Internet Dates From Hell Part 4

I was so taken with the surroundings that I had not noticed the cabdriver had stopped his cab. "Harbour Lights, ma'am. We're here."

"Oh," I awoke from my daydream. "How much do I owe you?"

"That will be twelve dollars, "he responded.

As I attempted to exit my cab, I was shocked at what I saw: the most enormous, obnoxious, big-wheeled, pickup truck sat on the cobblestone sidewalk outside the restaurant. Along the side of the front fender, driver's door, and back bed fender, spelled the letters JAY-, PROFESSIONAL FLY FISHERMAN. "Oh my G.o.d," I said to myself. "That must be him!"

I couldn't believe it. How tacky (no pun intended). As I walked closer, I noticed that Jay was still in the pickup truck. He spotted me and began waving wildly. He motioned me over and I reticently walked up to the driver's side. The vision of what I saw next is unfortunately etched forever in my mind. I wasn't sure which was worse: the size of his huge beer belly behind the steering wheel or the dashboard that was laden with hundreds of colorful flies adhered with Velcro. Realizing my astonishment, he proceeded to tell me that not only were these examples his finest craftsmans.h.i.+p, but his truck also doubled as his showroom. He even referred me to his Web site, where he sells custom-made flies for fly fisherman all over the world. At this point, something smelled fishy (this time pun intended)! For obvious reasons, the date took a plunge. There was no chemistry, along with the lunacy of it all, and I began writing about the experience as soon as I got in a cab to go home. Once home, I looked up the Web site to see if it was just a big joke. To my surprise, it really existed.

13.

If It Looks Too Good to Be True, It Usually Is.

June 2000.

No sooner did I let the big fish get away, than I decided to deviate from the normal Internet dating site that I had been using. I posted a profile on a Christian singles site. With my mom being a devout Catholic, I thought maybe it would be better to follow her advice. I a.s.sumed that most of these men would be family oriented, religious, and spiritual, and they would be the least likely to have a s.e.xual perversion of some kind. I am a little less naive today than I was back then.

By mid-June I had received no e-mails worth mentioning. Joe, on the other hand, drew my attention. His e-mail portrayed him as a family oriented, fun-loving, outgoing guy. He stated that he prayed the rosary daily. Other than his excessive praying, I sensed a down-to-earth, regular guy. As a rule, I normally don't entertain potential dates outside a fifty-mile radius (due to my past perilous experiences). Mapquest claims that Anaheim is 3,100 miles away. I was never good in math in high school; however, that's far more than fifty miles! Duh! Nevertheless, Joe's piercing blue eyes and flaxen hair lured me (no pun intended).

Three weeks later, after we had spoken on the phone and exchanged photos, Joe flew east for a weekend visit. He was half Irish, half Mexican, and stood five foot ten inches. As a college-educated private investigator, Joe's expertise was in insurance fraud. Since insurance fraud is among the top ten felonious activities in this country, I thought this was an admirable vocation. He asked if it would be acceptable to fly to New York, as he had just solved a big case. He claimed he needed some time to clear his head, since the case took nearly two months to crack, and a weekend away from it all would be advantageous. In addition, he wanted to meet me as soon as possible.

While driving to Newark International Airport, I wondered if this could be the one. I wondered if he'd be attracted to me. Everything looked great! What could go wrong?

The weekend went very well. I asked what his preferences were, and before I could finish the question, he blurted, "The Bronx Zoo...and also the Botanical Gardens, of course!" I thought to myself, "That's funny. I haven't been to the Bronx Zoo since I was a child, and I can't remember ever visiting the Botanical Gardens."

The weekend proceeded as planned: a Broadway show (I wanted to see Phantom, but he urged Cats, and Cats it was), dinner at the renowned Smith & Wollensky Steak House, and a walk through Central Park. His attention was drawn to the horse-pulled carriages.

"Is this just on the weekends or...?"

"No, Joe," I interrupted. "This is 24/7, twelve months a year-weather permitting, of course."

After his fascination with this phenomenon, our conversation steered itself toward more important things. He offered that his father had been a well-known horse veterinarian, licensed in the states of California and New Mexico. After ten minutes of his father's veterinarian accomplishments, I finally asked him about the other members of his family. Joe was no less pa.s.sionate. He proceeded to praise his mother for her daily devotion to St. Francis of a.s.sisi, the great protector of animals. When it came to his oldest sister, Marion, he couldn't stop. After fifteen minutes of Marion adulation, I asked him about his other five siblings. Although warm and genial, his descriptions were nothing like those of his mother and Marion. It was clear to me that the maternal instinct in this family was its guiding light. The only problem I sensed was that when he spoke of his father, he looked down at his shoes. Yet when he spoke of his mother and sister, we were eye-to-eye. When I asked him if both parents were still alive, his demeanor changed, and to this day, I can't determine whether it was from sadness or aloofness. However, it certainly wasn't sadness when he spoke of his father's departure. Regardless, I knew not to press on in that area and questioned him instead about his home life. Once again, his eyes danced with elation. For more than twenty minutes he described his family's ranch from one end to the other. Everything from the farm hands to the little triangle his mother insisted on ringing every night at seven o'clock for dinner. He literally could have talked for hours about the years he spent on that ranch, but before we knew it we were standing in front of the Museum of Natural History, clear across Central Park. He must have sensed my agitation because he squeezed my hand and asked what was wrong. I told him that we had walked the equivalent of thirty blocks (the diagonal distance of Central Park), and it was two o'clock in the morning!

At that point he asked, "Is that bad?"

I said, "No, time flies when you're having fun."

He immediately responded with, "What's next?"

"A cab ride back to my apartment and then to your hotel," I replied.

I readied myself for his deflation, for he was soaring like a parade balloon. But it never came. He was as positive about the cab ride to his hotel room as he was about the ranch, family outings, and even the periodic religious retreats they held in their own home. My mother's prayers were being answered, I thought.

Sunday's brunch was as good as Sat.u.r.day's dinner. He ate the way a true farmhand would-everything in sight. I honestly thought he would eat the tablecloth as well, until I reminded him that his flight was at two thirty that afternoon out of Macarthur Airport on Long Island, not Newark, where he had arrived. Although Long Island at the time was in a middle of a building boom, there were enough horse farms along the way at which Joe could marvel. He was like a kid in a candy store. He couldn't have been happier. There was something about those horses that intrigued him.

As promised, I was aboard a California-bound plane six days later. It was truly time for a California vacation. It had been quite a while since my last getaway. I met his family. They were all wonderful and hospitable. Although Joe and I had met in New York City only days before, I debated whether this was love or just extreme infatuation. It didn't matter which, as I looked around at the most beautiful scenery of Southern California (all owned by Joe's family). I enjoyed myself to the max. One problem, though, was that all the mother and sisters could speak about were religious matters. Raised a strict Catholic myself, I endured their conversation as best I could. However, when I sensed they were testing my faith with the most inane, dogmatic, questions about principles, I tolerated it no further. I politely excused myself and began my long arduous search for Joe. Entering one of the four chicken coops on the ranch, (the only lighted one), I must have startled him because he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"How many chickens do you have to feed on this ranch?" I said, trying to calm him.

"Less than half of what we had in our heyday," he demurely answered.

"Where are the horses?" I asked.

"Oh, that's another thing. When my father died, they were no longer an issue. There's only Leo, the burro to keep these chickens in line."

As he said this, he pointed to the most ancient long-eared animal I have ever seen. This donkey must have been seventy years old, if he was a day. I didn't have the heart to ask him about the burro, when I sensed his somber mood over the horse issue. This time I was the one to ask the question "what's next?"

"Let me finish this row. I'll clean up, and then I'll show you my humble abode."

On the way to his apartment complex, I asked him what was planned for the following day. Again, before I could finish the question, his answer was, "The zoo, of course."

"What zoo are you referring to?" I inquired.

"The Los Angeles Zoo," he snapped.

Realizing that it was only a twenty-five-mile ride from Anaheim, I felt comfortable. Like a true gentleman, he dropped me off at my motel first. He told me that he would give me the cook's tour of his apartment the following afternoon. After a nice day at the zoo and a quaint lunch at a local restaurant, I found myself back at Joe's apartment with more questions than answers. His mood changed dramatically the moment the key turned in the door of his apartment.

What met me first was a bulletin board to the left of the kitchen doorway. Pinned to that board were at least a dozen snapshots of perpetrators of various crimes sought by the local police. Adjacent to the bulletin board was a chalkboard, which was a virtual timetable or schedule for the comings and goings of these perps. On the dining room wall was an enormous area map of Southern California and western Arizona. Protruding from the map was a myriad of colored flagged pins apparently indicating where these perpetrators lived and worked. On the dining room table were several computers, printers, and fax machines, all seemingly in operation. On both the coffee table and end tables were mountains of manila folders, which were obviously files that Joe was either working on or had finished. Adorning each wall of the three rooms I could see, were photographs and paintings of racehorses past and present. Even the curtains of the living room had images of cowboys chasing Indians on fast-moving horses. Before I could pummel Joe with questions about the odd indoor scene, I asked him where the bathroom was. It was as if I woke him from a slumber. He looked at me as if he didn't know who I was.

"Oh, I am sorry, Trish. I just picked up an important fax from the Anaheim Police Department."

"That's OK, Joe. You look like a busy man."

"It's down the hall, two doors to your right," he concluded.

What I experienced next was the second most frightening element of the trip. Instinctively I looked into the first room on the right, which was the guest bedroom. In the room were a daybed, dresser, and night table. However, on every square foot of the room, including the walls, appeared statues, paintings, and pictures of the Sacred Heart, Mary, saints, and angels. I slowed my pace and glanced nonchalantly into the room on the left. In that room, it seemed as if I was looking at a religious article supermarket; life-sized statues of holy ent.i.ties filled the room. Even the headboard was carved with an image of the Last Supper. This morbidly reminded me of the estate in England. Regardless, obsession is obsession, and I was always taught that obsession is wrong.

My bladder couldn't hold out another second. As I opened the bathroom door, I saw what appeared to be a shrine on top of the toilet and sink. Smaller statues, rosary beads, and votive candles crowded the lavatory. On the walls were more photographs of various horses. Even the shower curtain had images of the Kentucky Derby. Uncomfortably relieving my bladder's tension, and trying to put these images out of my mind, I instinctively looked to the sink. What pushed me over the top were the little hand soaps shaped like horses in one dish and soaps shaped like angels in the other. Now I was genuinely concerned.

As I exited the bathroom and had to walk down what seemed to be the longest hallway, I refused to look in either room. I arrived in the living room and called Joe's name. No answer. I continued into the dining room and kitchen, but there was still no answer. "That's odd," I thought. "He was here only a few moments ago. Where could he be?" It was then I saw the piece of computer paper floating in midair in the kitchen. I thought, "This is too spooky." However, I had to determine what I thought I just saw. The paper wasn't floating at all; it was attached to the cord that controlled the overhead fan and light. Handwritten on the paper were the following words: "Sorry Trish, had to leave quickly. Hot tip on a perp. Be back within the hour. Love, Joe." This increased my anxiety, because then I had to sit for at least sixty minutes in an apartment that resembled a bizarre chapel or perhaps a tack room in a jockey's hangout.

What was I to do for an hour or more? The next discovery was as bizarre as the others. There was no television or even radio in the entire apartment, just the three computers. I went to the door and looked out at a parking lot. Retreating back, I sat at the dining room table. My eyes became fixed on the closed laptop at the far end of the table. Since the battery on my cell phone was running dangerously low, I decided to contact my good friend Greg (via e-mail) and ask him what I should do under these circ.u.mstances. I didn't think Joe would mind. This laptop looked as if it was used for personal business, not like the other two, which looked more official.

When I opened up the lid, I wasn't surprised to see one of the greatest racehorses on his screensaver. Man O'War was proudly posing for a twenties black-and-white photograph, alongside his jockey and owner. Since Joe never logged off or shut down, the computer was still running. Innocently, I clicked on the browser icon to sign on to my e-mail account. This could fill up some idle time while I waited for Joe. After all, I do watch too much television and listen to too much music.

Before I could compose an e-mail to Greg, I was inundated with many popups depicting what appeared to be animals mating. As I began to close each spam window, I couldn't believe my eyes! Perhaps I had seen too many pictures of horses in his apartment, and my eyes were deceiving me. Upon closer inspection, I realized that these weren't animals mating; these were animals and humans mating (is mating the right term here?). My curiosity took over, knowing these spam pop-ups only happen when one visits similar sites. I decided to do some investigating of my own.

To my disgust, as I clicked on the history icon, I encountered hundreds of thumbnails of movie and photo files that had the word animal in them. I randomly clicked on one of them, and it opened a b.e.s.t.i.a.lity movie of a woman getting it on with a Great Dane! I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, so I clicked on the next one and found another woman with a horse. Gross! To think that we had been at the San Diego Zoo only a day before. What the h.e.l.l had he been thinking? And even worse, his deceased father had been a well-known horse veterinarian. Not only would I have to worry about other women, but animals as well. This was more bizarre than I could have thought. Just then the front door handle began to turn, and thinking it was Joe, I rose and hastily made a beeline toward the door. At that moment I realized it was too late to log off and close the laptop. Much to my surprise it wasn't Joe at all, but Marion, his oldest sister.

"What's wrong, Trish? You looked like you saw a ghost," she said. Before I could answer, I saw her eyes move down the table to the open laptop and the chair left askew.

"Oh, I see." She added, "There's a perfectly good explanation."

"My phone battery was running low, and I needed to contact a friend to verify my ride home from the airport "

"No need to explain yourself," Marion retorted.

As she finished her statement I noticed her somber mood. She sat and invited me to do the same. She began to tell a lurid tale of Joe's preoccupation with animals, stemming from their father's profession.

She told me that her mother had befriended a priest when her dad had developed cancer. The priest supposedly had healing powers. He spent time with the family in an effort to comfort them. At this point she revealed that Joe had been molested by the priest when he was younger. I asked her how old he was when this terrible thing happened, expecting to hear that he was a child. But instead, she replied that he was 19-it had happened only ten years prior! I was shocked! Could this be what had caused his imbalance? Then it came to me, as Marion continued to supply many details regarding the facts. I silently pieced the puzzle together. The combination of what Joe saw as a child, perhaps in his father's office, the ranch life of animal husbandry, and the molestation of an unstable young adult by a Catholic priest, all contributed to his perversion.

Marion continued her explanation while I retrieved my purse and sungla.s.ses. I politely asked her to drop me off at my motel room and implored her not to reveal the nature of my departure. She agreed, and before long we were in the parking lot outside my room.

"I am sorry for all of this, Trish, but Joe is a good kid. Please remember him as such."

"Right now, Marion, I need to sort things out. I'm a little shaken," I responded.

"Take all the time you need. You appear to be a good kid yourself."

As she drove out of the parking lot, I felt an overwhelming sadness for that family. I realized at that point how fortunate it was to be "normal." The next morning came and went with a quick cab ride to the airport, surrounded by the beauty of Southern California. I had never been this far south in California before, and I absolutely loved the scenery. What a beautiful region of the country. Just then I had a bizarre thought. Actually it was more of a joke that I had heard when I was a kid but could never quite understand. It goes as follows: "Other than that, Mrs. Abraham Lincoln, how did you like the play?" I finally got that joke, which my father used to tell and my brothers used to laugh at.

14.

Be Wary of Someone Too Eager to Travel a Great Distance Right Away.

August 2000.

I should have learned my lesson from chapter 3, where I traveled to England to visit Simon, but I didn't, and I gave the Christian Singles site another chance. Another zealot answered my ad. This time it was Ben from Dallas, Texas. Although average in height, build, and complexion, his smile spoke volumes. During the first conversation after our initial e-mail correspondence, he seemed to be interested in someone from the north. I told him that I was not interested in moving to Texas, nor any other southern state for that matter. I was New York bred and bound. He said that even though he owned a tree tr.i.m.m.i.n.g business and was a certified arborist, he would be willing to go where the Lord took him. On the phone he sounded personable and upbeat. It bothered me that he was already willing to sacrifice a business and career and move north before even meeting me. That spelled desperation to me.

With that in mind, I dug as deeply as I could with my questions to uncover the crack in his foundation. If I was successful, I would politely dismiss myself from the situation and move on. The more I dug, the less I found. He seemed to have answers for everything, most of which were logical and sound. His kind personality and phone presence warmed my heart. After several of these conversations over the span of two weeks, I decided to invite him to New York for a weekend. He jumped at the chance. "Why wait until next weekend, why not tomorrow?" he exclaimed.

Tomorrow? That was too eager for me. What is wrong with these guys who are willing to drop everything and fly 1,500 miles or more to be with someone they have never met? Now I truly understand why they call some southwestern cowboys desperados. I told him that tomorrow was no good, nor was the rest of the week for that matter. I got this strange mental image of three cowpokes standing up and spilling tin cups of coffee to put out their campfire. His silence on the phone was deafening.

"Are you still there, Ben?" I urged.

"Call me 'Heck,' will you Trish?"

"Heck," I thought to myself. "I feel like I am in an episode of Bonanza, waiting for Little Joe and Hoss to walk in and lecture me on why I should take Heck up on his offer."

"How do you spell that, Ben? I asked.

"Heck, H-e-c-k, like 'oh Heck,'" he responded.

Now I was really in it! Second thoughts bombarded me. How can I get myself the heck out of this one? I finally told him that the following weekend would be better. This delay would allow me some time to think of an excuse not to go through with it.

Less than ten minutes later, the phone rang again. Heck was on the other line proclaiming that he had booked a flight over the Internet for $265 to New York, eight days away.

Eight days flew by, and my antic.i.p.ation was practically nonexistent. I begrudgingly made it through Friday night rush hour traffic to JFK airport and waited at the gate for Heck to arrive. As I tried to imagine how this experience could turn out positively, Heck walked off the plane with a freaking cowboy hat, cowboy boots, faded denim jeans, and a red bandana. The only things missing were a holster and a piece of wheat between his teeth. He looked as if he stepped off the soundstage for an episode of Gunsmoke.

As I was driving him from the airport to his hotel, I decided to cut right to the chase. After a long-winded discussion about three saints, I finally asked him if he engaged in any online activity that he wasn't proud of (since that had been a real deal-killer in the past for me). He switched gears and told me that G.o.d allows him to view p.o.r.n online as a physical outlet to prepare him for the sacrament of marriage. He claimed that G.o.d spoke to him often and that G.o.d had actually guided him and had given him signs to meet me. He even confided to me that only a few years before, at the age of thirty, he would frequent topless bars to persuade the dancers to turn to G.o.d. One night he brought a dancer home, and she took advantage of him and stole his virginity. What a crock of s.h.i.+t! At that point, I wanted to drop the freak off by the side of the road at Sheep's Head Bay on the Belt Parkway! But no, I'd gotten myself stuck in this mess. I had to deal with him. My mind was racing, so I planned what ch.o.r.es needed to be done that weekend so that the weekend would not be a total waste.

We arrived in New York City and went to dinner at a diner. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and he sat there and lectured me on how fattening and unhealthy my food was. At this point I truly felt ashamed of my food choices, but I defensively responded, "I don't care. If I want a d.a.m.n burger, I'll have it." It was then that I found out that he wasn't only a religious fanatic, but also a health nut too. He wasn't happy. He continued to badger me about the ill effects of eating meat. He claimed that in the last stages of becoming certified as an arborist he had learned a lot about the world of vegetarianism. He said that he had firmly converted himself and his workers.

He should have asked me to call him Hick, instead of Heck, for that's truly what he morphed into as the hours transpired. He not only lectured me, but included everyone in the restaurant, and the city of New York for our unhealthy eating habits and meat-eating ways. He continued what seemed to be a sermon at that point, about how G.o.d gave us one body and it was not up to us to destroy it with toxic foods. He said he would pray to the archangel Gabriel for my forgiveness, as if Gabriel had nothing more to do than check souls at the gate of heaven (as far as Heck was concerned, he checked their waistlines as well).

I now knew the first order of business would be to remove my profile from the Christian singles site. I only wished that I could discover a better way to find a life partner. My mind was made up; I couldn't take another minute, let alone two more days, of this c.r.a.p.

In the middle of one of Heck's rants about the lack of serious concern for ecology in New York City by its residents, I purposefully dropped my knife on the plate to make a scene. The sound was twice as loud as I had thought it would be. Many of the diner patrons stopped their dinner conversations and stared at me. That was just what I had wanted.

"That's enough!" I yelled, "There's nothing wrong with me, these people, or the city of New York for that matter. This is our home. Why don't you take your cattleman's a.s.s back to Dallas where you are obviously more comfortable and more needed? This city is full of transplants and we don't need another one. Do you hear that sound, Heck?"

"No, what?" Heck responded.

"That is the Lord calling you. You mentioned you would go wherever the Lord called you. I hear him calling you out of New York."

I abruptly jumped out of the booth and threw a twenty on the table and headed for the door. Luckily, as soon as I left the diner, a cab pulled up. I was home in less than ten minutes.

15.

Don't Date Someone Who Has Never Been in a Relations.h.i.+p.

December 2000.

It was hard to believe that it was only a little more than a year ago that I was standing outside of Tiffany's, being proposed to by an overly ambitious Don Juan type. Where did those thirteen months go? Thanksgiving had come and gone, and Macy's had decorated its window a week early this year. "Great," I thought to myself, "another Christmas without a relations.h.i.+p." As a child I had loved Christmas, but as an adult this season wasn't as jolly. I guessed there would be little "Ho Ho Ho" this Christmas, too (or maybe not). "Regardless," I thought to myself, "this Christmas I am going to have a great time-with or without someone." Thank G.o.d for Internet shopping. I could find an outfit, new shoes, and even a nice coat for myself without enduring all of the Christmas hype and gaudy displays in the department stores, which only made me self-conscious about my singleness. No sooner did I sit down to begin my splurge, than the ever-familiar ring of those three words was heard: "You have mail." "Fantastic," I thought to myself. When I get in the shopping mode, that's all I want to do, and I don't like to be distracted. As I sat debating whether to ignore my e-mail, I noticed that my screen saver appeared and made my decision for me. The lonely little snowman melting in the noonday sun that I chose for my screen saver seemed lonelier now than a week ago. Even the little pool of melted snow around his base seemed wider. d.a.m.n, he looked depressed! I decided to postpone my shopping splurge for a few minutes and read my e-mail.

Mickey wrote only a few lines, stating that he was looking for a partner to enjoy the fun things in life, especially around the Christmas holidays. He stated that he was six foot two inches, and of Irish-German descent. His photo showed that he was attractive. He worked part-time at an Internet start-up company located in New York City and part-time as a caddie in Rockland County, where he lived. "Rockland," I thought to myself. "That's funny, I don't know if I have ever met anyone from Rockland County. How bad could this one be?"

I sent Mickey my phone number and he immediately called! He sounded mildly interesting, aside from his monotone delivery. Based on last year's mistakes with out-of-state men, I decided to stay closer to home and concentrate on the greater metropolitan area. I also liked the notion of cutting to the chase early for quick exit purposes. I began the interview process. I asked Mickey about his last relations.h.i.+p, how many long-term or short-term relations.h.i.+ps he had had. His response was that he had never had a relations.h.i.+p. Up went the red flag! This surprised me because he had reached the age of forty without a commitment to a serious relations.h.i.+p. Will wonders never cease? I didn't think there were any forty-year-old virgins these days, or maybe I was being too presumptuous. I decided to give Mickey a try, due to his innocent divulgence of this very sensitive matter.

Each time we spoke on the phone, the conversation flowed better than the time before. I had asked him why he had never had a relations.h.i.+p, but he refused to answer and told me that he would discuss it when we met. Since he worked in the city and I lived there, we decided to meet for pizza at a neighborhood parlor close to Penn Station. If the date didn't pan out, it would be beneficial for both of us to be that close to Penn Station. He could easily hop on the 1, 2, or 3 train to Times Square at 42nd, then transfer to the S to Grand Central to Metro North to his park-and-ride at White Plains and proceed on to Rockland County, and it allowed me to make a quick getaway as well, since I lived only a few blocks away. If the date went well, we could enjoy the Christmas decorations in Macy's windows.

When we finally met, he looked like his photo, but appeared thinner. He seemed very nervous in the beginning, but after twenty minutes he became more comfortable. I was still curious as to why he had never had a relations.h.i.+p, so I asked him again. His response was that he had gone on many first dates, but was never pursued by any of his contacts, due to his drinking and excess weight. As a result of severe depression and low self-esteem, he decided to attend weekly AA meetings, where he had great success. Sober for seven years, Mickey exuded a great sense of accomplishment. "Seven years," I thought. "All those years without a drink or a relations.h.i.+p? I've had dry spells in the past, but this is unbelievable!" He said that he had lost weight and now felt great about himself. Most women would probably have left at that point in the date but I stayed, and the teacher in me gave him an "A" for honesty. He seemed lovable, but maybe life had just dealt him the wrong hand.

"This could be another Miracle on 34th Street," I laughed to myself. But maybe it was too early to decide. After a mutually good time, we both agreed that a movie would be in order, so we walked down the street to the Loews on 34th. We decided to see Almost Famous. After the second s.e.x scene in the movie, I couldn't help but wonder about Mickey. I discreetly turned to him and whispered, "If you have never had a relations.h.i.+p, does that mean you are a virgin as well?" He told me that he would tell me later, if I promised not to judge him. Uh-oh, what had I gotten myself into now? The curiosity was eating me alive. There was at least another hour of the movie left, and my anxiety soared!

Finally the movie ended, credits rolled, and we exchanged small talk regarding the story line on the way out of the theatre. Once we arrived at the diner, I immediately ordered a piece of cake and a cup of tea, while he ordered nothing. I pleaded with him to order something. He said he wasn't hungry. "Then order something to drink," I said. Oops, wrong choice of words. He acquiesced by ordering a club soda. I realized then how hard it was for him, or anyone else, to remove an obsession such as alcoholism from one's life. Before I posed the question again, I a.s.sured Mickey that I had an open mind, as well as a diverse group of friends who were anything but ordinary.

"So tell me, Mickey, are you or are you not a virgin?" I inquired tactfully. I couldn't determine the cause of the redness he exhibited. Was it a blush of embarra.s.sment or a sign of anger? Moments later it was clear to me that it was neither.

"I beg your pardon, Trisha, but you don't need to have a relations.h.i.+p to have s.e.x," he retorted.