of No Return, I decided to hang in there.  Damn these women for being here, but I needed these lessons.

LOST YEARS:  THE DANCE CLASS FROM HELL

The main reason I stuck around was curiosity.  I wanted to find out if I was as bad a dancer as I expected to be.  I got my answer soon enough.  I was not as bad as I expected to be, I was worse.  On that fateful Saturday morning, my fear that I was a dreadful dancer was confirmed once and for all.  Just add it to the list of horrors.  There seemed to be no end to my suffering. 

This bad news was not exactly a surprise.  My mediocre dancing ability was something I had long suspected.  What upset me was discovering just how truly awkward I was.  I didn't expect to walk in and find I was ready for Swan Lake.  But I would have been pleased to at least pick up some of David's patterns.  Not so.  I could not do anything right.  Stiff and clumsy, I moved with the fluidity of a dump truck stuck in reverse.  The worst part was watching David dance in the mirror.  Comparing myself to him, I was reminded of the dancing hippos in Fantasia.

There was one particular dance step that drove me to distraction.  The infamous 'Step Ball-Change' pattern bedeviled me no end.  This triple step move was the defining Freestyle dance step of the Seventies.  To my dismay, David choose to devote most of his class to this move.

I could not execute this triple step correctly.  Nor did I have any idea what my mistake was.  I was constantly losing my balance which in turn made it impossible to keep up with the rapid Disco beat.  No matter how hard I struggled, I made absolutely no improvement.

In Hindsight I can share what the problem was.  My mistake was allowing my heel to touch the floor whenever I stepped back.  This created too much backward momentum, causing me to lose my balance.  The solution was not that difficult, but I was too new to understand what caused the problem.  Making matters worse, I noticed the River Oaks women had no trouble picking up the move.  Women typically curse how uncomfortable it is to wear high heels, but high heels do offer an unexpected bonus when it comes to dancing.  Wearing heels teaches women to keep their weight forward over the ball of their foot.  Meanwhile, my basketball background left me flat-footed.  Putting weight on my heel was the most natural thing in the world.  I might add my heavy mountain boots made the problem worse.  This explains why the women picked the move up so much faster than me, but of course I blamed myself. 

While I floundered, I could help but notice the rich ladies handle the move without difficulty.  I have to say their ease aggravated me no end.  I am sure it gave them immense pleasure to see how much better they were than me.  No doubt my clumsiness reaffirmed their innate sense of superiority.  I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw one woman smirk at my difficulties.  Bitter at her scorn, I could feel my teeth clench together even tighter.  Given my thin skin, I became rigid with anger and self-contempt.

I think David noticed my problem, but he did not correct my mistake.  My guess is the women had intimidated him.  Given the obvious hostility of the seven women, he knew better than to risk their wrath by addressing me.  Making things tougher, David added this damn triple step move in every pattern he taught.  Since nothing I tried seemed to improve my balance, I made no progress.  The harder I tried, the worse I got.  My frustration was off the charts. 

A major problem was my damaged pride.  The unexpected presence of these River Oaks women had elevated my anxiety to a fever pitch because their appearance screamed 'St. John's'.   Just looking at them resurrected all my St. John's feelings of inferiority.  Their disdain made me feel like an unwelcome outcast all over again.  No wonder I was so tense.  I could not bear looking foolish and clumsy in front of these women who obviously believed they were superior to me.  Making matters worse, their dancing was superior.

I was baffled by the difficulty I was having.  How was it possible that I could be an excellent athlete, but pathetic at this dance stuff?   My feet worked just fine when I played basketball.  Why could I do a 360 spin move in basketball, yet nearly fall on my butt while dancing 'Step Ball-Change'?  Considering how much I had riding on this class, my clumsiness was disheartening to say the least.

The thought of using dance to find a girlfriend was so preposterous, I lost all remaining courage.  This class had been very important to me, but I didn't want to be here anymore.  I was pretty hard on myself back in those days, but right now I was screaming at myself for seeing my fondest hopes go down the drain.  I was sick with rage at my futility.  Unfortunately those women could tell I was struggling with my temper.  The worse part were the smiles and snickers of my adversaries.  It was bad enough when these haughty women had expressed their scorn over my appearance.  Now they were openly contemptuous of my atrocious dancing.  This evoked the memory of Connie Kill Shot, the woman who had shared a similar disgust at my dancing.  Back then I was so embarrassed I had gone two full years without another date.  The way I was feeling right now, this time it might be four years. 

All kinds of questions raced through my mind.  Why were these women so much better than me?  Were rich people inherently better than me at everything?  Growing more self-critical by the moment, I cursed my inability to keep up with my tormentors.  Ordinarily my solution to every problem was to try harder.  Today that solution just made things worse.  I had never felt more helpless in my life.  

Several times I thought I noticed the women watching me using the mirrors, but it was impossible to be sure.  Then I got my proof.  After one particularly spastic motion, a woman burst out laughing.  That pushed hard on my hot button because it reminded me of the time Connie's girlfriends had laughed at my dancing during a college mixer.  That did it.  I froze with shame.  In no mood to be a laughingstock, I just stood there.  I wasn't about to give those women anything more to laugh about.

Unable to participate due to my aggravation, I was turning into a pressure cooker ready to explode.  The main reason I had decided to stay was to show these women I was their equal.  Earlier in the class, I had been bound and determined to prove to these women I could match them stride for stride.  Now faced with their obvious superiority, imagine my frustration to see my defiance completely backfire on me.  They had every right to act superior because they were superior.  I had never in my life felt more like a failure than I did now.  First Vanessa, then Fujimoto, now 'dance class' of all things.  Discouraged and defeated, I should have left when I had the chance and spared myself the indignity.

I snorted with bitterness over the optimism I felt when I read the 'Fly Me to the Moon' story.  I came here for the chance to do something positive for a change.  Never before had I been quite so convinced that I was Cursed.  I am completely serious when I say this.  I had been toying with the idea of being cursed ever since the Stalled Car incident and getting deceived by a drag queen.  I remember thinking, "Well, gee, Rick, dance class can't possibly be worse than Lynn and Yolanda..."  Famous last words.  Coming here had been a terrible mistake.  I had hoped for a long-overdue breakthrough only to be handed an overwhelming humiliation.

My thoughts had warned me this dance class was not a very good idea.  Why didn't I listen?  There was no way I would ever be any good at dancing.   I was so frustrated by my poor dancing that I wanted to walk out.  Just leave now and cut my losses.

I took two steps to the door, then suddenly stopped in my tracks.  'Leaving' was exactly what I had done four years ago when Connie Kill Shot and Company had laughed at my dancing.  I recalled promising Dr. Hilton if I ever faced a situation like this again, I would not just quit.  What had I accomplished by leaving the college mixer?  Nothing.  In fact, I had used that defeat as an excuse to postpone dating for two entire years.  Is that really what I wanted to do again?  Was it time to postpone dating again?  I couldn't take it.  I could not bear another minute of loneliness, much less two more years.  But what good would it do to stay?  I had promised myself I would take this dance class seriously, but that was before I realized how bad I was at dancing.  Why subject myself to this humiliation?  At that moment a solution came to me.  Why not stay after class and ask for some help?  I nodded.  That much I could do. 

Being lost in thought actually did me a favor.  I got so busy debating whether I should stay or go that my temper cooled down enough to realize it was wrong to quit so easily.  Thank goodness I had a shred of pride left.  Given my grad school failure, I did not have much to show for my fancy prep school education.  However, at least I had learned the value of persistence.  So I decided to stick around for the remaining five minutes in spite of the panic inside.  That said, I could not take another snicker from these women.  Having endured as much humiliation as possible for one day, I stood there with my arms crossed for the last five minutes of class. 

Filled with self-loathing, I was dying inside.  What was I thinking?  Coming here had been one of the worst decisions of my life.  Unless David could help, I was not coming back.

LOST YEARS:  DAVID OFFERS TO HELP

After an eternity, my First Dance Class mercifully ended.  From my distant corner I studied the women as they said goodbye to David.  I watched each woman hug their cute dance instructor and give him a tiny peck on the cheek.  Oh, how sweet.  They treated their boy toy like a precious little pet.  David loved it.  He preened and giggled with delight.  smooch, hug, smooch, hug.  I wanted to puke.  And that's when I got it.  These women were painting David's face with red lipstick for a reason. 

This outpouring of scarlet affection made it clear that David was their personal property.  This must be one of the ways rich women mark their territory.  As if to emphasize that message, before they left, two of the women looked back at Sasquatch for one final sneer.  This dance class belongs to us. 

Don't come back.

These sophisticated women knew how to make their point without saying a word.  The nerve of me to barge in.  My unexpected arrival had spoiled their private dance party.  It must be so difficult to enjoy being rich with a menacing mountain creature in their presence.  I shook my head in disgust.  I had met women like this group before.  Memories of polished women chatting in the St. John's Reception Room following the Mother's Guild meetings floated through my mind.  All we needed was a tea set and some delicate cookies and my vision would be complete. 

Right now there were some really strange feelings and thoughts floating around in my head.  Today's class had been weird beyond weird.  It was eerie how today's dance class had evoked every St. John's memory of feeling socially inadequate.  Consequently it was a relief it was to see those women gone.  Now that David and I were alone, he smiled at me.  Then he pulled out a tissue and went over to the mirror to wipe the lipstick off.  He readjusted his shirt and made sure his purple sash was intact.  Now he reached into his pocket and produced a comb.  After fixing his hair, David stared at himself to make sure he was still pretty. 

Despite all my tension, I actually grinned a little.  Give it a rest, guy, you're beautiful enough.

David had won my Citizen of the Year award for smiling when I first entered the room.  He could just as easily have won major points with the Seven Snob Sisters by frowning at me instead.  I was grateful he had chosen to be nice.  I imagine if he had sided with the women, I would have thrown in the towel.  David was my hero for giving me a reason to stick around. 

In addition, David's dancing had been impressive.  I had never seen anyone move like he did.  What I wouldn't give to dance like him!  If I could learn to dance like David, I believed I could get rid of this awful Rejection Phobia.  I would let my feet do the talking and women were sure to respond.  I might add that if I looked like David, I wouldn't even need to dance.  He was a small, wispy sort of guy, but he was unusually handsome.  His blonde hair and deeply tanned face gave him an exotic pretty boy look.  Considering how preoccupied I was with my sense of ugliness, what I wouldn't give to look like he did.  Well, take that back.  I would definitely lose the purple sash.

David came over and smiled.  "Welcome to my class.  We haven't met.  I'm David, but everyone calls me Disco Dave.  Oh my god, look how tall you are!"   David stuck out his hand and asked, "What is your name?"

Responding with a hand shake, I replied, "My name is Rick.  I want to learn to dance, but obviously I need some help."

David nodded.  "Yes, I saw that you were struggling.  Maybe I can take a look."

I smiled hopefully.  "That would be great.  I stayed behind in hopes you might be able to help show me what I am doing wrong with that move you call Step Ball-Change.  However, before we start, can I ask you a question?  Who are those women?  They didn't seem very friendly."

"Oh, them?" 

David hesitated and looked over his shoulder.  He went over and peeked out the door just to be sure they weren't hanging around outside.  In a conspiratorial whisper, David confided in me. 

"Those women are my Ballroom dance students.  The ladies all know each other from their Ballroom dance club.  They take private lessons from me every week.  Sometimes they drag their husbands along with them, but usually they prefer to come alone because they like dancing with me.  I make them look good on the floor and I make it fun for them.  These women belong to an exclusive private club over in River Oaks that holds periodic galas complete with Ballroom music and a live band.  Or sometimes they come here when Dance City has their monthly dance party.  They wear their most expensive gowns to each event and compete to see who is the best dressed, who is the most beautiful, and who is the best dancer.  It is a serious game to these women to be the best at everything."

David paused for a moment to frown, then continued.  "I am sorry they were rude towards you, but these ladies think this class belongs to them.  In a way, I suppose it does."

"How so?  Why do they think that?"

"One night last month, Dance City had a Ballroom function that several of these ladies attended.  Not one husband came along.  Apparently the men were all on some hunting trip at one of their big ranches.  Since these ladies are my students, I sat with them and kept them entertained.  I took turns dancing with the women all night long... Waltz, Tango, Cha-Cha, and so on.  Towards the end of the party, a lady named Margaret told the others about the time I had shown her some of my Disco moves.  Immediately the other women demanded to see me dance.  I said not at this party, this was for Ballroom dancing only.  But the whole table ganged up on me and begged me to show off."

"What did you show them?"

David laughed and did a couple impromptu dance moves for my benefit.  I got the picture.  Impressive.  Then he continued. 

"I looked around.  Most of the guests had left.  Since the floor was empty, I decided it was late and no one cared.  So I put on a Disco record and did a little Freestyle exhibition for these ladies.  When I moved my hips, they went nuts.  They liked my moves and they liked the Disco music too.  In fact, they liked it so much they begged me to teach them some of my moves.  I said sure, why not.

So I showed them a couple moves and let them copy me.  One lady, Barbara, said this was so much fun, she wished they could have a regular class.  The others agreed, so I said I would check with my supervisor.  It was late, but I knew he wasn't leaving till the party ended.  My boss said the place was booked solid at night throughout the week, but what about Saturday morning?  So I went back and told them the only available time was Saturday morning.  I figured they would sniff and say forget it, but I was wrong.  Saturday morning was fine with them.  'Can we do it around 10?  That way we can get our hair done before class and go to lunch afterwards.'  So that was that.  Today was our third meeting." 

I frowned at the thought that the women were dining together at this very minute.  Take one guess what they were talking about.  David interrupted my thoughts by lowering his voice even more.   

"Rick, I saw those dirty looks.  I'm sorry about that.  I think they expected to have this class all to themselves, but I told them from the start the director insisted we had to open it up to the general public.  You are the first person to join and they didn't handle it very well." 

I nodded.  "Thank you, David.  That helps explain a lot.  It was just weird seeing them together and no one else." 

I appreciated David's candor.  In a sense, David and I had something in common.   Back in the days when Rome ruled the world, these women were the Patricians.  David and I were Plebeians, the dirt poor working class.  David may be their pet, but he was still a menial to these women.  In a way, David straddled two worlds.  When the River Oaks Seven was present, he would cater to the women with their airs and finery.  However, when we were alone, he recognized a kindred spirit.  We were both struggling to find our niche in the world.  

Encouraged by his decision to take me into his confidence, I asked David for help.  

"Thank you for explaining that.  Things make a little more sense.  Hey, do you mind if I show you the move that gave me trouble?"

"No, not at all, Rick.  Show me where you are getting stuck." 

With David watching, I danced my version of Step Ball-Change. 

David was kind enough to watch my hippo impersonation with a straight face.  He frowned mightily as he tried to figure out what I was doing wrong.  Then his face broke out in a smile.  He knew exactly what the problem was.

"Rick, you are putting your heel down in back.  Keep your heel up!"

Only one problem.  Although I sort of understood his explanation, I could not seem to stop doing it.  David was at a loss.  He could not figure out why I could not grasp his suggestion.  David was an unbelievable dancer, but he wasn't analytical like me.  David was more the 'Simon Says' type of dance teacher. 

Sure enough, David began dancing and said, "Just copy me, Rick.  Watch my feet and do what I'm doing." 

Unfortunately, that trick didn't work for me.  I had to have it explained.  No luck.  Although he tried mightily, David could not find the words to make me understand what I was doing wrong.  I got frustrated because the same thing had happened with Lynn last Saturday.  What was wrong with me that I could not understand what David or Lynn wanted me to do?  To David's credit, he tried several ways to show me how not to put so much weight on my heel, but none of his suggestions worked.  I still didn't get it.  Try as I might, I kept putting that heel down in back and losing my balance.

Seeing how frustrated I was, David made another suggestion.  "Hey, Rick, let's try something else.  Rather than try 'step ball-change', maybe you could switch to 'step together step'."  David demonstrated this move... slide three steps to the right and tap, three steps to the left and tap.  He repeated it several times.

As I would come to realize down the road, 'step together step' is probably the simplest dance step in the book.  People use it in line dances like the Four Corners all the time.  When I watched David do it, he made it look easy.  Maybe I could do it too.  I tried as hard as I could, but this suggestion didn't work either.  I was too tense.  With David watching carefully, I was so worried about getting it wrong that I deliberately stopped after each step.  And when I stopped, I either forgot to transfer my weight or couldn't remember which foot was supposed next.  It was pathetic.  Was it my right foot or the left foot that had moved last?  Which foot moved next?  Does it move to the right or left?  Confused, I had to start over.  'Step together step'.  What could be easier?  But I couldn't get it.

Finally I got so frustrated I could not force myself to continue.  I felt an overwhelming sense of humiliation.  How could I be so stupid?  One does not need to understand my dance descriptions to get the point.  Just accept that I was really struggling.  I believe part of my problem was that I was in shock.  The assault on my shaky self-esteem by the rich women had overwhelmed me.  Their contempt had wounded my pride so severely that I was shutting down inside.  To say I was 'tense' does not adequately address how upset I was.  Rigid?  Frozen?  Petrified?  Paralyzed?  Yeah, 'Paralyzed'.  I was so paralyzed with frustration that I refused to move any longer.

To David's credit, he spent 10 long minutes helping me and giving encouragement.  He was nice about it too.  David never once lost patience with me.  I appreciated that he did not make fun of me although I am sure he was astonished at my ineptitude.  Despite my pathetic showing, I was grateful David had tried to help.  Outside of the Clark family, this was the first real warmth anyone had shown me since I had returned from Colorado in defeat two months ago. 

After I gave up, David could see there was no point in continuing.  The funniest look came over his face and I did a double-take.  I had seen that look before, but where?   Baffled by my curious sense of déjà vu, for a second, I couldn't place it.  Then I got it.  That was the exact same look Drag Queen Lynn had given me last week when he realized how hopeless I was at dancing.  I swear, it was uncanny how both men gave me the same look.  Then I recalled something else.  Right after that look, Lola-Lynn had moved in for a kiss. 

'No way', I thought.  This cannot be happening.  But my instinct was right.  The moment I saw the glint in David's eye, I guessed what was on his mind.  Was this guy out of his mind?  One would think my grotesque appearance would have acted as a natural deterrent, but apparently not.  I guess David figured I would look better once my clothes were off. 

David started his pitch innocently enough.  He teased me a little by saying that maybe my giant mountain boots must be the problem.  No argument from me.  Those things weighed a ton.

David put a hand on one of my arms, then looked up.  "I still can't believe how tall you are!"

What a keen observation.  Good grief, I towered over him. 

"You're so big!  How tall are you, Rick?"

"A little over six feet."

David paused to appreciate my height a bit longer, then continued. 

"Gosh, I wish I could be tall like you."

Now David lowered his voice to a conspiratorial hush.   "Rick, can I ask you a personal question?" 

Uh oh, here it comes.  I shrugged.  "Sure.  What do you want to know?"

"Is it true that tall men like you are well-endowed?"

Oh please.  David had just confirmed my hunch.  It didn't take much imagination to guess where this was headed.   What was this, 'Pick on Freaks Day' at Dance City?  First the Gay Gauntlet, then the River Oaks Seven, now Disco Dave.  Disheartened, I numbly replied I wouldn't know. 

I should have been outraged, but I was too beaten down to put David in his place.  I wasn't so much angry at David as I was depressed.  Why was this happening?   My arms were crossed and I wasn't smiling, but perhaps David did not understand body language.  Actually, I think he understood it just fine, but didn't care.  Ignoring my signals, David pounced.  After another crack about my colossal body proportions, he went in for the kill. 

"You know, Rick, I have an idea.  I think that with just a little more help, you could get the hang of this Freestyle dancing.  But we can't stay here at the studio because someone needs this room in a couple minutes for a private lesson.  Why don't you come over to my apartment?  I live over in the Montrose area which isn't too far from here."

David had his pitch down pat.  Staring at him impassively, I feared a repeat of last week's debacle with Lola-Lynn.  Was I ready to trade a blow job for a dance lesson?  I was desperate, but not that desperate.  So I said nothing.  Undeterred by my silence, David continued. 

"I like you, Rick.  I like the fact that you didn't let those women run you off.  They can be very pushy, so I enjoyed watching you stand your ground.  I would really like to help you fix your dancing, so I'll tell you what.  Let me fix some lunch and we can get to know each other better.  Then I will help you with your dancing.  What do you think?"

Yes, I was sure that fixing lunch was a courtesy David extended to all his students.   Drag Queen Lynn lived nearby.  Maybe we could invite him too, have a three-way.  And perhaps Alice in Wonderland could join us for good measure.  I could be the Mad Hatter.  Who would David be?  The way he was grinning, the Cheshire Cat.  Would the River Oaks Seven be joining us?  If so, would tea be served?  More likely one of them would someone suggest they cut my head off.  

David had his seduction lines down pat so I assumed he had done this before.  Right now David was reciting the Jim Deane playbook... soften them up with dance, offer to cook a meal, invite them to the lair, wine them and dine them, finish them off.  Good grief, did everybody know these tricks but me??  I was probably the only idiot on the planet who had to buy a book to figure out how it's done.  However, there was one problem with David's approach... I wasn't the least bit turned on.  David was not going to get lucky, at least not with me.  It's tough to light a fire when the wood is soaking wet.  Just the thought of undoing his sash made me shudder.  Although it had been a while, the last time I had checked, I still preferred girls to guys, even a pretty one like David. 

Disco Dave could wiggle his cute little butt all he wanted, but given a choice between Yolanda and Dave, the curvy Latin girl would win hands down.  Besides, thanks to getting picked up by Lola-Lynn last week, I had already decided I wasn't interested in being gay or bisexual.  So why was I still here?  Probably because I was in shock.  Sick to my stomach, I whirled and swiftly left the room.

I really wished David had not done this.  However, it was too late now, the damage was done.  This was the final blow, the final insult, the Kill Shot.  There was no coming back from this.  This had been the Dance Class from Hell, an Extinction Level Event if there ever was one. 

As I stumbled to my car, I was sinking fast and there was no net to catch me.  My biggest fear was that I had finally reached the Point of No Return.

LOST YEARS:  TO HELL AND BACK

Following David's proposition, I wasted no time leaving.  However, I was staggered the moment I opened the door by the blistering Texas Heat.  This parking lot was just as hot as Death Valley and just as lethal.  The pavement was baked to a crisp by a searing 102° temperature and visible heat waves were bouncing off cars.  In the condition I was in, I thought I might pass out.  The shimmering heat waves of the Parking Lot Inferno combined with my dance class shock had me so disoriented, I had trouble finding my car.

As I staggered around the giant parking lot looking in vain among hundreds of cars, the world was spinning.  It was so hot, I felt like I had entered Hell.  Given what had taken place today, perhaps I had. 

Houston is legendary for its extreme humidity.  Not just that, this massive concrete parking lot acted as a heat trap.  Feeling dizzy and out of control, the heat made it difficult to even breathe.  When I finally reached my little VW Beetle, I was in a state of panic.  I swung open the door and collapsed.  I was much too shaken to drive home, so I laid my head on the steering wheel and sat there feeling pitiful. 

The car was hotter than a furnace, so I turned on the engine and ran the AC.  Unfortunately, once I noticed I was low on gas, I had no choice but to turn the engine off and conserve what little fuel I had left. 

Wearing a flannel shirt with the ruthless sun beating down on the car, I was soon drenched in sweat.  I left the door open, but that did little good since there was no breeze.  Soon I had no choice but to take my sweat-soaked shirt off.  That didn't help a bit either.  Shirtless and pitiful, I felt like a lobster being boiled alive.  Even worse, I was in no condition to leave.  In the state I was in, I was too shaken to move. 

Every five minutes or so, I would briefly turn the AC back on.  Despite my crisis, I noticed with a grim smile that my car started each time without a problem.  Considering it was my stalled car last Saturday that got me into this mess, I thought that was very curious. 

The heat was intense, but to be honest, I was so numb I barely felt my discomfort.  That alone explains how bad a shape I was in.  I had been attacked on far too many levels to walk away from this experience unscathed.  Trying to make sense of the morning, I gripped the steering wheel like it was a life preserver.  I turned the engine on a couple times to cool off, but just long enough to buy me a few more minutes till I could settle down enough to leave.  Mostly I just sat there and trembled.  I was the same sort of rattled one might be after barely surviving a close-call car collision.  My grotesque appearance, my clumsy dancing, my renewed St. John's sense of inferiority, and my faith in mankind had been brutally assaulted over the past 90 minutes.  Adding to my misery, a Texas Inferno well above 100° was frying me to death because I was too weak to move.  This really was Hell, wasn't it?

I tried to get a grip on what had taken place this morning.  To my surprise, what Dave had done bothered me more than the River Oaks Seven.  With those women I had my guard up.  I was used to women like that.  Not so with David.  I needed a friend so badly I had latched onto him like a drowning man.  I still could not believe he had the nerve to take advantage of me.  I was mystified by his predatory treatment.  Why would David run roughshod over every rule of decency?  He had to know I was a long shot at best.  But David was so callous, he didn't care if his actions upset me.  Since I already looked like I was down on my luck, why not finish me off?

I wondered what had provoked the incident.  What gave David the impression I might be interested?  With my long hair unwashed and uncombed, did I look gay?  No.  With these ragged clothes and giant boots, did I dress gay?  No.  Did I act gay?  No.  Did I dance gay?  Uh, maybe not.  Had I smiled invitingly?  No.  Had I licked my lips to indicate arousal?  No.  Had I made sexual innuendos?  No.  Had I flirted in any way?  No.  Had I touched him in a suggestive way?  No.  Had I been 'asking for it' with excited laughter?  No No No! 

So what in the hell ever gave David the stupid idea that I was interested? 

I knew what David was thinking.  He could see I was a lonely guy down on his luck.  I was so desperate to learn to dance that maybe David could trick me into visiting his apartment.  Drop a couple Quaaludes into a soft drink and who knows what might happen?  I could not believe his cruelty.  No doubt despair was written all over my face.  If ever there was a human reeling from problems, it was me.  David knew the odds were remote, but he also knew that lonely people make poor decisions.  Why not take a shot?  I knew exactly what was going on.  Dave had sized me up perfectly.  I was depressed, lonely, confused, totally out of control.  Get me alone in his home, soften me up with booze or drugs.  If I had one gay bone in my body I could be David's afternoon road kill. 

They say it never hurts to ask, but I disagree.  It hurt a lot to be asked.  I had thought David was going to be a friend, but now I realized he was just trying to get laid.  David's proposition had removed any remaining spirit.  There was no fight left in me.  By the grace of God there were no cliffs nearby or I would have been sorely tempted.  On the other hand, I could just stay here and let the Inferno do its trick.  Burn, baby, burn.  Based on my dark mood, a tempting thought. 

I took a deep breath.  I was in so much pain.  This was hardly the time for taking risks.  I had just been kicked out of graduate school.  I was fighting a mental illness that had turned me into a quivering coward.  What did I have to show for today's risky dance experiment?  NOTHING BUT MISERY!  Now what?  Where do I go from here?  How long would it take to recover from my latest humiliation? 

So far I had been able to ignore the heat, but now it had became intolerable.  Maybe I should go.  Drenched with sweat, I was very close to throwing in the towel and returning to Couch Catatonia at the Clark family home.  Suspended animation sounded good right now.  Or maybe I should limp home to face my fears.  Considering how much I hated being alone, probably not a good idea.  Oddly enough, since I could not decide which place to go, I stayed right where I was.  I did not want to leave until I got David out of my system, so I turned the AC back on to buy more time.  Trembling in my car, I kept asking myself why David would behave like that.  What was wrong with that guy?  I had let down my guard and trusted him because he had been so friendly.  Now I realized it was all just an act. 

What David had done had hurt deeply.  One would think I would see it coming by now, but David's sucker punch had hit like a ton of bricks.  Right now I felt like worthless dog meat.  Why me?  David was a good-looking guy and a fabulous dancer.  No doubt he could have his pick of lovers.  So what did he need me for?   The answer was obvious... another conquest, another notch on his belt. 

On cue, Jim Deane's favorite tough guy mantra popped into my head.  "Find them, fool them, fuck them and forget them."  I had thought that line was amusing when I read it.  However, now that I was the prey and not the predator, that line had lost its humor.  I supposed there was a legion of women quite familiar with this macho attitude.  No doubt they would say, "Hey, Rick, tough break today, but join the club.  Men do the same shitty things to us all the time."

David saw a wounded bird and took aim.  What did he have to lose?  I shook my head in disgust.  There are times when the insensitivity of man towards fellow man never ceases to amaze me.  David's uncaring behavior was akin to offering food to a starving dog, then kicking the helpless animal when it came close.  What kind of human being kicks a hungry, defenseless dog? 

The Christian message 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you' crossed my mind.  I had just gained a valuable insight.  Recently I had considered using force on Yolanda to get my way.  Alone in my apartment, the woman would have been helpless to prevent it.  Was taking advantage of her really any different than what David had done to me today?  Now that I could see first-hand how painful it felt to be treated like a piece of meat, I was glad I had followed my better instincts.  Nice guys probably do finish last, but at least I had a clear conscience. 

The story of the Good Samaritan crossed my mind.  'Help your fellow man.'  Had our roles been reversed, I would have said to David, "Gosh, David, you really struggled today, but don't quit.  Hang in there.  I want you to come back next week and together we will try again.  I am sure you will do better." 

Suddenly I broke out laughing.  It struck me as funny that I had been handed a Christian insight in Hell.  Uh oh, there goes my new tough guy identity.  I snorted in disgust.  Who was I fooling?  Deep down I did not want to be a tough guy.  Every day was another struggle to remind myself that although some women are evil, most women are good.  If I followed the mean-spirited advice of the Mistress Book, I risked going down a path that would leave me even more cold-hearted and cynical than I already was. 

They say God works in mysterious ways, but this was ridiculous.  This overheated parking lot was the last place I expected to rediscover my sense of kindness.  With that thought, I smiled.  That revelation helped to cheer me up.  Good grief, when I first got in the car, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  Now I had just laughed.  Amazing.  The laughter plus my indignation marked the first step on my tentative recovery from the Point of No Return. 

LOST YEARS:  CHIP ON MY SHOULDER

Now my mind turned to the hostile River Oaks women.  They had evoked my feelings of ugliness and inferiority.  Coming in the aftermath of Yolanda's recent rejection, renewed worries about my attractiveness were front and center.

Although I cherished my St. John's education, how could I ever forget spending nine years feeling socially inferior to everyone at my school?  Once I reached college, this wound had mercifully gone into hiding.  I thought I was rid of this demon for good, but I was wrong.  The moment I saw that familiar haughtiness on their faces, I became the high school outcast all over again.  My sense of inferiority returned as if it was yesterday.  I despised those women for restoring my long-buried resentment. 

During dance class today, I had noticed my age-old feeling of Defiance coming out of retirement.  The only reason I survived high school was the intense chip on my shoulder.  It was also the only reason I had survived today's dance class.  Welcome back, old friend.  I would have never made it through today's ordeal without your help. 

Unfortunately, my Defiance was in short supply.  It had been beaten out of me by Dr. Fujimoto's constant criticism.  It gives me no pleasure to remind everyone that I was borderline mentally ill at this juncture.  Dr. Hilton had labeled my condition as 'acute social anxiety disorder'.  I definitely had the symptoms... Fear, constant worry, anxiety, avoidance of taking action to solve my problem.  I had physical symptoms such as trembling, fast heart rate, sweating.  I don't say this to garner sympathy, but rather to make the point that I was a very disturbed young man.  The biggest question of all was whether I could cure something this serious on my own. 

I always expected the worst.  I was so sure I would be rejected, I had reached the point where I no longer gave myself a chance.  Thanks to my Phobia, I was so certain I would be shot down, I no longer dared approach an attractive woman.  Just the thought of approaching a pretty at a night club made me physically sick with fear.  As a result, I no longer left my apartment at night except to play basketball.  How would I ever win a fight if I could not even get in the ring?  That was the whole point of these dance lessons.  They were supposed to bolster my confidence just enough to begin approaching women again.