Age 24, June 1974, the lost years begin

couch catatonia
 

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty back together again.

Following my dismissal from Colorado State, it was now June 1974.  The period of my life known as the 'Lost Years' began the moment I crossed the Houston city limit.  Although I was only 24 years old, I felt like my life was over.  Burdened with bitterness and self-pity, I suffered from clinical-level depression.  I knew I was in serious trouble, so I sought out the refuge of the Clark family.  I needed sanctuary in the worst way. 

Polly and Allen were wonderful.  They said of course I could stay with them.  However, they reminded me with three kids, there were no guest rooms in their house.  Polly said if I didn't mind sleeping on their living room couch, I was more than welcome.  Heck, the couch sounded great.  I would have slept on the porch, the garage, or the washroom if that's what it took.  All that mattered was I felt safe here with my adopted family. 

I knew Polly and Allen Clark from the Quaker Meeting here in Houston.  Starting at age 10, Polly and Allen had begun a tradition of taking me on long summer trips to Colorado along with Shari, Margaret and Jim, their three children. 

During the first trip, Margaret, age 3, stuck out her hand just as I was closing the car door.  The edge of the door caught her wrist.  Fortunately her wrist was not broken, but Margaret was in a lot of pain and I felt terrible.  Desperate to make amends, I began reading a book to calm the three kids down. 

At the next town we made two stops, one to get aspirin for Margaret plus a trip to a book store.  Polly returned with eight children's books.  I was now part of the family.  That is how Allen and Polly became my surrogate parents.  Thanks to their amazing kindness, I had long felt part of my adopted family.  Back in 1959 when my parents divorced, Polly told me it broke her heart to see how much I suffered in the days that followed.  The trips to Colorado were the direct result of that sentiment. 

Polly realized I was a good kid underneath my sad, moody nature.  Polly wished she could have found a way to take me off my mother's hands, but there was no graceful way to do so.  Allen agreed with her.  So the summer trips were a nice compromise.  Oh, how I looked forward to those trips!

Following my dismissal from graduate school, I sought their kindness once again.  Little did Allen and Polly know they had acquired a basket case.  I had always been self-sufficient, so I think they were startled to discover just how broken I was. 

The couch and I became inseparable.  Since the Clark family preferred to use the den as their main living area, they rarely entered the off-set living room.  Although there were no doors, I had complete privacy.  Sensing how gloomy I was, no one came anywhere near me lest I bite someone's head off.  When my dark mood eased up long enough to allow me to make a rare appearance, the entire family was unfailingly nice to me.  And so the slow healing process began. 

Here in my darkest moment I did not leave that couch for the first week.  At some point in mid-June, I revived enough to track down a temporary social work job.  I assisted in a summer youth program for underprivileged children.  That gave me something to do during the day, but after work I headed straight back to the couch for sanctuary and further self-pity. 

For the entire month of June, unless I was working or playing basketball, I would lay on that couch doing nothing.  The couch became my best friend.  I named it 'Couch Catatonia' in reference to my near-motionless state of being.  I was in so much pain.  As I listened endlessly to the sad music from the Moody Blues Tuesday Afternoon album ("Lonely Man cries for love but has none..."), I would throw a baseball up in the air and catch it on the way down.  I repeated this mindless ritual for hours at a time.  There were days when the only time I ever left the couch was to retrieve a dropped baseball or to obtain a peanut butter sandwich necessary to sustain life. 

My sole activity besides playing couch potato was basketball.  To Readers of my first book, A Simple Act of Kindness, no surprise there.  Basketball was my passion.  By chance, the Clarks lived next door to the Jewish Community Center (JCC).  Allen loaned me his membership card, so every night I would play endless games of pickup basketball.  Sorry to say, I played rough.  Anything to let off my anger towards the human race.  Every day consisted of the same routine.  My daily itinerary included early morning pity party on Couch Catatonia, social work job, late afternoon pity party on Couch Catatonia, peanut butter sandwich, early evening pity party on Couch Catatonia, evening basketball, go to sleep.  This went on for 30 straight days.  I kid you not.  For 30 straight days, I wallowed in an ocean of sorrow and self-contempt.

Allen and Polly were saints.  Not once in that entire month did they say a harsh word to me.  Not once.  Here was this miserable blob who laid on their living room couch for hours on end.  I barely spoke, I barely interacted, I showed little sign of mental activity, I displayed no signs of leaving.  Surely they wondered if there was any hope for me.  However they never said a word.  They simply let me be.  No doubt there was a precise clinical description for my condition, but let's keep it simple.  I was much worse than 'walking wounded', so let's refer to my condition as 'barely moving'.  That speaks volumes for Allen and Polly.  Who lets a disturbed mental patient stay in their home for an entire month without any end in sight?  Their patience was incredible.

Age 24, July 1974, the lost years

signs of life
 

One morning in early July my life force mysteriously kicked back in.  As I sat alone at the kitchen table eating a bowl of Wheaties, I picked up the newspaper to read the Sports section.  By chance, I noticed the Help Wanted section underneath.  On a whim, I looked through it.  When I noticed the Child Welfare agency was looking for caseworkers, I picked up the nearby phone and set up an interview.  Due to my experience at Colorado State, I was hired that afternoon.  I have no idea what caused me to pick up that paper.  Maybe I got another one of those curious 'suggestions' that sometimes pop into my mind out of thin air.  Who knows.

Whatever the reason, I decided it was time to get on with my life.   My new job called for investigating reports of child abuse and child neglect.  This was hardly what I would describe as a fun job, but I took it because it offered the chance to help people.  Despite my disappointment in grad school, I still had a desire to make the world a better place.

Following my interview, as I left the parking lot I passed a small apartment project two blocks down the street from the Child Welfare office.  Stupid me, I thought the interview location would also be my office.  Since it was in the Montrose area where I had grown up, I felt comfortable moving back to my old stomping grounds.  I leased the apartment using my meager savings for the deposit. 

Since I did not have anything to sleep on, I spent a farewell night with my best friend Couch Catatonia.  The next morning I bought an inexpensive rectangular piece of foam rubber to use as a mattress.  Buying a real bed would have to wait till my Child Welfare job started in August. 

Besides, I had a better idea for a way to spend my last dollar.  On the spur of the moment, I bought a pool table.

Where did this bright idea come from?  By chance, last year I had seen a movie called Shamus.  It starred Burt Reynolds as a washed-up private eye who hated the world.  My kind of guy.  Living in squalor, Reynold's only piece of furniture was a pool table.  Lacking a bed, he slept on a mattress atop the pool table.  In the first scene, Reynolds awakes and notices a naked woman sleeping under the blanket next to him.  Lifting the blanket, he realizes the woman is a complete stranger.  Reynolds covers her body, then reaches up to flick a bead on the string hanging above to mark his latest conquest.

Judging by the mediocre box office, I was one of the few people in America to ever see this movie.  Sitting alone in an empty theater, I was very drawn to the pool table scene.  In the state I was in, Reynolds' bitterness towards women matched my current mood to perfection.  Reynold's best line came when the naked girl awoke and said it was too cold.  Reynolds told the girl to stick her feet in the side pockets and quit whining.  Wow!  I had just gotten my first lesson in how to be mean to women. 

This was my new identity... tough guy.  No more groveling.  For reasons lost to me, the meaner Reynolds was to women, the more women clung to him.  To be honest, I was not cut out to be a tough guy.  However, considering my mediocre luck with women during my year at Colorado State, I was ready to try anything.  Hence the pool table. 

When the pool table arrived, I was relieved to see it barely fit inside the living room.  Dumb me, it did not occur to me to measure in advance.  Tight, but doable.  The arrival of the pool table allowed me to practice my new tough guy identity.  I had never shot pool in my life, but had always wanted to give it a try.  I wanted the pool table to teach me how to be cold-hearted like Burt Reynolds.  Joy was in short supply. 

I put the mattress on top of the pool table and slept there one night.  However, I wasn't comfortable.  I transferred the mattress to the bedroom floor and slept there instead.  Much better.  That night I resumed throwing the baseball in the air.  However, the next night I put the baseball away and tried shooting pool instead.  I wasn't any good, but it was refreshing to increase my entertainment options.  Basketball, throwing the baseball, shooting pool.  Are we having fun yet?

This all took place within three days after picking up the Help Wanted section.  Rat-a-tat-tat, just like that, I got on with my life.  I wasn't happy and I wasn't living in style, but I was alive.  That beat the alternative. 

Vanessa had been the first girl I ever fell in love with.  During a night of intense love-making Vanessa confessed she was in love with me as well.  Three nights later her ex-boyfriend knocked on her door and she let him in.  Vanessa was leaving town in three weeks.  What should she do?  Vanessa decided to juggle both men without their knowledge.  When I finally learned the truth, I was devastated.   

I blamed Vanessa's betrayal for ruining my life.  Considering my limited experience around women, it was cruel to fall in love with a woman to whom deceit came so effortlessly.  The discovery I had been two-timed was so painful that I was never the same around women since.  Once the trust was gone, it refused to return.  Then came the ugly incident with Debbie in Denver.  I made a complete fool of myself by acting like a helpless puppy dog around her.  Debbie's resulting scorn had done untold damage to an already fragile confidence.  To my dismay, ever since my return to Houston, my fear of women had taken a serious turn for the worse.  Unless I did something about it, the Point of No Return beckoned.  When a person endures too much frustration, the day may come when they simply give up.  Sad to say, I was precariously close to acting on my desire to quit women entirely for a year or so.  I had done this in the past and now it seemed like the right thing to do again.  Saddled with this debilitating Phobia, I was too crippled to act.

Now that I had left the warmth of the Clark family and the security of Couch Catatonia, it did not take long to realize how desperately lonely I was.  There was no Dr. Hilton to complain to.  There was no Jason to tell me to get out there and try again.  Loneliness had been a lifelong condition, but I had never felt more alone than now.  No single women at work.  No single women at this apartment project.  No women period. 

I was not happy in my new apartment.  There was something weird about this place I could not put my finger on.  Two weeks had passed and I had yet to see a woman other than my landlady, age 60.  Just a bunch of older men all of whom stared at me with the strangest expressions.  It took a while, but one day it finally hit me.  My entire apartment project was gay. 

If you are fond of irony, you will like this.  The Seventies were marked by the Sexual Revolution.  Here in the Age of Aquarius, free love abounded.  Magazines like Cosmo suggested all a guy had to do was smile and a young lady might just tell him this was his lucky day.  Moreover, Houston had huge apartment complexes teeming with single women.  Although I lacked the skill and confidence necessary to meet single women, at a Singles project, skill was unnecessary.  Like a bear guarding the salmon stream, all a guy had to do was hop in the hot tub.  Me Tarzan You Jane, sooner or later some lady was certain to smile back.  If I had the sense to move into a place like this, I doubt seriously this book would have ever been written.  No such luck for me.  Don't ask me how, but I had landed in Heterosexual Siberia. 

I could only see one solution to the problem.  I had no choice but learn how to pick up women in bars, something I had never done in my life.  Unfortunately the rules of the game dictated it was the man's job to make the first move.  It is one thing for a pretty girl to stand there and let her looks do the rest, but with my battered face, waiting for something to happen was like hitchhiking on a deserted highway.  Clearly my passive approach was costing me dearly.  I had to overcome my fear of approaching women I was attracted to, but how?  I had to find some way to get to First Base that did not scare me out of my wits.  Unsure how to overcome my anxiety, I wondered if there was a book that might explain the principles of meeting women. 

With that in mind, one warm night in mid-July I stopped at a bookstore on the way home from work.  I noticed a used paperback titled The Mistress Book.  The author, Jim Deane, was a self-proclaimed ladies man who trumpeted his many conquests.  In essence, Deane had written this book as tribute to his well-honed ability to get laid.  Deane was also a self-improvement junkie.  He worked tirelessly to make himself more interesting, thus improving his ability to entice women to his bed.

As I read Deane's explanation of the steps he had taken to become irresistible, his hostility towards women was so thinly concealed that I was about to put the book back.  However, for some reason, due perhaps to one of those curious suggestions we get now and then, I decided to see what year this book had been written.

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

I gasped.  Was this some sort of omen?  As painful memories of Vanessa's lies and cheating flooded in, a dark smile crossed my face.  I doubted this was the same Vanessa as the one who put the stake in my heart.  But the way I looked at it, any man with a grudge towards a woman named Vanessa was a friend of mine. 

The coincidental appearance of Vanessa's name was so surprising, I stopped breathing.  Was this God's way of telling me to read this book?  It sure felt that way.  And so, for the princely sum of one dollar, I purchased the book that would change my life. 

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; Jim Deane would dedicate his life to conquest.  And so he did if his statistics can be believed.  Jim Deane collected lovers at the same rate I collected Supernatural Events.

Still reeling from the pain of Vanessa's betrayal, I had a clear idea where the author was coming from.  Bitterness towards women haunted me on a daily basis.  Fortunately, my cynicism was not quite as dark as Deane's.  I still believed there was hope for True Love.  Turned off by the author's misogyny, I was about to place the book back on the shelf when I hesitated.  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...

This book was beyond weird.  Nevertheless, given the mysterious coincidence of seeing it dedicated to a woman named Vanessa, I assumed God wanted me to read this book.  It did not take long to conclude that 'Jim Deane' was a pseudonym.  Deane said some incredibly demeaning things.  His motto was "Find them, Fool them, Fuck Them, and Forget Them."  Let me add his bitter words on how to dominate women would have gotten him lynched if he had been foolish enough to use his true identity.  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 was to let them see a man in action in a place where he looked his best.  Mick Jagger was a good example.  Jagger was not exactly a pretty boy.  Put his pale, scrawny body on Miami Beach without his reputation and Jagger wouldn't rate a second look.  Put Jagger, on a stage and let him strut, different story. 

Deane's suggestion was to identify the area in a man's life where he not only looked good, but women could see his prowess.  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.  Fortunate 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.  Okay, 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.  Uh 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 legal 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 grasping for a life ring.  For the first time since returning to Houston, I felt a ray of hope.  This dancing idea 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 girlfriends spotted Connie giving me a dirty look while my back was turned and laughed hysterically.  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 had 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. 

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.  Slender and blessed with an impressive figure, Yolanda was an unusually provocative woman.  To be honest, I had never met a 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.  In doing so, I deliberately did not mention the location I intended to take her to.  I had virtually no experience at propositioning a woman, so this was an unusually bold move for me, never before tried.  With a nod to the Burt Reynolds pool table movie, it was part of my new tough guy image.  If it worked for Burt, maybe it would work for Rick. 

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.  Now that Yolanda had accepted my dare without a hint of hesitation, 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.  In addition I had badly overestimated my skill level.  However, I could not have cared less about losing because I had this ultra-hot girl right where I wanted her. 

Due to my prep school education, I had spent my life around prim and proper white girls born of privilege.  Yolanda was a far cry from the debutantes I was used to.  She was a tease with a much different kind of skill set.  For starters, Yolanda was not particularly modest.  Thanks to her brazen display during the pool match, I could barely concentrate.  Yolanda was not tall.  This forced her to stand on one leg and lift her other leg backwards for counterbalance in order to reach certain shots.  The sight of Yolanda stretching for shots in her short skirt had a powerful effect on me.  Yolanda appeared to care less that I was often in position to stare in shock at her brazenness.  Catching glimpses of her white panties accentuated by the dark skin of her thighs, there was no need for imagination.  I assumed this behavior was deliberate.

Considering Yolanda held that position for a considerable time while she lined up the shot, the possibilities took my breath away.  Yolanda's skill set was not limited to her short skirt.  She wore a low-cut blouse 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 over-matched bra.  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 serious money Yolanda knew exactly 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.

Given my inexperience around women like Yolanda, I assumed I was being given a Green Light to pursue things further.  Since I assumed this Peep Show was staged for my benefit, I was consumed with impure thoughts.  You know men.  They see what they want to say.  I assumed Yolanda was warming me up for the Main Event.   Mind you, I had never met a woman like Yolanda in my life, so I had no idea what kind of temptress I was dealing with.  I was about to find out.  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.  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.  I am really attracted to you.  Will you go to bed with me?"

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 vamanos, 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.  And so 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 over 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.  After 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.  If you can beat me, maybe next time your luck will change."

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.  Caught totally off guard, I wanted to murder Yolanda.  Or myself for taking a big chance.  Take your pick.  When I returned home, I stared at the pool table in disgust.  Then I thought of the Mistress Book.  "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 a second date.  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 our Friday night rematch.  Only one problem.  Yolanda was not at home when I drove up.  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 was a Colorado State coed who stood 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 the new Me, Mr. Tough Guy.  My days of letting women push me around were over. 

On Saturday afternoon, I drove to Yolanda's house to chew her out.  As I neared her house, I was proud of myself.  Meet Mr. Tough Guy.  Today I would actually stand up to a girl who had rejected me not once, but twice.  No more groveling!

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 and a massive stomach.  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 him a second thought. 

Assuming the Mexican guy was her next-door neighbor, I parked my humble 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 so sorry I missed you last night.  I meesed my ride home from work and Robbie had to come get me.  Oh, Rico, Rico, will you forgive me?  Puleeeze?"

I stood there frozen.  Too confused to go through with my confrontation, I muttered something lame about dropping by to make sure Yolanda was okay.  I was desperate to make sense of the situation 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?  Was this some sort of game?  Was I being 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, here he was pumping my hand like I am his favorito 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, shamelessly displays her panties at the pool table, then says ho-hum, try asking her to go to bed with me again sometime.  But Yolanda has no problem sleeping with Robbie, a guy who in my opinion belonged at the end of the line in Life's mating dance.  What kind of woman am I dealing with?

I was beyond flustered.  How much did Robbie know about me?  Did he know I propositioned his girlfriend?  Did he know she repeatedly displayed her panties while reaching for pool shots? Did he know she flirted with me suggestively 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?  I had no answer to any of these questions.

Due to my confusion, all my fight drained out, taking with it my new Tough Guy personality.  I was an idiot to walk right into this trap.  Why didn't I see this coming?  I saw Robbie 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.  So I apologized for interrupting their conversation and meekly 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 to go some place and lick my wounds. 

Are we done with this story?  No, course not!  If you read my first book, you would know me by now.  But if you just met me, I will let you in on the secret.  If something goes wrong and I am involved, it will always gets worse.  This time was no exception. 

My car wouldn't start. 

Seriously, my car wouldn't start!  It had started every single time in Colorado.  It had started every single time since being back in Houston.  But now at the worst possible time it would not 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 a third time.  Whirr, whirr.  The engine turned over more slowly, a sure sign the battery was running down.  One more try and the battery might be dead.  Oh my God, I am already flustered out of my mind by Yolanda's bizarre behavior and now I'm stuck in enemy territory!  How can this be?  I dropped my head onto the steering wheel and cursed my lousy fate.  The word 'impotent' was surely coined for this situation. 

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.  Yolanda said, "Yo, amigo, you need a leetle puuush for your car?"

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

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

With both 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 with the motor running, she somehow managed to let her skirt ride up high on her dark-tanned thigh.  It was the return of Yolanda's Peep Show 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 her flash me 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 complete with mucho grande smiles.  Peeking in the mirror before turning the corner, I looked back and 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 futile Colorado State Dating Project.  Some defeats are worse than others, but this one belonged with the all-time worst.  Sick to my stomach, I realized today's event had taken the word 'Epic' in my Epic Losing Streak to a startling new high.  At this point I had lost count of the number of women who had gotten away.  I didn't even care anymore.  I just wanted to curl up in a ball and go fetal.

I was in no mood to risk my car not starting again, so I made no stops on the way home after Yolanda.  I slammed the door to my apartment and screamed at the top my lungs.  How was it possible for me to compete for a babe like Yolanda and lose to a blob?  Not only was I humiliated, this made no sense.  This good-looking, big-breasted toothpick could have any man she wanted and she chose Jabba the Hut over me?  Was I really that pathetic?

I raced to the mirror and took a good look.  I don't care how badly my face is scarred, I was still better looking than that overweight biker guy she called her boyfriend.  Right now the vision of Yolanda having sex with that walrus was more than I could handle.  I seethed with jealousy, rage, and a profound sense of impotence. 

Fearful I must be living under a dark cloud, 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 irony was killing me.  Here I am, a guy terrified of a woman's rejection.  So naturally I find myself tangled up with a maneater who elevates the rejection of men to an art form. 

With extreme embarrassment I remembered panting when one of her breasts nearly popped out of her low-cut blouse as she bent over to shoot.  The vision of Yolanda casually pushing it back in elevated my frustration to a fever pitch.  That woman had me coming and going.  I despised her and wanted her at the same time.  There really was something wrong with me, something very serious.  And why did my car stall at the worst possible time?  It defied comprehension.

In fact, I was overwhelmed by a sense of eeriness.  At one time, the Curse of Vanessa was a psychological mind set, something my Reality-based friend Jason could explain using fancy Pavlovian Conditioning concepts.  No longer.  To hell with Psychology.  The failure of my car to start at such a critical time elevated the Curse of Vanessa from Reality into the Realm of the Supernatural.  I no longer blamed my Losing Streak with women on Pavlov, I blamed it on Voodoo.  I had the weirdest feeling about this.  Something very strange was going on in my life.  First the Mistress Book, now Yolanda.  I felt like I was living out some sort of Twilight Zone episode.

"Picture a confused young man who has experienced a recent series of deeply painful disappointments with women.   One day as if by magic, a sultry vixen appears from the ether to tempt him.   At the moment this young man believes his luck has turned, the beautiful siren tells him no, yet hints his luck might better next time.  However, his luck does not get better.  Instead the siren stands him up, then presents him to her boyfriend when the young man attempts to ask what is going on.  The young man attempts to save face by fleeing only to be humiliated when his car mysteriously fails to start. 

Well aware that this bizarre event is outside the limits of everyday existence, the young man wonders if he is traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind.  It is a dimension as vast as space and timeless as the Cosmos itself.  The boy stands in the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition.  He is suspended in a place of mystery that borders on the pit of man’s fears and the threshold of infinite knowledge.  

The young man is bewildered as he faces a situation beyond his understanding.   He accepts this is no figment of his imagination, but deep down he wonders why things go wrong wherever he turns.   Unbeknownst to him, this young man has entered The Twilight Zone."

I will be completely honest.  Having my car quit in such a highly charged situation had me spooked.  My car had not failed to start a single time in memory, so I was staring at a coincidence of the highest magnitude.  If the Universe had decided to torture me, what better way than to disable my car long enough for my tormentors to sidle over?  Bewildered by the vague sense that my stalled car was no accident, I was unable to read a book or settle down.  Full of dread, I paced in an endless loop around my pool table.  Desperate to rid myself of this acute anxiety, I decided to take a long walk around the neighborhood.  It was Saturday night and I could not stay cooped up in this apartment one minute longer.  Maybe the exercise would let off some steam.  Besides, what could possibly go wrong? 

Note to Reader: When you're having a bad day, don't EVER say to yourself, "Besides, what could possibly go wrong?"

After walking for an hour, it was getting dark.  Around 8 pm, I decided to head home.  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 twilight from a distance, I had no idea she was this good-looking.  Not only was she friendly, she was about my age.  Hmm.  Was the day's misfortune about to improve? 

"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".  Strong appearance, obviously an athlete.  What a knock-out!  Considering the warmth of her greeting, I felt some definite vibes.  For the second time I wondered if the worst day of my life carried promise after all.  If so, it was about time!  After all the misery I had been through, I deserved to catch a break.

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 nine months ago to break into Vanessa's house.  Hopefully tonight's window assault would turn out better.  But then again, maybe not.  With my kind of luck, maybe Lynn's boyfriend would show up.  Thinking of Robbie and Yolanda earlier this afternoon, that was probably exactly what was going to happen.  A woman with Lynn's kind of looks would have an army of men in pursuit.  Nonsense, I told myself.  This girl clearly likes me.  Relax, concentrate, and things will work out.  And so Sir Galahad returned to his noble task.

"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?"

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?  Am I supposed to stand on your back?"

"No, I have a better idea.  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, definitely not petite.  Curious to know if she played basketball, I wouldn't mind going one on one sometime.  Not a good idea.  My basketball would be so jealous.  Realizing my mind was wandering, 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 inside the window to grip the ledge.  While I hang, I can use my free hand to push the window higher.  Let's try again."

On my second try, I pushed the window high enough to climb through, 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 could 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."  Then she looked back to the window expectantly.  "Are you ready to try again?"

I used my third 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 resumed my effort.  I was able to wiggle in 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.  Let's see if my noble deed would lead where I hoped.

I walked to the front 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, Sir Rick, congratulations!  You are my knight in shining armor!!  You have saved me and I am so grateful!  You deserve a reward!"

A reward?  Did that mean what I hoped it meant?  My imagination was going wild.  After all, I was her knight in shining armor.  Feeling her body pressed to mine much closer than necessary, I was getting turned on.  It had been a long time...

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

I was ecstatic.  This was exactly what I wanted to hear.  I dreaded going home and who could blame me?  The memory of Yolanda had already poisoned that pool table.  Plus my inner demons were surely awaiting me.  The recurring vision of Robbie having sex with Yolanda plus their side-splitting laughter at my stalled car predicament 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 on the couch. 

"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 draw the curtains and turn off two living room lights.  These were very good signs.  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.  With a frown, I remember the night her ex-boyfriend Kenny had pounded on the door as we made love ten feet away on the couch.  Hmm.  Let's not go through that again.  No bad endings!  Not tonight.  Tonight I break the 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.  Journey of a thousand miles begins with the smile of a good woman.

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

At first I hesitated.  Right now her opinion of me was perched on a pedestal.  Well aware I could not dance a lick, why risk my lofty status?  Then I decided it wouldn't hurt to try.  "Lynn, I am not much of a dancer, but I would like to learn.  Can you show me?"

"Sure, I can teach anyone!"

I wasn't sure this was a good idea.  In my Junior year of high school, a pretty girl named Sue had initiated a chat with me on the bus.  I always did better when the girl made the first move.  One stop before mine, Sue handed me her phone number as she got off.  Wasting no time, that night I called and received an invitation to visit at her home.  Sue was alone, but not exactly.  She was baby-sitting her two younger siblings while her parents had a night out.  They were in bed, so Sue suggested we dance. 

"But I don't know to dance!" I protested.

Sue tried mightily to show me some simple Freestyle moves for 30 minutes, but there was a distinct lack of progress.  Without warning, Sue took a quick glance at her watch.  "Oh no, my parents will be home any minute.  You probably should go.  Thanks for coming over!"

At the time, Sue's excuse felt like a trick to get rid of me.  After all, the evening was still young.  But it did no use to argue.  My dance disappointment with Sue was a precursor to further dance-related disappointment in college.  Based on these experiences, Dancing was clearly not included in my list of natural abilities.  I seemed to be much better at climbing through windows.  Oh well, there seemed to be no way out of this, not with Lynn beckoning with a wide smile.  I did not have a good feeling about this.  Worried about my lack of dance ability, would Lynn look at her watch and claim her boyfriend was on his way? 

Lynn surprised me.  I thought she was going to show me a few Soul Train dance moves like Sue had, but Lynn wanted to partner dance.  She 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 to Marvin Gaye 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 Yolanda always had men hanging around.  Surely Lynn had a boyfriend.  Or maybe a dozen boyfriends.  If so, I prayed none of them came pounding on the door like Kenny had at Vanessa's house.  Feeling my pulse racing, goddamn, this girl's got me in love again!  For once, how about a happy ending?

Speaking of happy, Lynn was very happy.  She placed my hands on her hips, then wrapped her arms around my neck.  We were close, but not touching.  As I said, Lynn was not exactly petite.  She moved me around without much effort.  It was weird being pushed around by a woman.  Lynn was humming the tune word for word with Marvin Gaye. 

"Let's get it on
Ah, baby, let's get it on!"

Suddenly Lynn stopped and took a step back.  "I love to dance.  In the black clubs, we do something called the Swing-Out.  It's not too hard, you can do it."

This time Lynn did some sort of Swing moves, moving close, moving away.  Unfortunately this new style was more complicated.  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, the combination of the music and her thick 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 the Swing-Out.  With a frown, I recalled the overwhelming humiliation I had felt in the past at being such a lousy dancer.  I only danced a single time in high school, my senior prom.  However that experience had been a drug-induced, so it didn't count.  I tried again in college, but I had been so spastic a group of three girls led by Connie Kill Shot had scorned me.  Right now I felt clumsy and foolish.  Obviously the passage of time had not improved my dancing ability.  Furthermore, after what took place at Yolanda's house this afternoon, I was in no mood for another test of fire.  So I panicked and decided to quit.

"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 all those great dancers.  The people on that show seem to have dancing in their blood."

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

I shook my head.  My self-esteem could not take any more failure, especially not in front of this girl I was trying to impress. 

"No, I'm sorry, Lynn, but I am really confused.  I have no idea what you are doing.  I don't know which foot to move or where to step.  I realize 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."

With a heavy heart, I figured Lynn would use this as a reason to send me home.  Or maybe I should just leave and spare myself another humiliating send-off.  Fortunately I hesitated.  Although Lynn was clearly disappointed at my lack of persistence, she maintained her smile nonetheless.  As for me, I felt disheartened. When it came to dancing, I had two left feet for sure.  I assumed my lack of progress on here in Lynn's living room 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.  Immediately my confidence took a hit.  Was Lynn going to turn me down too?  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 snatched me back.  She grabbed my hand and spun me to her like a yo-yo.  I was shocked at her strength. 

"Don't leave, Rick, you don't have to go.  I understand if you don't want to dance.  Hey, I have a better idea." 

With that Lynn put her right arm around my back and pulled me to her like I was weightless.  Again I was astonished at her strength.  Lynn put her left hand to my face and guided me to a soft kiss.  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.  This had been a bad day, maybe that was the problem.  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 still 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, don't be absurd.  I was so confused.  I wondered if black women were built differently.  No, that made no sense.  What could it be?

In a blinding flash, the answer hit like a ton of bricks.  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?" 

To my astonishment, Lynn covered his face with the pillow and appeared to cry softly.  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

Recalling how Lynn's arm around my back had pulled me to her, I frowned at the realization I had acquired a Lola of my very own.  Or should I say Lola had acquired me?  I shook my head at the irony.  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.  "Nothing else can possibly go wrong..."  Now I groaned some more.  I could not believe I had actually said that to myself.  Meanwhile Lynn had stopped crying.  Turning my attention back to Lynn, I noticed again how beautiful she/he was.  Recalling how high my hopes had been, I was filled with regret.  What a shame.  I ruefully shook my head.  I don't know what I had done in a previous lifetime to deserve this, but someone up there doesn't like me. 

Seeing me stare at her in bewilderment, Lynn covered her face again and resumed crying.  A flash of pity went through me.  Although I was upset at being deceived, I wasn't particularly mad at Lynn.  In fact, I felt kind of sorry for her.  Odd, but I still saw a woman when I looked at Lynn.  He... she... whatever... had crumpled up into a ball.  Lynn was crying into one pillow while wrapped around another.  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 into an often heartless world. 

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 to the kitchen table and Lynn offered me another beer.  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 risky chances.  After hearing him out, our talk came to a pause.  There was a frightening question I needed ask. 

"Uh, Lynn, I had no idea you were a guy.  I was so 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 still be in bed.  Men go crazy over me.  All night long.  I suppose 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 shocked.  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.  But I did sense your reluctance after our first kiss.  I probably should not have taken it so far."

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 see what I want 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 was so feminine 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 on all my make-up.  I am an expert at make-up.  You would never ever know 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, I have another question.  Tell 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 by someone as beautiful as me.  But when it comes to dancing, you are way too tense and self-critical.  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.  One week ago I had found a book that recommended dance lessons.  However, I had turned my back due to my certainty that I lacked natural affinity for dancing.  Besides, I was far more interested in this aggressive Latin girl who had coincidentally appeared about the same time.  How did that work out for me?  Today I had seen my car stall in the strangest of circumstances which in turn led me into the arms of a gay drag queen who recommended I take dance lessons.  I stared long and hard at Lynn.  There was definitely something weird going on here.  Lynn's dance lesson suggestion could not be an accident!  This had to be an omen.  It was the same as seeing Vanessa's name highlighted in the Mistress Book. 

I said nothing as I stared into space.  Earlier in the week I had firmed decided to avoid dance lessons   However, based on the events of today and tonight, it seemed like God refused to take 'No' for an answer.  First God blocks my path to a sexy woman I am very attracted to.  He even sabotages my car to reinforce her unavailability.  Then He sends a Drag Queen to twist my arm on dance lessons. 

A strange thought crossed my mind.  To me, this seemed like a clear violation of my Free Will.  What if Yolanda had said Yes?  If Yolanda had delivered as her behavior had indicated, I would have taken a much different path.  To heck with the Mistress Book, let's get it on with Yolanda!  But that fork in the road had been blocked.  At the moment, there only seemed to be one choice: Dance Lessons. 

Could this day get any weirder?  No!  The Magical Mystery Tour had been absent for the past three years, but this was the moment it all came roaring back.  To me, this moment felt like God's Will, not Rick's Will.  Right now, there seemed to be only one door open. 

Overwhelmed with heebie-jeebies, the Twilight Zone music resumed playing in my head.  If ever there was a good 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, Lynn looked just like the bad boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  "Are you leaving because you're mad at me?"

I laughed.  "Nah, don't worry about it.  No damage done and no hard feelings.  It's been a long, strange 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, just knock.  But watch out.  If I have all my make-up, I will be irresistible."

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 loneliness had gotten me into trouble twice today. 

It was 9:30 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.  Thanks to that skinny prick tease, she had turned my pool table into an enemy.  I frowned with the realization that my new Tough Guy personality was off to a terrible start.  I bet 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 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 they were both connected to the Mistress Book.  I was staring at three omens.  The Mistress Book recommended dance lessons.  Yolanda suggested that no matter how hard I tried, something would always go wrong with women.  Then Lynn appeared to suggest 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 learning to shoot pool was not my ticket, then maybe dancing was. 

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 worked pretty well on drag queens too.  That made me laugh.  This had been the craziest day of my life, definitely a Fork in the Road.  And with that, I found my List of Supernatural Events and made two updates. 

July 20, 1974.  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 Realistic 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.  Someone might suggest I flooded the engine by pumping the gas pedal in my anxiety.  Nope.  I know how to start my car. 

Dating back to my Magical Mystery Tour in college, long ago I had come to believe there is a Hidden World that exists side by side with the Material World.  To be quite honest, I had no idea who lived on the Hidden side of the curtain.  Ghosts?  Angels?  Spirit Guides?  Leprechauns?  Fairies?  The thing to understand is that I have no psychic ability, so your guess is as good as mine.  But I do believe the Hidden World exists and that it is populated by some sort of Invisible Beings.  In addition I believe at least some of these Invisible Beings are agents of God who are assigned the task of coordinating fate.  To me, 'Coincidence' is the word we use when we can't see the pulleys and levers being manipulated.  My imagination suggested the Invisible Man had manipulated my car to deliver my Fate.  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."
 

So naturally one assumes I headed straight to dance lessons.  Not so.  Personally, I had strong doubts about the wisdom of this folly.  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.  Given previous glimpses at my dance inadequacy, the thought of taking a dance class made me sick to my stomach.  Fearful of making a fool of myself, my thoughts drifted back to Yolanda.  Maybe there was hope for her after all.

Upon review of that awkward situation at Yolanda's house with the stalled car, 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 rumor had it that the current sexual climate had relaxed the age-old prohibition against multiple partners. 

"If you can't be with 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 me get a girlfriend.  Why not just get the girl first and skip the dance lessons?  That would 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 well-curved 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 react 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 self-proclaimed 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 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 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.  It was fun to provoke me, but I was 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 over the past year at Colorado State.

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 struck, I had experienced nothing but defeat.  In addition to dramatic set-backs with Christine and Debbie, there had been fifty smaller disappointments with various coeds last spring.  Unfortunately, even those small let-downs added up.  And now Yolanda.  I was doing something wrong... but what?  The message 'Nice Guys finish last' flooded my mind.

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 tease 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 cooperate or slap me in the face.  Women don't say no to me very often, but rest assured 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.  According to Deane, I should have thrown her on that mattress 'for her own good'.   However, that was not me.  My Code of Honor said no meant no.  What did that say about my 'Nice Guy' approach?  It wasn't working.  Yolanda put it to the test and 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 handle a confusing women... take action.

Deane was very firm on this issue.  In his Mistress Book, he made it clear that although women desired sex, most women automatically say 'no' on the assumption that men will respect them more.  Deane said why bother putting up with that nonsense?  He insisted that men ignore what women say 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 having sex conscience-free.  If I accepted Deane's 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 more 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 Deane'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 insisted ALL women deserved to be treated with respect.  Deane had a right to his opinion, but to me, 'No' still meant 'No'. 

Unfortunately, I had plenty of reason to doubt myself.  The Mistress Book logic was sabotaging my long-held views about women.  What if Jim Deane was right?  What if 'No' was a disguise for what a woman really meant?  "Yes, Rick, please bypass my silly female tendency to say no and make it impossible 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 me to do in a situation like Yolanda's pool table Peek Show?  If I were to tell Jim Deane how things had turned out, he would laugh at me with scorn.  Deane's imaginary words taunted me at every turn... "You are a damn fool, Rick, the bitch 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 so-called Tough Guy side was driving me crazy with recrimination.  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?"  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.  Maybe she wanted to haggle first before the surrender.  Yolanda most likely came from a world where women were expected to tease men to madness, then yield 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.  But 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 was that I had given up too easily with Yolanda.  However, I would still never use force.  I was tempted to believe Deane's arguments, but it was not my nature to strong-arm a woman under any circumstance, 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 on the sales pitch.

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

Consumed with unabated passion for Yolanda, I stared at the phone.  Should I or shouldn't I?  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 gave up.  No matter how much I tried, I could not make myself call Yolanda.

At that moment, I hated myself as much as I have ever hated myself.  I was sick and tired of letting women push me around.  Vanessa, Christine, Debbie and the cast of thousands had turned their backs on me at CSU.  Now that I was back in Houston, I had vowed not to let this continue.  Yet here in the clutch, I had backed down.  Crushed to let my Fear of Rejection win again, my cowardice caused the collapse of what little remaining self-confidence I had.  I had failed again with Yolanda for the specific reason that I had been too cowardly to insist she follow through on her signals.  In the frame of mind I was in, I could not risk another defeat.  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.  I was ready to quit, to give up.

LOST YEARS:  FLY ME TO THE MOON

I had to do something!  I could not allow myself to quit!  There had to be some way to overcome this overwhelming fear of a woman's rejection.  With that thought, I stared at the Mistress Book.  To be honest, I did not want to touch the book.  I was tired of my excessive self-doubt concerning my approach to women.  Nor did I wish to revisit Jim Deane's boast about his sexual prowess and theories of Male Dominance.  On 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 again.  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 handy.  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 the girl 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 ever there was 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 other guys did it.  However, that 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.

In Hindsight I can report this turned out to be the smartest move I ever made.  However, at the time my 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.  In Hindsight, I can report that I never met anyone in my 40 year career who was worse than me in the initial stage of 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 earned a teaching award or received 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.