

The RJ Silver 3-Pak

RJ Silver

Published on Smashwords

Copyright 2011 RJ Silver (www.rjsilver.com)

Cover by Scott Fiander (http://www.vsfanimation.com)

Smashwords Edition, Licensing Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

**Table of Contents**

Book 1: The Princess & the Penis

Book 2: The Ballerina, the Gymnast, and the Yoga Master

Book 3: My Third-World Girlfriend

RJ Silver's Humor Blog

BOOK 1: THE PRINCESS & THE PENIS

Chapter 1: A Lump In The Rump

A long time ago in a small kingdom far, far away, there lived a beautiful young princess named Amalia. She was so beautiful, flowers leaned toward her when she walked past. Birds and butterflies fluttered around her to get a closer look. Even women who might normally turn green with envy, turned pink with admiration instead.

She was not only beautiful but kind. In the small village outside her family's castle, she served hot meals to the hungry, handed out blankets to the cold, and gave hope to the despondent. The people called her an angel.

Amalia's father, King Norwood, loved her so much, he wanted to protect her from all life's dangers. To keep her safe from the greatest danger of all – men – he surrounded her with three chaste companions and a special troop of guards sworn to defend her virtue. He forbade all single males over the age of twelve from approaching her. He blocked all love songs from reaching her ears, all romantic stories from passing before her eyes, and even made it a crime to discuss such matters with her.

In short, he wanted to keep her as pure as fresh snow, as innocent as a fawn, until her beauty, kindness, and purity attracted a crown prince from one of the big kingdoms. He hoped such a union would not only make her happy, but would also help his small, impoverished kingdom of Westwich survive.

By the time Amalia turned eighteen, the king's plan seemed to have worked. Eleven princes had asked for her hand in marriage on reputation alone. The king had rejected all but one: Prince Rupert from the mighty kingdom of Arginy, who was now on his way to meet her. Everything was going perfectly – Amalia's gilded cage had not a single scratch – until one morning she arrived for breakfast in the Great Hall, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

"Why so tired?" asked Queen Isabella, Amalia's ageless and graceful mother. "Did you not sleep well, my dear?"

"It's my bed," Amalia answered drowsily. "There was a lump under my rump all night long."

"A lump?" said the king, who couldn't bear to see his daughter suffer the slightest discomfort. "That's unacceptable. I'll have the steward replace your mattress right away."

"Thank you, Father," said Amalia, as she gently massaged her behind.

* * *

The next morning, Amalia entered the Great Hall with the same look of sleepy discomfort on her face.

"What's wrong, my child?" asked the queen.

"It was the lump again, Mother," answered the princess. "It seemed to poke and prod me from dusk till dawn."

"That's strange," said the king. "I thought the steward replaced your mattress."

"He did, Father."

"Hmmm...perhaps it's the frame. I'll have him replace that, too. You must look rested when Prince Rupert arrives."

Amalia felt something tug her insides. She was quite nervous about the prince's arrival, now only one week away. To start with, she had two conflicting views of men, both formed at a distance. The noblemen visiting the castle always seemed so shiny and brash, she wondered why any of them needed trumpeters. She'd concluded that to converse with them, one merely needed to nod and smile. On the other hand, the men in the village seemed more full of ale than themselves, mumbled a great deal when they spoke, and sometimes fell asleep sitting up. To communicate with them, their wives often stood quite close, yelling as loud as possible and even poking them in the chest. Now Prince Rupert was a famous nobleman, so she suspected he required a lot of nodding and smiling, but she'd also observed noblewomen behaving like village wives on occasion, and she didn't understand when to make the switch.

She also wasn't sure what to do with a man aside from conversing. She'd mostly observed noblemen at tournaments, where they jousted all day, then drank and caroused all night. But as she didn't joust, drink, or carouse, she couldn't see much of a role for herself there.

Then there was that disgusting thing she'd witnessed at two separate feasts, when a man and woman pressed their mouths together and appeared to chew the same food. She'd never observed married couples doing anything similar, so she didn't think she'd have to do that with Prince Rupert, but she wasn't certain.

It was all so confusing, she wanted very much to talk to her mother and aunts about it. That wasn't permitted, however. Besides, at the moment, she was far too distracted by the current pain in her butt to discuss her future husband.

* * *

At the following breakfast, the princess complained of the same uncomfortable lump.

"I thought the steward replaced your entire bed," said the king, exasperated.

"He did," said the queen, appearing concerned. "Perhaps the lump's not in the bed."

It took a few seconds for this to register with the king. When it did, he jumped to his feet. "Guards!" he bellowed, his voice booming from within his dark beard like thunder from the clouds. "Fetch my physician!"

Shortly after, the king's personal physician arrived: a short, elderly man with stooped shoulders and enormous spectacles. The physician, the queen, and Amalia retired to a private chamber. The king paced nervously outside the door. After a few minutes, everyone emerged smiling and relieved. "All's well, sire," said the physician. "The princess's behind is as round and soft as a lamb's."

"Thank goodness!" said the king. "So what's causing her discomfort?"

"I don't know, sire. Perhaps it's the way she's sleeping."

Overhearing this, Amalia said, "No problem, Father. I'll try to sleep differently tonight."

Chapter 2: The Mystery Unfolds

The next morning, the princess's rear end was as sore as ever, though this time it was only one cheek, since she'd slept on her side.

"Impossible!" said the king, completely baffled. "She has a new mattress, a new frame, and her bottom is as round and soft as a lamb's. Where's the lump coming from?"

"There's something else," said the princess. "It's no longer just a lump. Last night, I felt it to see what it might be, and it began to grow. In fact, the more I felt it, the more it grew, until it assumed a most peculiar shape."

"What kind of shape?" asked the queen, now more concerned than ever.

The princess looked around and picked up one of the large candles from the breakfast table. "Well, it was long and hard like this, except much thicker. And it was bigger at the top, like a mushroom. And here, at the bottom, it had two large apples, one on either side."

The queen dropped her fork onto her plate. The king nearly choked on his buttered scone. As soon as he recovered, he stood and yelled, "Guards, fetch your captain!"

A few minutes later, the captain of the guards arrived. The king pulled him aside to explain what had happened, his face red with rage. "In her own bed! When I get hold of this villain, I'm going to flay him alive. I'm going cut off his private parts and hang them on a pole for all to see. Then I'm going to take them down and stuff them in his—"

"I understand, sire," said the captain. "I just can't figure out how he got into her room. I have two guards posted outside her door day and night, and two more beneath her window. No one could get past them."

"Perhaps it's one of them," said the king. "Have you noticed anything peculiar about their loins? Puffy pantaloons, large lumps in their tights – that sort of thing?"

"Forgive me, sire. I don't understand."

The king described the culprit's extraordinary dimensions.

"Oh, I see. Well, to be honest, that's not something I inspect. Besides, the princess's companions sleep in her room with her. If a man had entered there, wouldn't they have told us?"

"Perhaps they don't know. Perhaps he's using some sort of secret passageway. That's why I want you to fetch the steward and meet me there."

The king returned to the queen and princess. "Amalia, I want you to visit your aunts for a few hours. Please do not discuss this matter with them. Isabella, I'd like you to join me in Amalia's bedchamber to question her companions."

"Question my companions?" said Amalia. "Why? What shape is this to cause such consternation?"

"Never mind, child," said the king. "We'll explain later. In the meantime, please do as you're told."

* * *

The king surveyed his daughter's bedchamber, especially her companions' beds, which had been placed protectively around her own. "Hmmm," he said, "he must have crawled in beneath the beds."

The captain and steward moved all the beds aside and closely examined the floor.

"It's solid stone, my lord," said the steward.

"Then he must be coming in elsewhere," growled the king. "Empty the room and check every crack, crevice, and hole you see!"

Calling in the guards for help, the two men did as instructed, yet still failed to find a secret passageway.

Meanwhile, the queen had completed her questioning of the princess's three companions. "They've seen nothing," she said. "They swear they've been with her all three nights, and that no man has entered the room."

"Have they had any large...visitors...poking around their beds?"

"No, my lord, but I'm not sure they're as chaste as you believe. They seem quite familiar with the...object...in question, though they've never heard of one so enormous. Frankly, neither have I. It seems almost mythical."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I only meant it was...unusual...by ordinary standards. Not that you're in any way ordinary, my lord. Things can be mythical in many different ways. After all, heroes are known for their deeds, not their size. Why, just the other day—"

"Enough! Let's focus on the problem at hand, shall we? How the devil is this villain getting past four guards and three companions to assail our daughter? More importantly, how can we stop him?"

* * *

While the investigation continued in Amalia's bedchamber, she arrived at the joint chambers of her Aunts Ingrid and Leila, the king's two older sisters.

"What's wrong, dear?" Aunt Ingrid said the moment she answered the door. Tall and thin, she had the demeanor of a devoted headmistress.

"It's nothing," said Amalia. "I'm not permitted to discuss it."

"Not permitted by whom?" said Aunt Leila as she joined them. Shorter and rounder than her older sister, she was more like a loving nursemaid.

"By Father – who else?"

"Nonsense," said Aunt Ingrid. "We often ignore what your father says. We used to torment him for hours when he was a boy. Why do you think he has such a bad temper? Now come tell us what's wrong and we'll see if we can help."

Amalia smiled. Even though her aunts were older and had been widowed for many years, they always seemed so modern. She especially admired their independence.

The three women sat on the big velvet sofa in the main room.

"It all started with a lump in my rump," the princess began. She summarized events to that point.

"Oh my," said Aunt Leila at the description of the mysterious shape. "Are you all right, dear? Did it hurt you?"

"It was inside the mattress. How could it hurt me?"

"Oh, they have their ways," said Aunt Ingrid. "Believe me, they have their ways."

"Who's they?" asked Amalia.

"You said it was big," said Aunt Leila. "Exactly how big?"

"Well," answered the princess, "I could easily place both hands on it, one above the other, with plenty of room above and below."

"Oh dear," said Aunt Ingrid. "How thick was it?"

"Hmmm, let's see. I think my fingers could reach only half way around it."

"Good Lord!" said Aunt Leila. "Are you sure it wasn't just a giant clump of feathers?"

"I don't think so," said Amalia, "because it grew when I touched it. In fact, the more I touched it, the bigger and harder it got."

"They tend to do that," said Aunt Ingrid.

"What tends to do that?" asked Amalia.

"Are you sure you weren't just having a dream?" asked Aunt Leila. "You know, the same way you might dream of a snow cone on a hot summer day?"

"I don't think so. Why? Does this have to do with food?"

"Not if you're quick," said Aunt Ingrid. "Now tell us, dear. You can trust your old aunts. You're not involved with some dashing young knight or brawny young stable boy, are you?"

"Of course not!" said Amalia. "Why? Does this have to do with boys?"

Her two aunts glanced at each other.

"You said you'd tell me."

Aunt Ingrid offered her an apologetic smile. "Believe me when we say we want to, dear. We feel you've been kept in the dark about this subject far too long, especially now that you're engaged. We've lobbied your father many times to let us discuss it with you, but this is one line he won't permit us to cross. He's even threatened to lop off our heads if we do. However, given what's happened, we'll petition him again right away."

Amalia wanted to press for more. She hated being kept in the dark as if she were still a child. But she didn't want her aunts to lose their heads, either.

"In the meantime," said Aunt Leila, "Prince Rupert will be here in five days. Are you excited to finally meet him?"

Amalia shrugged. "I suppose, though, to be honest, I hate the idea of leaving all of you and visiting only once every few years. I hate leaving the village's sick and the poor, too. Who will take care of them? I'm also a little nervous. What should I say to the prince when I meet him? How should I behave? What sort of things will we do together?"

"That's part of what we want to discuss with you," replied Aunt Ingrid. "As for what to say or how to behave, just be yourself, dear. Love will take care of the rest."

"Yes, but what if I don't fall in love with him? What if I don't even like him?"

"Oh, that's perfectly normal," said Aunt Leila. "I didn't like my husband at first. He had terrible gas and burped and snored all night long like a wild boar."

"And mine was covered in such coarse hair all over his body," said Aunt Ingrid, "at night I sometimes mistook him for the dog."

"That sounds dreadful," said Amalia.

"Oh, it was," said Aunt Leila. "And we haven't even told you the worst of it. But after a while, they grow on you."

"Like a wart," chuckled Aunt Ingrid.

"A wart you become so accustomed to," said Aunt Leila wistfully, "you miss it when it's gone."

* * *

"Absolutely not!" roared the king. "Why do you think Prince Rupert chose her to begin with? In addition to her beauty, he believes her to be as pure as a mountain stream."

"We know, brother," said Aunt Ingrid. "But that was before a giant penis appeared in her bed. She should at least know what it is."

"I agree," said the queen.

"Me, too," said Aunt Leila.

"It didn't simply appear in her bed," replied the king. "Some villain has crawled beneath her mattress and offended her from there. But I already have a solution. We'll put her in the tower."

"The tower?" said the queen. "She's done nothing wrong!"

"It's to protect her, not punish her. There's no way this scoundrel can get in there. And don't worry, we'll make it comfortable. In the meantime, I'll have my soldiers check every loin in the surrounding towns and villages. As soon as we catch the culprit, we'll quietly put this matter behind us."

Chapter 3: The Phantom Phallus

Early the next morning, the captain of the guard unlocked the prison tower's only door to reveal, to her parents' immense relief, the peaceful, well-rested, and happy face of the young princess.

"See?" said the king. "What did I tell you? She's been left undisturbed for the night and had a wonderful sleep."

"Actually," said the princess, "the reason I had a wonderful sleep is I found a good way to deal with this thing that keeps appearing in my mattress. Instead of sleeping on my back or side, where it sticks into me, I simply rolled over and put it between my legs, where it fit perfectly and felt quite nice."

The queen almost fainted and was saved only by the sturdy arm of the captain. The king turned ghostly white.

"What's the matter?" asked the princess. "Don't you see? Whatever this thing is, it needn't be a pain in my rear when it can instead be a pleasure on my front."

The shocked silence persisted. The queen was the first to rally and immediately pulled her husband aside. "I hope you're happy. The ignorance you've insisted on is now undoing the very innocence you're trying to protect. This is a fine pickle you've got us into."

"That's not the pickle I'm worried about," said the king.

"You have to let me tell her so she can defend herself."

"It's an omen," the king muttered. "An evil omen of some kind."

"The omen here is that your daughter is putting a giant, erect penis between her legs and says it feels good. Now are you going to let me talk to her about this or not?"

"No!" said the king, tuning back in. "I want to consult the high priest first. He'll know how to deal with this...this phantom phallus. In the meantime, tell her not to touch it again, or do anything else with it, for that matter. Tell her it's evil and she's to stay away from it!"

* * *

"Oh, sire," said the high priest. "This is definitely a portent of the worst kind. I fear some demon is trying to impregnate her, and, given his dimensions, it's clearly the biggest demon of them all."

"Not Shesmit!" said the king.

"Yes, sire."

"What do we do?"

"Our only chance is holy water, sire. I'll prepare a silver chalice of it this afternoon. Tonight, when the phallus appears, the princess must douse it with the water and recite a special prayer."

"Shouldn't you do it, or at least be there to help?"

"No, sire. If there are others present, it might become suspicious. Our best bet is for the princess to ambush the penis on her own."

* * *

"A demon?" said Amalia, terrified.

"We think so, yes," said the queen. "But don't be frightened, my dear. All you have to do is pour this holy water on it and recite this prayer, and we believe it'll go away." She extended the high priest's silver chalice and prayer.

Amalia spent the rest of the day alternately memorizing the prayer and thinking about the strange demon object in her bed. She wondered what it wanted. And why her? She'd never done anything to attract evil.

This thought helped strengthen her resolve. She was a good person. So long as she did what the high priest said, she couldn't imagine anything bad happening to her.

That night, her parents saw her off to bed. Having heard the news about the demon, her two aunts joined them. All five hugged before the tower door.

"Good luck, daughter," said the king. "Be noble and strong, and remember: if you need help, just call out and I'll be there in seconds."

"Yes, Father."

"Remember your prayer," said the queen. "Say it three times just to be sure."

"Yes, Mother."

"And don't trust anything it says or does," said Aunt Ingrid. "They can be quite slippery when they want."

"Yes, Aunt."

The princess entered the tower, the captain of the guard closing the door behind her.

Her family held vigil outside.

* * *

As dawn broke, the king commanded the captain to open the tower door. Again, much to everyone's relief, they were greeted by the smiling, rested face of the princess.

"Did you do it, daughter?" the king asked. "Did you rid yourself of this evil menace?"

"Not quite, Father," said the princess. "I did exactly as you said. I waited for the giant lump to appear, then doused it with the holy water and recited the prayer three times."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing. The lump remained, except it became even more uncomfortable than before."

"In what way?"

"I had to sleep in the wet spot, which was not only damp but cold. But I remembered how warm the lump got when it grew, so I stroked it until it grew very large and warm indeed. Then I put it between my legs again and had another wonderful sleep."

"But, child," said the queen, "I told you not to touch it."

"I know, Mother, but the wet spot was intolerable. Besides, I have even better news. I don't think the lump is evil after all. When I stroked it, it squirmed and moaned and snuggled up to me just like my pet ferret used to do when I rubbed him between the ears."

This time the queen fainted.

Chapter 4: The Wacky Wizard

"No, no, no!" the king insisted as he and his wife argued in the hallway. "We have three days before Prince Rupert arrives. We can still preserve her innocence."

"Not unless you have one of those for her loins!" said the queen, pointing at the suit of armor standing against the wall next to them.

"Hmmm," said the king, stroking his beard. "That's not a bad idea. A kind of armor against amour, a buckler against the bold, a visor for the vag—"

"Husband!"

"Okay, okay. Look, if this thing isn't a demon, it's clearly some form of magic, so I don't want to do anything else until I've spoken with Waldorf the Wizard. He'll know what to do."

* * *

Waldorf the Wizard lived in a small, cluttered cottage on the king's estate. He was a powerful wizard in many ways, and he certainly looked the part with his tall pointed hat, long white beard, and flowing satin cape. Yet, there was a reason he worked for the small kingdom of Westwich instead of much larger kingdoms like Arginy: his obsession with magical pranks. On one occasion, he cast a spell on all the village wives to hear only what they wanted to hear from their husbands, which led to considerable grief when the men didn't fulfill their promises. On another occasion, he caused ale to randomly disappear from mugs at a local tavern, leading to the worst brawl in the tavern's history. Even nobles hadn't been spared, a group once riding straight into the moat when fooled by the illusion of a lowered drawbridge.

Thus, it wasn't surprising when the wizard found amusement in the king's predicament. "A giant penis in the mattress? You don't say. Well, at least someone else in my line of work has a sense of humor."

"So you think it's magic?"

"We'd better hope so, because if it starts occurring naturally, most of us will be out of luck."

"What can we do about it?"

"Well, I suppose I could create a swelling potion. I hear stretching helps, too."

"I mean about getting rid of the penis in the mattress."

"Oh yes, that. Hmmm..." The wizard stood and began rifling through his shelves. At last, he extracted a silver wand and a small bottle with a note attached to it. "This should do it," he said, handing the items to the king. "Have the princess sprinkle this powder on the penis, say the attached incantation, and whack the testicles hard three times with this wand."

"She has to physically strike the testicles?"

"Hey, you're trying to get rid of a penis. Smacking the testicles is never a bad place to start."

* * *

"You want me to whack it hard across the apples?" asked Amalia.

"Three times," said the king.

"But won't that hurt it?"

"Think of it more as encouraging it to leave."

Amalia turned away from her parents and looked out the throne-room window at the fields of grass and wild flowers beyond the castle walls. She loved nature, especially its gentler side. When she turned back again, she said, "I don't know. As I told you this morning, I don't think the lump is evil. It seems sort of cute to me now, like my old—"

"Yes, yes," said the king. "Like your old ferret. But tell me, daughter, do you want Prince Rupert to call off the wedding?"

Amalia didn't understand the connection. "On account of this? I hope he's not that intolerant. Maybe he'll even like the lump and we can keep it as a pet."

The king clamped his hand over his face.

"Men tend not to like those sorts of pets," said the queen. "Your father's right. If you don't want to risk losing Prince Rupert, you should do as the wizard suggests."

"But—"

"This isn't a debate, Amalia," said the king. "I'm telling you what to do and I expect you to do it!"

* * *

The entire family once again crowded around the tower door the following morning. This time, they were greeted by a princess not only rested but determined.

"Did you do it, daughter?" the king asked. "Did you sprinkle the magic powder on it, recite the incantation, and whack the...apples...three times hard with the wand?"

"Yes, Father. And it was awful, utterly cruel. The poor thing yelped every time I hit it, then curled up, turned green, and moaned in pain."

"Fantastic!" said the king. "Oh, joyous day. So it's gone now?"

"No, it's not gone. I couldn't bear to see it suffer like that, so I hugged it to my bosom and caressed it back to health. I'm telling you, you're gravely mistaken about it. This little creature isn't evil. It's warm and gentle and loving. Why, it felt as wonderful between my breasts as it did between my legs."

This time, it was the king who fainted. But when he awoke, it was not to the attentive care of those around him. It was instead to the angry face of his wife hovering over him. "Is this what you meant when you said ignorance is bliss?" she hissed. "I've had it with keeping our daughter in the dark. I'm discussing this with her whether you like it or not!"

The queen rose and took Amalia by the hand. "Come along, dear. Aunt Ingrid and Aunt Leila, you're welcome to join us."

The four women stormed off.

The captain and the other guards helped the king to his feet, where he stood red-faced and puffing through his dark beard.

Chapter 5: The Frogs And The Flies

The queen brought her daughter and two sisters-in-law to her private chambers, where she first ordered tea. When the tea had been served, and everyone was comfortably seated, she turned toward Amalia. "Today, dear, we're finally going to have the conversation we should have had long ago. I'm going to tell you about the frogs and the flies."

Amalia's eyes widened. "You mean about girls and boys?"

"Yes. You see, there's really no other way to put this. That...thing...you've been stroking, putting between your legs, and holding to your bosom isn't a candle or a giant mushroom, and it's certainly not a ferret. It's part of a man."

"A man? But I've never seen anything like that on a man."

"If you've described it accurately, neither have we," said Aunt Ingrid.

Aunt Leila snickered.

"The reason you haven't seen it," said the queen, "is because it hangs between a man's legs and is therefore concealed by his garments."

"Well, most of the time," said Aunt Ingrid. "Though they do have a tendency to sneak out whenever they can."

"What's it for?" asked Amalia.

"It has multiple uses," explained the queen. "At times, it's used to pee, similar to your own bodily function. At other times, such as when a man and woman are in love—"

"Or drunk," interjected Aunt Ingrid.

"Or just in the mood," said Aunt Leila.

"—the man's lump, or 'penis', as it's properly called, will get hard, and then the man will put it inside the woman, and—"

"Inside!" said Amalia, shocked. "Where inside?"

"Well," answered the queen, "between your legs."

"Or other places, if they can get away with it," said Aunt Ingrid.

"And believe me, they'll try," added Aunt Leila.

"Ladies," said the queen, "there's no need to traumatize her."

"We're not trying to, my lady," countered Aunt Ingrid. "But if she doesn't know about the other places, isn't she at risk there, too?"

"Hmmm," said the queen, "you're quite right. Basically, Amalia, once a man's penis is hard, he might try to stick it in you anywhere he can."

"Even your ear," said Aunt Leila.

"My ear?"

"Yes. That happened to me once and I couldn't hear for a week."

"But why?" asked Amalia. "Why must they stick it anywhere?"

"Because it feels good for them," said the queen.

"Yes, but doesn't it hurt us?"

"I daresay the one in your bed might," said Aunt Ingrid. "At least for a little while. But the area between your legs—"

"Called your 'vagina'," said Aunt Leila.

"—is quite elastic. It can expand to accommodate the largest of men."

"And even contract to accommodate the smaller ones," said Aunt Leila.

"Though the contracting part's not as much fun," said Aunt Ingrid, "which is why you should generally avoid men with small lumps in their tights.'

"Ladies," said the queen, "I think we're drifting. The point is, Amalia, that having a man put his penis inside you is a very intimate act meant to be shared only with a man you truly love."

"Though, if you're older and widowed like us, you might have to lower your standards a bit," said Aunt Leila.

"Furthermore," said the queen, "this is how babies are made. After a man's penis is hard and rubs inside of you, it produces his seed, which then takes hold in your stomach and makes you with child. Do you understand, dear, or would you like me to explain it again?"

"No, I think I understand," said Amalia. "It all sounds horrible, but I think I get it."

"Well," said Aunt Leila, "just so we don't ruin things for you and Prince Rupert, it's not necessarily horrible. It can actually be quite pleasurable if the man knows what he's doing."

"How can you tell if he knows that?"

"Unfortunately, it's trial and error. You only know after you try."

"Or during," said Aunt Ingrid. "I can pretty much tell right away if it's going to be a stinker."

Amalia tried to absorb all this new information. "So what about the penis in my bed?" she asked finally. "What does it want?"

"Well," said the queen, "from the sound of it—"

"Especially the fact it gets hard and moans and squirms when you touch it," said Aunt Leila.

"It probably wants what every other penis wants," said the queen.

"Which is to violate you," said Aunt Ingrid. "To pillage and ravage your young body from dusk till dawn until there's nothing left of your honor, virtue, or, if you happen to let your hair down, your dignity."

"That's why we're telling you this," said the queen. "Despite what you said this morning about it not being evil, the penis in your bed is obviously not of this world."

"Seeing as it's only a penis," said Aunt Ingrid.

"With no man attached to it," said Aunt Leila.

"Which frankly doesn't sound that bad," said Aunt Ingrid. "Might even be a huge market for that sort of thing."

"As I was saying," said the queen, clearing her throat, "since it's obviously not of this world, you mustn't touch it, stroke it, or put it between your legs or breasts again, no matter how good it feels, okay?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And you mustn't tell Prince Rupert about it, either."

"You mean you want me to lie?"

"It's more of a white lie, actually," said Aunt Leila. "One meant to avoid upsetting the prince after the penis is gone."

"I don't understand," said Amalia. "If the penis is gone, why would he get upset?"

"Because men can be quite sensitive about that sort of thing," explained Aunt Ingrid. "Each man likes to believe his penis is the only one his lady's ever seen, or at least the biggest she's ever seen."

"Oh, I get it," said Amalia. "It's like a competition – a joust."

"Precisely," said Aunt Leila. "Though they rarely mash their heads together like that."

Amalia sat back. She had a lot to contemplate, not only about the penis in her bed, but also about her upcoming marriage to Prince Rupert, and even about life in general. Mostly, however, she felt unsettled. Of everything she'd heard, something didn't seem quite right, as if her understanding of the situation wasn't yet complete.

Chapter 6: Solutions

Four hours later, King Norwood called the family to the Great Hall. "I've got it!" he said. "Enough of these hocus-pocus prayers and incantations. I'm going to deal with this villain the same way I would any other." He pulled out a dagger. "I'm going to lop off its head!"

Complete silence followed. After a few moments, it was Amalia who spoke up. "No, Father. I won't allow it."

"What do you mean, you won't allow it? Prince Rupert arrives in two days. Surely you now realize that if you don't rid yourself of this monstrosity, it will undo your marriage, a marriage that's perfect for you in every way."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I'm not going to harm something that doesn't deserve it."

"Doesn't deserve it? It's invaded your bed. That alone qualifies it for the chopping block!"

"That's because you keep seeing it as evil. You all do. But I still don't agree. It's done none of the nasty things that Aunt Ingrid or Aunt Leila described."

The king shot his sisters a dirty look. "What nasty things?"

"Quite the opposite," Amalia continued. "It's been both polite and gentle. So I don't think it's a demon or anything villainous. It feels more like it's lost and lonely – yes, almost like a lost puppy."

"Ah, the lost puppy look," Aunt Leila whispered to her sister. "That one used to get me every time."

"Me, too," said Aunt Ingrid.

"And is this lost puppy worth destroying your entire future, not to mention a key alliance for our kingdom?" the king asked.

"I didn't say that, Father," replied Amalia. "I know you've worked hard to arrange my marriage to Prince Rupert. But I'm not going to kill something for personal gain, especially when I feel it might actually be good. What I want to do is talk to it."

"Talk to it?"

"Yes. I'm going to politely ask it to leave. If I'm right, I think it'll agree."

"Oh, child," said the king. "I fear your innocence misleads you. As everyone in this room will attest, penises rarely listen to reason. Yet I can't do this without you, so I'll give you one last chance to rid yourself of this menace on your own. If it refuses, however, you must promise to help me cleave it in two."

The princess cringed at this thought, but felt she had no choice other than to agree.

* * *

Once again, great anticipation accompanied the opening of the tower door the next morning. This time, however, Amalia emerged neither happy nor well-rested.

"It didn't leave, did it?" said the king.

"To the contrary," replied Amalia. "It did exactly as I asked."

Gasps of surprise and relief filled the room.

"Gone? Departed for good?" said the king.

"Yes," said the princess.

"Then why so sad?"

"Because I feel as if I let it down. As if it needed something from me, I was its only hope, and now that hope is gone."

"What penis doesn't try to make you feel that way?" whispered Aunt Ingrid to her sister.

"Until you give it what it wants," Aunt Leila whispered back. "Then it gallops off like a highwayman after a heist."

"But don't you see, daughter?" said the king. "This is glorious – glorious! Now Prince Rupert won't have to hear a single word about it."

Amalia sighed. "Yes, Father. I'm glad you're happy. I just hope we haven't hurt some innocent soul in the process."

"Nonsense, child," said the king. "You've done the right thing. Now we can finally ready ourselves for the prince's arrival tomorrow."

Chapter 7: Prince Rupert

The trumpets sounded as the castle gates opened. Aunt Ingrid, Aunt Leila, and Amalia watched from the royal box to the left of the receiving platform. Arginy's famous Silver Guard appeared first: twelve tall knights on majestic steeds, riders and horses alike gleaming in silver armor.

Behind the Silver Guard came four knights and horses clad entirely in gold.

Behind these came eight black horses pulling such a large golden carriage, it looked like a temple on wheels. Sitting atop the carriage and clad entirely in white, Prince Rupert cut a majestic figure even from a distance.

Another four golden knights and twelve more of the Silver Guard followed in the rear.

"Oh my!" said Aunt Leila. "Have you ever seen such magnificent procession?"

"Never," Aunt Ingrid responded. "It's dazzling!"

The crowd, which had gathered along both sides of the road, applauded and threw flowers.

The procession drew nearer, bringing Prince Rupert more fully into view, revealing that his white doublet and matching white tights were both adorned with gold trim.

"He's so regal looking," observed Aunt Leila.

"And his face is so handsome," added Aunt Ingrid.

"You lucky, lucky girl!" the two aunts said in unison.

Amalia nodded and said, "It certainly is impressive."

The procession finally came to a halt at the receiving platform. The prince descended from the carriage as two attendants emerged from within it, both bearing red velvet boxes. They assembled at the foot of the platform, the prince taking the lead, and began a slow, formal ascent up the platform's steps. At the top, the prince bowed first before Queen Isabella, who was seated in her throne chair, and kissed her outstretched hand. Taking the velvet box from the attendant on his right, he opened its lid and presented it to his future mother-in-law with another sweeping bow.

Despite the side view, Amalia and her two aunts could see that the box contained a pair of golden chalices.

The prince greeted the king in similar fashion, presenting him with a golden sword.

Finally, the prince turned and bowed toward Amalia and her aunts. As he did so, the front of his tights became visible for the first time, having previously been veiled by his doublet's side skirts. Aunt Ingrid and Aunt Leila immediately glanced at each other. There was no lump in his loins, no bulk in his basket, as it were. Instead, his crotch was full of creases, his private parts mere pucker.

"Oh my," Aunt Ingrid whispered. "That can't be good."

* * *

After the receiving ceremony, Amalia said she felt tired and retired to her room for a nap.

Her two aunts, meanwhile, conferred in private.

"Do you think she noticed?" asked Aunt Ingrid.

"I doubt it," said Aunt Leila. "She's not that kind of girl. Still, I hope he switches to pantaloons for their formal introduction tomorrow. At least that would put a little puff in his prow."

"That's not going to help on their wedding night, is it?" said Aunt Ingrid.

The two women fell silent.

"This is so awful," exclaimed Aunt Leila. "If only that giant penis hadn't invaded Amalia's bed, she'd never know the difference."

"Oh, I think she'd know something was amiss. Hey, wait a moment. The penis in her bed has no man attached to it...and the man headed for her bed apparently has no penis."

"That's a little harsh. He probably has one. It's just a bit undernourished."

"Fine, but don't you see an opportunity here? If we could take what was in her bed—"

"And find a way to put it on Prince Rupert—"

"He'd be the perfect man!"

"But how are we going to do that?" asked Aunt Leila.

"There's only one possibility," answered Aunt Ingrid. "We have to talk to that wacky wizard."

* * *

"Let me get this straight," said Waldorf. "The penis the king wanted to get rid of the other day, you now want to transfer to Prince Rupert instead?"

"If possible," said Aunt Leila.

"And what do you want me to do with Prince Rupert's penis?"

"I don't think it's of much consequence," said Aunt Ingrid.

"Now, sister," said Aunt Leila, "let's not be unkind. Maybe you could put it on a rabbit or some other small furry creature."

"Where it wouldn't look so out of place," added Aunt Ingrid.

Waldorf shook his head. "You women never cease to amaze me. This penis but not that one. Put it here but not there. Why do you have to be so picky?"

"We're not all picky," said Aunt Leila with a bashful smile.

Aunt Ingrid shot her a disapproving look. "So," she said, turning back to the wizard, "can you help us or not?"

Waldorf tugged his long white beard. "I'm not sure. My magic powder had no effect earlier. And to be honest, I haven't had a lot of success controlling private parts over the years, including my own, so making two of them swap places is probably a stretch."

Chapter 8: Sleeping Beauty

It was agreed that Amalia and Prince Rupert would be formally introduced in the library, with Aunt Ingrid acting as chaperone. Amalia sat nervously on the library sofa, her aunt in a chair near the fireplace.

The room's doors swung inward. Two attendants entered first, one standing to either side of the open doorway. The prince then entered with the same formality and aplomb he had displayed at the receiving ceremony, though thankfully wearing a pair of pantaloons.

A third attendant followed the prince into the room bearing more gifts, which the young lord presented with more sweeping bows. Aunt Ingrid received golden candle holders. Amalia received a gold-framed portrait of her future husband in his white doublet.

"It's a great pleasure to finally meet you, Princess," he said as he sat beside her on the sofa. "You're even more beautiful than your father described."

Amalia smiled. "So how was your journey? What do you think of Westwich?"

"My journey was long but well worth it. As for your little kingdom, I think it charming, especially the small villages and hamlets."

"Yes, I so love them. Are there many small villages near your castle?"

"I'm afraid not. The castle is in the center of Arginia, a large city. There are plenty of shops and beauty salons, however."

"Are there any commoners there? Any poor or sick?"

The prince laughed. "You needn't worry about that, my lady. There are commoners working in the shops and salons, of course, but you won't have to deal with them. Your ladies-in-waiting can do that. And if any of the poor or sick try to bother you, the Silver Guard will keep them away."

Amalia glanced down. "I see... So what will I do there?"

"Hopefully, you'll spend your time in amusement and delight. There are wonderful shows in the theater every night. And we have many balls and feasts at the castle."

"...It sounds wonderful."

"It is indeed, my lady. There are many who say that Arginia is the finest city in the world, and our castle its greatest treasure."

This small talk continued for another half-hour, mostly with the prince describing more of Arginia, Arginy, and himself, and Amalia nodding and smiling. At the end of this exchange, he invited her to take a walk in the garden. She loved the garden and normally would have accepted. However, this time, she said, "I'm feeling a bit tired, actually. If you don't mind, I think I'll take a nap."

"Certainly," said the prince with a bow. A few moments and a few more bows later, he and his attendants departed, exiting the room in the exact reverse order in which they had entered.

* * *

"Where have you been?" Aunt Ingrid asked her sister, who'd just walked through the door.

"Whatever do you mean?" said Aunt Leila, blushing.

"I mean it's after eleven p.m., your hair is disheveled, and I haven't seen you smile like that since we played spin the goblet in our teens."

Aunt Leila straightened her hair. "I went to see Wally – er, the wizard – to check on his progress."

"Uh-huh. And?"

"He's still having problems with his self-control – I mean, obtaining control – of the objects in question."

"I see. Well, to be honest, I don't think it matters."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because over the past few days, the prince hasn't been very princely. Not only does he talk endlessly about himself and his possessions; yesterday, he took Amalia for a disastrous ride in his golden carriage. As they passed through the village, the villagers came out to greet her, as usual, and his Silver Guard drew their swords on them. Amalia was horrified and leapt down from the carriage to intervene. Yet even when the prince saw how warmly the people embraced her, he still refused to greet them, which caused quite a rift afterward.

"There's something else, too. She's been exceedingly tired. Every time she and the prince are together, she runs off for a nap. I became worried and asked her companions about it, and they told me she'd been napping three times a day minimum."

"Oh my," said Aunt Leila. "You don't suppose..."

"Well, let's put it this way," said Aunt Ingrid. "If you're sneaking out every chance you get to spend time with that wacky old wizard, isn't it possible she might want to spend a little time with her...extraordinary mattress?"

"Oh dear. So what do you think will happen?"

"I don't know, but I have a feeling matters will soon come to a head."

* * *

Aunt Ingrid was not the only one to notice the princess's unusual sleeping pattern.

"So," said King Norwood to his future son-in-law as they shared lunch with Queen Isabella in the Great Hall, "how are you and Amalia getting along?"

"She's every bit as lovely as you described," answered Prince Rupert. "But I must ask, sire, is she ill?"

"Ill? Amalia? Not a day in her life. Why do you ask?"

"Because she seems to spend a lot of time in bed. First, we cannot meet until midmorning because she sleeps in. Then it's back to bed again right after lunch. The same occurs in late afternoon. And we can't schedule anything in the evening because she retires for good at seven."

The king glanced at his wife, both of them turning instantly pale.

"What is it?" asked the prince. "Is there something—"

A woman's high-pitched voice drew their attention to the hall's entrance. "It's the princess!" the voice screamed. "Something's wrong with the princess!"

One of Amalia's companions rushed into the room, two guards with her.

The king, queen, and Prince Rupert all jumped to their feet.

The companion – a maiden in her early twenties – was nearly hysterical. "Oh, sire. Something's happened to the princess. She's been sleeping so much lately, I went to check on her and found her moaning and writhing under her covers. I tried to shake her out of it, but she couldn't seem to hear me. When she finally opened her eyes, she seemed angry with me, which is quite unlike her, and her face was all flushed and covered with sweat, as if with fever."

The king and queen both bolted for their daughter's quarters, Prince Rupert, the maiden, and the guards close behind.

Chapter 9: Awakenings

The urgent knock at the door caused Aunt Ingrid to answer it in a rush. She was surprised to see her niece standing on the other side, wearing only her nightgown and looking rather frazzled. "Are you okay, my dear?"

"No," Amalia answered. "I need your help."

Aunt Ingrid immediately brought her inside and called for Leila.

"I have a problem," Amalia said as Aunt Leila arrived. "I don't want to marry Prince Rupert."

"I thought that might be the case," said Aunt Ingrid. "Is it because he's a tiresome bore?"

"Not entirely. It's because...because there's another."

"Another?" said Aunt Leila. "Who?"

Amalia blushed. "I'm not sure. See, the reason I've been sleeping so much lately is I've been spending a lot of time with the...the penis in my bed."

"I thought so," said Aunt Ingrid. "You never really sent it away, did you?"

"No, I did," said Amalia. "But I asked him to come back."

"It's not really a him, dear," said Aunt Leila. "It's more of an it."

"No, see, that's where you're wrong. I think there's more to this penis than meets the eye."

"More?" said Aunt Ingrid. "From the sounds of it, there's quite enough already."

"I'm sure of it," Amalia insisted. "He can't say anything. All he can do is make noises. But I think there's a man attached to it – a wonderfully warm and kind man."

"What makes you say that?" asked Aunt Leila.

"Well, mostly it's just a feeling. But there are other things, too. Last night, for example, I felt cold, so he wrapped himself around my waist."

"Hmmm," said Aunt Ingrid, "I can't say I've ever had one do that before."

"And when I talk to him, he nudges and cuddles me and makes the cutest noises."

"Actually, you have to watch when they make a lot of noises," said Aunt Leila. "Usually that's a sign of bad things to come."

"So I've been thinking," Amalia continued. "What if it's actually a man trapped inside my mattress, but someone turned him into a penis, you know, with some kind of spell?"

"Well," said Aunt Ingrid, "I supposed if one can say a man is his penis, it's not a stretch to say a penis can be a man."

"So I started reading old fairy tales about curses and spells," said Amalia, "and I think I know what I have to do to turn him back into a man."

"What's that?" said Aunt Leila.

"I have to kiss him."

Aunt Ingrid drew back. "Oh, dear, I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"She's right," said Aunt Leila. "You do that once and it'll want it all the time."

Someone banged on the door.

"Yes?" Aunt Ingrid called out.

"It's your brother," the king's voice responded. "Is Amalia in there?"

Aunt Ingrid hesitated. "Yes, but she's busy at the moment. Can you come back later?"

"No," said the king. "It's urgent I speak to her now." From all the scuffling, it sounded as if there were others with him.

Aunt Leila went to open the door, but Amalia stopped her. "No, you mustn't," she said. "I think Father knows what I've been doing. I think one of my companions told him and he's here to stop it. If I'm going to kiss the penis, I need to do it now."

Her two aunts glanced at each other.

"Dear," said Aunt Ingrid, "if your father's already upset with you, I don't think it's wise to stall him so you can kiss a penis."

"Please," said Amalia. "If this is the man I love, it may be my only chance to save him."

The king banged on the door even more forcefully.

"Oh dear," said Aunt Leila. "I'm not sure we should do this. He sounds as if he's in one of his head-chopping moods."

Aunt Ingrid looked at her niece's sweet yet desperate face. "You can borrow my chamber, dear. But hurry. The longer we delay, the angrier he'll get."

Amalia rushed toward the bedroom.

"What's going on?" the king's voice boomed. "Are you going to open the door or not?"

The queen added her voice to the fray. "Ingrid, Leila, please let us in. It's urgent!"

"One moment, my lady," said Aunt Ingrid. "We're just getting dressed."

"Dressed?" said the king. "Nonsense! It's midday!"

"Now, brother, you wouldn't want us to be immodest, would you? Just give us a few minutes and we'll be with you."

"You're lying! I can always tell when you're lying." He barked an order. Within seconds, something heavy slammed into the door.

"Brother, don't be so impatient," Aunt Ingrid called out. "All we're asking for is a few more minutes."

A second thump hit the door, followed by the sound of more men's voices.

The two aunts clasped each other's hands.

A terrible wallop smashed against the door, sending it crashing inward, four guards stumbling in after it.

* * *

Meanwhile, Amalia had rushed into her Aunt Ingrid's bedroom, locked the door, and jumped into bed. No sooner did she hit the mattress than the penis appeared. More surprising still, it was already erect, already squirming and nudging her, and she hadn't even touched it yet.

She heard the commotion in the other room and knew she had to hurry. She slid down the mattress and took the penis in her hand. It pulsed and jumped around more than it ever had. She closed her eyes and puckered her lips.

The apartment's outer door crashed in.

"I believe," she whispered. "I believe." Her lips made contact.

A bright light enveloped the bed. The penis instantly began to grow, unfolding and transforming before her very eyes. Within seconds, it became a tall, broad-shouldered, blonde-haired man dressed in clothes she'd observed only in ancient paintings. He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

"Prince Longwood at your service," he said in a deep, resonant voice.

She realized she still had his enormous penis in her hand, albeit tucked behind his tights. "Oh!" she said, unhanding it.

He, too, jumped back, trying to cover himself with his hands. "I'm so sorry, my lady," he said. "You see, this witch—"

"Where is she?" the king's voice boomed from the other side of the door.

No one answered.

"In there!" he yelled.

Something heavy hit the bedroom door. Prince Longwood leapt to his feet, pulling Amalia behind him.

The door came crashing in, the four guards following it. The moment they saw the prince, they drew their swords.

The king strode in after them, Queen Isabella, Prince Rupert, and the two aunts close behind. "Who are you?" the king said to the stranger. A quick glance at the man's bulging tights supplied the answer. "You! Unhand her! Guards, seize him!"

"Father, no!" yelled Amalia.

The guards advanced.

"Wait!" said Prince Longwood. "If there's to be a fight, I don't want to risk Amalia getting hurt. At least let her pass safely behind you."

The king saw the wisdom of this and agreed.

"No!" Amalia said. "I don't want to go! Father, don't hurt him."

Prince Longwood turned to Amalia and took her hands in his. "Please," he said, "go behind your father, where you'll be safe. Trust his goodness and his judgment."

Amalia glanced at her father. She slowly let go of the prince's hands and made her way to her father's side.

The moment she was safe, the guards began to advance on Prince Longwood again, but the king, having heard the prince's words, said, "Wait. Tell me who you are and what you're doing with my daughter."

"Yes," said Prince Rupert, now beside the king. "I'd like to hear that explanation myself."

"My name is Prince Longwood," said the stranger. "Of the ancient kingdom of Shlongdia."

Murmurs rippled through the room.

"Shlongdia?" said the king. "We thought that was only a myth."

"Ah, Shlongdia," Aunt Ingrid whispered to her sister. "What woman hasn't dreamed of that magical place at least once in her life?"

"Far from a myth, sire," Prince Longwood replied, glancing around. "My family built this castle. One thousand years ago, these were the chambers of my dear aunt and uncle, where I often played as a child. As I grew up, however, I realized there was more to nobility than play, so I set out to help the poor throughout our kingdom. This made me enormously popular with the people, but also spurred great jealousy among the other nobles. One of them paid a wicked witch to cast an evil spell on me – a spell intended not only to banish me to a bodiless existence, but also to mock my family's most famous trait."

Everyone glanced at his tights.

"In short," the prince continued, "she turned me into a speechless penis. By the rule of such spells, however, they cannot be permanent. There must be an out. In this case, the witch was particularly cunning. The only way for me to become a man again was to get a beautiful, kind, and pure girl to kiss my private parts."

It took a few seconds for this to register with the king. His head snapped toward his daughter. "You kissed his private parts?"

Amalia blushed. "It was only a quick peck, Father. I didn't know what else to do. I had a feeling the real him was trapped inside his...you know. And in all the other fairytales, when the prince is trapped inside something, like a frog, you have to kiss—"

"Enough!" said the king. "I'd rather not hear about it."

"As you know, sire," continued the prince, "it's a mighty deed to get a beautiful girl to kiss your private parts."

All the men in the room muttered their agreement.

"And to be honest, I haven't felt strongly enough about anyone to try, so I've roamed disembodied through my ancient kingdom all this time. Then Amalia came along, and she was so beautiful and kind to the villagers, I fell in love with her right away. Unfortunately, deprived of any form other than my privates, I couldn't bear to approach her in such a crass manner. Then I learned she was betrothed to him." He pointed to Prince Rupert. For the first time, his voice became unfriendly.

"Unable to be with her myself, I at least wanted to make certain she was marrying a good man, so I travelled to Arginy to check. What I saw convinced me of the opposite. The reason this man's kingdom is so wealthy is that he and his father tax their people to the point of starvation. Even when the harvest is bad, they make no allowances. And when the poor and starving make their way to his immense castle to plead for relief, he has his Silver Guard beat them."

Another round of murmurs circulated the room.

"Is this true?" said the king, turning toward Prince Rupert.

"No," said Prince Rupert. "I mean, it's not the way he's making it sound. Arginy's a big kingdom. It has a lot of expenses." His expression clouded with anger. He glanced at Prince Longwood's bare belt. "Besides," he added, "that's not the issue. By this man's own admission, he's accosted my betrothed. Now he dares to smear my name. I demand satisfaction!" He drew his sword, a jeweled rapier with a gleaming blade.

"No!" screamed Amalia. "Father, don't let him. Please, I beg—"

"It's okay," Prince Longwood said calmly. He rotated his belt, revealing an enormous scabbard, and withdrew the biggest sword anyone had ever seen – at least twice as long and wide as Prince Rupert's. "It would give me great pleasure to deliver a few blows on behalf of the poor."

"My word," whispered Aunt Ingrid to her sister. "He doesn't do anything small, does he?"

Prince Rupert glanced from his sword to Prince Longwood's and back again. "On second thought," he said quickly, "princesses are a penny a pound. There's no point shedding blood, especially over one who's proved to be such a harlot."

These words had no sooner left Prince Rupert's mouth than the back of the king's hand sent him sprawling onto the floor. He jumped up and raised his sword to strike, but one stroke of Prince Longwood's massive blade cleaved the jeweled rapier at its hilt, leaving only a small stub.

"The next," said Prince Longwood, "will remove your head."

Prince Rupert's face filled first with fear, then rage. "Needless to say," he sneered at the king, "our alliance is over. Don't be surprised if all your neighboring kingdoms refuse to trade with you!"

He stormed out of the room.

The king turned his attention first to Prince Longwood, then to his daughter's expectant face. With a warm smile, he nodded at her. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Thank you!" she said. Then she ran and threw her arms around Prince Longwood, causing everyone to cheer.

"With your blessing, sire," the prince said, "I hereby ask for your daughter's hand in marriage. In return, I pledge to be both her devoted husband and your devoted son-in-law."

The king nodded. "You have my blessing. Unfortunately, I'm not sure what kind of life I can offer the two of you. Our little kingdom is already impoverished. I don't think it will survive if Prince Rupert prevents the other kingdoms from trading with us."

Prince Longwood smiled, his blue eyes steady. "Oh, worry not, sire. When my father died and it was apparent Shlongdia would collapse without a rightful heir, my mother buried our treasury in a secret chamber beneath this castle. It survives to this day and contains far greater wealth than that of Arginy."

"Really?" said the king.

"Yes, sire. I offer it to you on one condition: that it be used to help all the people of Westwich, especially the poor."

The king laughed. "I don't think my daughter would have it any other way!"

A second round of cheers filled the room. Soon after, the entire castle heard the joyous news. In the years that followed, the kingdom's poor and sick found great happiness, too. But the happiest of them all was Princess Amalia, who was known to take a minimum of three naps a day with her husband well into her fifties.

BOOK 2: THE BALLERINA, THE GYMNAST, AND THE YOGA MASTER

Chapter 1: The Handsome Stranger

Anna Simmons sat on the park bench beside Conservatory Pond, her eyes closed, and listened to the unique blend of birds singing, people talking, and traffic rushing along Fifth Avenue – what she affectionately called the "Central Park Symphony." She inhaled the tantalizing scent of grilled hotdogs and imagined one smothered in onions, relish, and ketchup floating toward her mouth, offering itself to her, begging her to take a bite. Her stomach growled so loud, her eyes popped open. Another food fantasy. Why did her mind do that to her? Did it want her body to get fat? Was there some unspoken vendetta between the two?

She noticed that sometime between closing her eyes and her imaginary snack, a man had sat on the bench next to her. For a moment, she wondered if he, too, was imaginary. Tall, with muscular arms and lush blonde hair, he looked like a young Nordic prince. The Versace polo shirt, matching slacks, and gleaming gold watch on his left wrist did nothing to diminish this impression. He even had a dozen red roses in his right hand.

For a couple of palpitations, she thought this might be her Prince Charming – ten years late and missing a white horse, but otherwise exactly as she'd pictured him. A cold bucketful of reality quickly splashed over her. She was in her lazy-weekend garb of baggy sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, which didn't exactly minimize her slight pudginess. Her thick brown hair was in the I'll-get-the-knots-out-later phase, and her face was _au naturel_. All of which meant that unless Prince Charming was willing to kiss a frog, she didn't think a rescue imminent.

Self-conscious of her appearance, she raised her copy of Tennyson's _Idylls of the King_. Besides, she thought as she continued to glance sideways at the man, even if she'd preened herself all morning, there was no way she'd have a chance with an Adonis like that. Romance had its rules of attraction. The homecoming king dated the homecoming queen. Hollywood stars paired with starlets. Professional athletes married cheerleaders.

Thanks to her countless jobs as an office temp, not to mention her acute hearing, she'd even deciphered the official system men used to rank women. A bikini model jogging along the beach in slow motion always scored a perfect ten. Classic beauty combined with a shapely form warranted an eight or nine, which was enough to make men swivel their heads and hoot like owls. The pretty girl-next-door type qualified as a seven and was ideal to bring home to mother. A six could look good on occasion, depending on the light, but tended to attract men of the shorter, bald variety. True plain-Janes, for whom the words "platonic" and "relationship" might as well be concatenated, garnered fives. The aesthetically challenged occupied the tiers at four and below, and were often assigned disparaging labels such as "twelve-beer beauty", "double-bagger", or worse.

At twenty-seven, Anna didn't consider herself in either the top or bottom tier. In face, she was pleasant, not pretty. In body, she had slightly too much, owing to her fondness of food in general and chocolate in particular. In mind, she was intelligent and not afraid to show it, even when batting her eyes might be the more rewarding course.

The man beside her was therefore clearly out of her league. But, oh, how she enjoyed looking at him, even if he was like a friend's chocolate mousse when she had no spoon, an éclair trapped on the other side of a baker's window when she had no time, a plate of macaroons shoved under her nose only minutes after her annual New Year's resolution.

The man, who'd yet to move or even blink, suddenly stirred, prompting her to focus on her book. She'd barely begun reading when she heard a mournful groan. She glanced sideways again and saw the man clutching his forehead with his left hand. "Why?" he said. "Why, why, why?"

She lowered her book, her compassion getting the best of her. "Are you okay?"

He looked over and at last registered her presence. She noticed he had deep blue eyes similar to the marbles she used to hoard as a child.

"What?" he said. "Yes, I'm fine." He saw the book in her hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb your reading."

She again took refuge in Tennyson's towering words. A few moments later, the stranger burst forth again. "I'm such a fool, such a fool!"

She closed her book and set it on her lap. "You're obviously upset. Would you like to talk about it?"

He shook his head no, then seemed to hedge. "I don't know. It'd be kind of strange talking to a stranger about something personal, don't you think?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Anna. "Sometimes it's not the audience that matters. Just the act of expressing your thoughts can help." She'd almost used the words "feelings" and "venting" but instinctively avoided them.

"Well," he said, "I suppose it couldn't hurt. The question is, where to begin?"

She walked over to his bench and sat beside him. "Anna Simmons," she said, extending her hand.

"Vincent Rockford."

His hand was as warm as a fresh-baked cookie. "This is clearly about love," she observed.

He nodded and held up the roses. "I suppose these gave it away?"

"That and the groaning:

" _I laid me down upon a bank,_

Where Love lay sleeping;

I heard among the rushes dank

_Weeping, weeping._ "

"How apropos. Are you a poet?"

"Aspiring. Those were the words of William Blake. So what happened? Get rejected? Dumped? Betrayed?"

He sighed. "No, I'm afraid it's more complicated than that. You see, it all began when I met Valeriya Nikolayeva, a Russian ballerina."

Chapter 2: The Ballerina

"I'd never gone to the ballet. In truth, I'm more of an NFL fan. But my friends insisted. They said a person of my standing should become more cultured, so I soon found myself at the Metropolitan Opera, attending a production of _Swan Lake_. I must admit, I had no idea what to expect. Certainly, the theater itself heightened my anticipation. The spectacular water fountain and towering glass arches out front. The giant murals and ornate crystal chandeliers in the lobby. The glittering auditorium with its magnificent gold-leaf ceiling and massive gold curtains."

"It sounds wonderful," said Anna, who'd always wanted to go to the Met but could never afford the tickets.

"It is. And as the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to play, I felt on the cusp of a spiritual awakening. The curtains rose, and suddenly there I was, staring at a courtyard full of royalty, heralds, and countless others buzzing with activity. It was a celebration of some kind, the object of which was a young man the others repeatedly embraced and congratulated. Not a word had been spoken, yet I understood perfectly. I was also astonished at the ease with which all the characters moved, so light of foot they seemed almost weightless.

"Then the young man – Prince Siegfried, as my friends explained – took center stage, and as so often happens before a moment of great joy, I felt a pang of disappointment, even discomfort. Male _danseurs_ , it turns out, wear tights made of the thinnest Lycra – in this case, a near-transparent white. Stretched over the lower physique of Prince Siegfried, who possessed thick, muscular legs and was otherwise generously endowed, this created an intimacy between us I didn't desire, a Lycra relief of his manhood so detailed, it might as well have been in the flesh.

"Ah, I see you find this amusing. I can see why women enjoy the ballet, incidentally. But try to put yourself in my position. I didn't always possess my current wealth. My past was much rougher than my present. Where I come from, men don't flaunt themselves like that, and they certainly don't dance and jiggle in front of other men. Nor would we willingly view such a display. In team showers, we keep our eyes at neck level and above. We don't peek over the divider at the urinal. And if a man's nakedness happens to invade our field of vision, we immediately turn the other way. In this case, however, boxed in by two high-society friends monitoring me for the slightest lack of sophistication, I could hardly employ such a defense. All I could do was sit there and endure the unwanted puppet show of the prince's private parts for the remainder of Act I."

Anna was having such difficulty restraining her laughter, her stomach hurt. She wasn't sure what she found more amusing: Vincent's narrative or the seriousness with which he delivered it. She also noticed that, despite his claim of a rough upbringing, his diction was extraordinary – much more like that of a literary scholar than someone from an underprivileged childhood. The contradiction piqued her curiosity.

"As Act II began," he continued, "the stage darkened. The setting became that of a small lake in the forest at night. A pale moon hung low in the sky, barely illuminating the dark outlines of trees on the lake's shore. The prince soon arrived, and for a moment, I feared another visual assault on my heterosexuality. But then he stepped back, as if in awe of a spectacle of a different kind. My eyes shot across the stage. There, out of the darkness, leapt a slender young woman in white, attaining such incredible height and distance, I couldn't believe it. She landed so softly that, even had I pressed my ear to the floor at that very spot, I wouldn't have heard her. More impressive still, she landed in a perfect pose, one leg bent at the knee, the other straight behind her, her entire upper body arched backward, arms outstretched. Her pose was such that, even without her white tutu and feathery headdress, I'd have guessed she was a swan.

"The length of her pose afforded me other observations, too. Everything about her – her petite form, delicate features, tight French braid, even the soft hues of her makeup – was so dainty and ladylike, she was, to me, the very essence of femininity. Yet all this was merely a prelude to her dancing. Never before had I seen someone move with such grace, elegance, and artistry. Never had I been so mesmerized than when watching her glide, twirl, and leap across the stage.

"I knew then I had to make her mine. In fact, it was all I could do to stop myself from leaping onstage, bending on one knee, and pledging my eternal love to her then and there."

"Oh my God," said Anna, touching her hand to her heart. "Is there anything more powerful than love at first sight?

" _The reason no man knows, let it suffice,_

What we behold is censured by our eyes.

Where both deliberate, the love is slight:

_Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?_ "

"Exactly. Yours?"

"No, Christopher Marlowe."

"Ah. Unfortunately, my love at that point was unrequited. As I'd soon discover, the white of Valeriya Nikolayeva's costume represented more than just the swan's color.

"After the performance, I abandoned my friends and went backstage. Security was tight, and I was passing out hundred-dollar bills like candy at Halloween."

"You've made a few references to your standing and wealth," observed Anna. "What exactly do you do?"

"Not much anymore. I started a social networking company called Happyface when I was in college."

"That was you?"

"Yes, but once it became large, with all those employees and business partners and pressures, my face was no longer happy, so I sold the company for billions. Now I just invest."

"Billions?" Images of Knipschildt's Chocopologie, Delafee, and Godiva unleashed a deluge of saliva in her mouth. But she quickly scolded herself for this reaction and suctioned the saliva away. She wasn't a material person. Money didn't matter to her. Still, she had to admit, there was something more attractive about a successful man than the ragged poets she'd dated since college.

"Anyways," Vincent carried on, "I eventually purchased my way to Valeriya's dressing room and knocked on her door. The door swung open and there she was: a petite, blonde Russian beauty in a long flowing dress, sparkling diamonds around her neck, her bright blue eyes staring up at me. 'May I help you?' she asked in perfect English but with a thick Russian accent.

"'You certainly may,' I answered. 'Would you do me the great honor of having dinner with me tomorrow night?'

"She didn't seem surprised by my request, but neither was she receptive. 'That's very kind of you,' she said politely, 'but I'm an artist. My only love is for my craft; my only lover, my audience.' With that, she began to close the door.

"'Please,' I said, blocking the door, 'you don't understand. I've fallen completely under your spell. You must have dinner with me at least this once.'

"'Sir,' she said calmly, 'you've asked and I've answered. Do not conduct yourself now as anything less than a gentleman.' And so I was rebuffed."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Anna. "Is that why you're sitting here with these roses? You finally found your true love but can't pursue her?"

"No, of course I could pursue her. I'm a billionaire with nothing but time and money on my hands. Besides, I was so smitten, I could think of nothing else.

"To achieve anything in life, you need a plan. To plan, you need information. So my first step with Valeriya was to send out a small army of assistants to make discrete inquiries about where she lived and practiced, as well as her favorite activities, food, and music. If she liked it, I wanted to know about it.

"Armed with this information, I began my initial assault. Every morning when she left her apartment for practice, I had a limousine waiting for her with a fresh bouquet of flowers inside. The music of Delibes, Tchaikovsky, and Bach soothed her ears. A hostess poured her a fresh cup of Kusmi Anastasia tea – her favorite – while a world-famous chef personally served up his latest croissants, crepes, and sliced fruit.

"Throughout the day, that same limousine waited to take her wherever she wished, always with a fresh pot of tea and the food changing at lunch to black caviar and imported truffles, or on cooler days, to a hot bowl of Solyanka. Sometimes a manicurist was in attendance, sometimes a pedicurist, sometimes a masseuse. My goal was to make the limousine her personal paradise on wheels, for which I spared no expense.

"At her practice facility, I placed a man in tuxedo and top hat for her at every door, so she'd never have to open one on her own. If it rained, I had someone greet her at every exit with an umbrella already opened above her head. If it was cold, they wrapped a mink shawl around her shoulders. When she arrived home at night, I had another man waiting to hold open the front door of her building. Inside the lobby, I placed musicians to greet her with romantic melodies: sometimes violinists, sometimes flutists, sometimes a world-famous pianist. And once every day, I'd substitute myself in one of these roles, sometimes as the limousine driver, sometimes a doorman, sometimes one of the musicians, even though I don't play. And as she passed by, I'd simply say, "Greetings, Valeriya Nikolayeva. You are the most talented and beautiful ballerina in all the world."

"That's so romantic," said Anna. "What any woman would give to be pursued like that:

" _I will make you brooches and toys for your delight_

Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me,

_Of green days in forests and blue days at sea._ "

"Yes, I'd have given her that and anything else. Yours, by the way?"

"No, Robert Louis Stevenson."

"Huh, you certainly have an excellent memory for poetry. But frankly, it didn't matter what I did. None of the warmth I offered her melted her glacial attitude toward me. She was polite, always the perfect lady, but remained firm: only her dancing mattered to her, and only that would she embrace."

"So what did you do?"

"What else could I do? I took up ballet. Actually, I didn't just take up ballet. I immersed myself in its origins in the French and Italian courts, its various forms from classical to romantic, its most famous compositions including not only _Swan Lake_ , but also _Giselle_ , _The Nutcracker_ , and _Sleeping Beauty_. I flew in top instructors from London, Paris, and St. Petersburg – teachers even Valeriya admired. I rented a practice space adjacent to hers. I even donned a pair of tights, though, I must say, with greater modesty than Prince Siegfried.

"At first, I felt clumsy, even foolish. I had difficulty attaining the proper posture in the five basic positions. My _pliés_ weren't pliant. My _ballons_ wouldn't bounce. I fumbled my _fouettés_ , lost the point off _pointes_ , and couldn't pivot properly during my pirouettes. My only achievement in my first few weeks was that I managed to amuse Valeriya when she came to visit my instructors.

"'You're too old to become a danseur,' she'd say in her thick Russian accent as she walked past.

"'Then I will grow younger,' I'd reply.

"'You are too big.'

"'Then I will shrink.'

"'You are too clumsy.'

"'Then I will become more nimble.'

"Day and night, I worked hard to improve myself. Instructor after instructor left shaking his or her head, only to be followed the next day by new and even more famous instructors. At last, slowly but surely, I began to make progress, not only with my ballet, but also with Valeriya. 'You're ridiculous,' she'd say as she watched me, but finally I could see a slight smile at the corners of her mouth.

"At last, the moment of my breakthrough arrived. I was standing along the outside barre at the practice facility, watching Valeriya skim across the floor like a mayfly across a glass pond, when I began to mimic the movements of the danseur who would normally accompany her. Spotting this, she invited me to dance.

"Oh, how nervous I was. I missed a step or two at first, and she was so sure-footed by comparison, I feared she might banish me again to the barre. But soon we fell into a wonderful rhythm, glissading, spinning, and bounding our way around the practice floor. Even more exciting, she allowed me to lift and carry her just like a real dance partner. My greatest thrill by far was placing my hands around her slender waist and hoisting her above my head. I could tell she was equally thrilled, for in this case, my size and strength served me well.

"Our dance didn't stop on the practice floor, either. That night, we continued at my sprawling condominium, destined by then to be lovers as well as dance partners. We even made love the first time entirely on the tips of our toes, dancing _en pointe_ across my living room, dressed in full costume from the waist up. What a marvelous experience it was to be with her like that, feeling her milky-white skin against mine, admiring her beauty, grace, and artistry as we _sautéed_ , _chasséed_ , and pirouetted the night away.

"We danced like that every night for three weeks, sometimes as Siegfried and Odette, sometimes as Albrecht and Giselle, and a few magical nights as Florimund and Aurora. But it was not only our dancing and lovemaking that enthralled me. It was our candlelit dinners in formal attire, our conversations of old Europe, and most of all, Valeriya's refined elegance in everything she did. There were times I thought I was truly in a royal court, with her my authentic princess. If you'd asked me, I'd have bet my entire fortune I'd found true romantic happiness."

"It does sound magical," said Anna. "The ultimate fantasy come to life."

"What, no poem?"

"Sorry. I don't think anything's been written for making love while dancing ballet."

"Perhaps you've found a niche."

She laughed.

He sighed. "Unfortunately, just when I thought everything was perfect with my pretty ballerina, I made a critical mistake."

"What kind of mistake?"

"It's a little embarrassing."

"Come on. You can't not tell me at this point."

"I know. It's just..."

"I won't laugh, I promise."

"Well, okay. We were making love – I forget the exact dance – and I was feeling a little frisky, so I slapped her on the behind."

Anna shrugged. "That's it?"

"That was more than enough, believe me. Don't you remember me telling you how ladylike she was?"

"Yes, but who doesn't get a little frisky at times in the throes of passion? Surely she didn't get angry about that."

"No, no, no. I'm explaining it all wrong. Valeriya didn't get angry. She liked it."

* * *

"Do you know what a self-perpetuating chemical reaction is, Anna?"

"I think so, but I'm not sure."

"It's where you introduce a new element into an environment that not only changes the environment, but also triggers a second transformative event, which in turn triggers a third, and so on until the environment is completely altered. Fire is an excellent example. You set a match to a single dry leaf in a field full of such leaves. The first leaf not only catches fire, it soon ignites those around it. Then five leaves are on fire, and they in turn ignite twenty more, and so on until the entire field is a charred ruin.

"That's what happened with Valeriya. After the first time I slapped her, she asked me to do it again. Then she wanted two smacks. Then smack, smack, smack. Before I knew it, I was spanking her like a naughty schoolgirl caught stealing from the principal. 'Harder, Vincent,' she'd say to me. 'You're a sultan and I'm a saucy harem girl. You're Genghis Khan and I'm a disobedient slave.' And do you know what's sad? Even as I complied, I knew I was changing more than just the color of her cheeks.

"A week after her first full-fledged spanking, she showed up at my door with her hair in curls instead of a French braid. Her formal evening gown had given way to a knee-length orange dress. Her complexion had changed from milky white to peaches and cream, her lipstick from pink pastel to bright apricot."

"'What's this?' I asked, pointing at the DVD in her hand.

"'It's called _West Side Story_ ,' she replied. 'It has a song called the _Mambo_ I want us to try.' So we watched the DVD. It was a cute dance. Rather simplistic and certainly not comparable to Swan Lake's _Spanish Dance_ , but to make her happy, I bopped around the living room with her for a while. For some reason, the jerky gyrations and frequent skirt lifts emboldened her. 'Talk dirty to me,' she said during our intimacy afterward. 'Call me a nasty name.'

"'Wench,' I said somewhat hesitantly.

"'Dirtier.'

"'Tramp.'

"'No, dirtier.'

"'You cheap little ho.'

"'Now add some swear words.'

"Four nights later, it got worse. I opened the door to find her leaning against the door frame in a tight black leather body suit and red high heels, her lips cherry red, her hair puffed eight inches above her head, a cigarette in one hand. Before I could say anything, she started tapping her foot on the ground and snapping her fingers in rhythm:

"' _If you're filled with affection_

You're too shy to convey,

Meditate in my direction,

_Feeeeelll your way._ '

"She pointed at me expectantly, still tapping her foot and snapping her fingers. What else could I do? I recalled, to the best of my ability, the proper response:

"'... _I better shape up,_

Cause you need a man,

Who can keep you satisfied.

I better shape up

If I'm going to prove,

_That your faith is justified._ '

"She began to slither all over me, her leather outfit squeaking against my skin. To my dismay, she insisted we dance the _Grease_ soundtrack all night long. At the end of it, she withdrew a wooden paddle from her purse. 'What do you say, stud?'

"Her deterioration continued two nights later. She showed up in a mini-skirt that was more mini than skirt, a crop top that had been cropped until there was no more top, high heels like stilts, long fake eyelashes, makeup that had gone from subtle elegant to hooker rouge, and black fingernails. As I looked down at the _Dirty Dancing_ DVD in her hand, I knew I was in for hours of bumping and grinding.

"'But Valeriya,' I pleaded, 'what about Tchaikovsky? What about the _Dance of the Swans_?'

"'Screw the swans.' She held up a pair of furry handcuffs and a gag. 'Tonight, you're a lumberjack who hasn't seen a woman in six months, and I'm a wood nymph you've stolen away to your log cabin against my will.'

"Pornography, gangster rap, tattoos, body piercings, adult toys – I pleaded with her to stop. I begged her to return to our nights of gourmet meals, stately attire, and long classical evenings. I even flew in famous ballerinas and danseurs from around the world to help bring her back to her roots. But it was no use. Her tutu was in tatters. Her slippers had given way to stilettos. She'd even started smacking bubblegum when she talked.

"The final straw came when she invited me to her place for a surprise. I arrived there, only to have her greet me at the door in black leather lingerie, a spiked collar, and high heels. She immediately led me to her bedroom, where she showed me the stripper pole she'd installed in front of her bed. As she began her cheap seductive routine, spinning round and round the pole, I couldn't take it. There was no more beauty or elegance about her, only crass vulgarity. Dismayed, I bolted from the apartment, tears streaming down my face. I ran and ran for many blocks. It was raining outside, but I didn't care. I wanted the rain to wash away the dirt and ugliness of it all."

Anna didn't know what to say. The story had taken such a bizarre turn, she was still catching up with it. Then she remembered that Vincent was in pain. "That must have been hard on you. Is that why you're so upset? Your relationship with Valeriya didn't work out?" Even as she said this, she was trying to figure out where the roses fit in.

Vincent shifted slightly in his seat. "Not exactly. You see, after running in the rain for a while, I stopped in front of a building with a glass façade. I looked inside and saw a huge room full of gymnastics equipment. There were numerous young men and women inside: some swinging on high bars; some tumbling, leaping, and somersaulting on floor mats; others performing astounding feats of balance on wooden beams or remarkable demonstrations of strength on metal rings hanging from the ceiling. As I stood watching this bustle of activity, a young woman caught my eye."

"Who?"

"A Cuban gymnast by the name of Maria Rodriguez."

Chapter 3: The Gymnast

"Wait a second," said Anna. "Let me get this straight. You'd just run out of your girlfriend's place, tears streaming down your face, and a few minutes later, you'd already met another girl?"

"Well, I hadn't actually met her at that point."

"Okay, you were already interested in another girl?"

"What can I say? I started my company my first year of college, made my first billion a few years later, and retired in my twenties. Things just seem to happen quickly for me. Anyway, there I was, watching the gymnasts, when I saw this short, stocky Latino girl in her early twenties. She was standing at the end of a long matted runway leading to what I now know as a vault. She wasn't exactly a classic beauty. With thick, muscular legs, powerful buttocks, and brawny arms, she was certainly no slender ballerina. Still, with her black ponytail, big dark eyes, and full Latina lips, she was alluring in other ways. What really fascinated me was how she stood with her head tilted slightly downward, her eyes fixed on the end of the runway, one foot pawing the ground like a bull about to charge.

"I looked from her to the vault, from the vault to her. Tension gripped me. I was bearing witness to a duel of some kind, a mortal struggle between girl and apparatus. The girl lowered her head still further, one leg now behind the other, haunches coiled and ready. Suddenly, she launched herself down the runway. At twenty meters, she was running swiftly. By thirty meters, she was a speeding freight train, her arms and legs pumping like the pistons of an overheated engine. At forty meters, she was a blur, her ponytail straight out behind her. I watched with bated breath as she approached the springboard. 'Slow down,' I wanted to yell. 'For God's sake, ease up, hold back, don't do it!'

"Undaunted, she cartwheeled at full speed, landed backwards onto the springboard, back-flipped onto the vault, then catapulted eight meters high into the air, twisting and turning in perfect form before landing solidly on her feet. I gasped. Never in my life had I seen such fearlessness, such raw power and athleticism.

"I knew then I had to meet her, if for no other reason than to express my admiration at what I'd just witnessed. So I rushed inside. Spectators, however, weren't allowed on the gymnastics floor. We were blocked by a rail along one side of it. I turned to an old man leaning against the rail who, by his casual stance, seemed intimately familiar with the place.

"'Pardon me, sir,' I inquired. 'Can you tell me who that is – the short, Latina girl with the ponytail?'

"The old man looked at me with a knowing smile. 'That,' he said with obvious admiration, 'is Maria Rodriguez, the one we call The Barracuda, a Cuban exile and the best gymnast ever to train here.'

"'The Barracuda?' I asked. 'Why is she called that?'

"'For many reasons. First, to escape Cuba, she crossed the Florida Strait on a single inner-tube, alone, with nothing more than a wooden paddle and a bottle of water.'

"'Is that difficult?'

"'Difficult? The storms in that area are violent, the waves sometimes as high as mountains. Worst of all, the waters are filled with man-eating sharks long-accustomed to feeding on desperate Cubans trying to reach the U.S. For six days, The Barracuda battled the wind and lightning and waves. A dozen times, she fought off sharks with her paddle. Some say she killed so many of them, even eating one along the way, that by the fourth day, they parted for her like the Red Sea for Moses.'

"'Sounds like a bit of an exaggeration,' I said off-handedly. 'And not to be picky, but barracudas don't eat sharks.'

"The old man seized me by the wrist, pulling me closer to him. 'Listen, young fellow,' he said in a hushed voice. 'I'm only going to tell you this once. Whether you call her a barracuda, tiger, or T-rex doesn't matter. The point is, she's a predator, okay? She crossed that strait by herself when a thousand others, including you or me, would've died the first day. She's the same way in gymnastics, too. At twenty-four, they say she's too old. They claim she's had too many injuries. They point out no Cuban female gymnast has ever won an Olympic gold medal. Yet she's the most fearless, ferocious competitor I've ever seen. Nothing frightens her. And if she says she's going to win Olympic gold, I, for one, wouldn't bet against her.'

"He pulled me still closer to him. 'But here's the real reason we call her The Barracuda. Rumor has it she's a lusty lass – a fiery, hot-blooded, carnal carnivore unlike any other. Every few days, a new guy comes in here, just like you, all worked up because he's seen her through the front window. He watches her for a few minutes, then finally musters the nerve to ask her out. And do you know what happens to him, young fellow? Do you? I'll tell you because I've seen it a dozen times. The young wannabe swims out from the safety of these railings onto that floor, willingly braving the troubled seas of romance, thinking the worst that can happen to him is a little rejection. And who cares about rejection when you're on the make, right? Seduction is a numbers game. You throw enough shit against the wall, sooner or later some of it'll stick. Even the best batters hit only three-fifty. But that's not what's at stake with her. What's at stake with her is a matter of life and death.

"'Unaware of this, the young guy goes out and taps her on the shoulder, expecting at worst a polite exchange. That's when it happens: an explosion of water; a flash of silver leotards, black hair, and gnashing white teeth that suddenly pulls him beneath a bubbling caldron of foam. A few moments later, the foam turns crimson red, and the poor son-of-a-bitch slithers back here with such huge chunks torn out of him, he'll never be whole again.'

"I chuckled. 'Wow!' I said. 'That's quite an imagination you have.'"

"Actually," said Anna, "he sounds a bit like Herman Melville."

"Who?"

"The author of _Moby Dick_."

"Ah. At any rate, I wasn't about to be put off by an old man's fanciful tales, so I freed myself from his grip. 'If you don't mind,' I said, 'I think I'll give it a whirl.'

"He looked at me and shook his head. 'Don't say I didn't warn you!'

"So there I went, like all the others, venturing into the same perilous seas. I walked up behind Maria, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, 'Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt you, but I was watching you from outside, and I couldn't help—'

"She spun around to face me. 'Excuse me? Sorry? I couldn't help?' Her lips curled in disgust. 'You pasty, pathetic gringo. God may have made you tall and broad-shouldered, but you act like a little girl afraid of her own shadow, like a whipped dog begging for a scrap of meat. If you want a woman, at least have the guts to take her by the hand, look her in the eye, and tell her that. You don't apologize for talking to her. You don't plead for her attention.' She lifted her foot to my face. 'You want to lick this, too?' She slapped her behind. 'Maybe kiss this? Me go out with you – pah! I'd rather date an interior decorator. I'd rather bed a bookworm. Now get out of my sight before I vomit all over your shoes.'

"Stunned into speechlessness, I turned and crawled back to the railing.

"'What did I tell you?' the old man said, laughing at me as I slinked past. 'Barracuda biscuit like the rest of them!'

"'There's one difference,' I replied through gritted teeth.

"'What's that?'

"'I'll be back!'"

Anna, who'd been intently leaning forward to hear the story, now sat back. "Incredible," she said. "I don't think I've ever heard of a woman like that before. As the man said, she sounds like a real predator."

"She was."

"Yet you still wanted her?"

"Yes."

"May I ask why, especially when you'd just abandoned a woman for becoming too sexual?"

"I didn't abandon Valeriya for becoming too sexual. I abandoned her because she'd become something she wasn't, for turning from a beautiful white swan into a turkey vulture. Maria was different. She could never be a white swan, or even a proper lady, for that matter. She was carnal and lusty by nature, a true tigress of female sexuality. I'd ventured into her territory. I'd heard her roar, and that roar had awakened my own inner tiger, a desire to not only face sexual life and death, but to conquer it."

"Ah, so it was the combination of risk and reward that attracted you:

" _Some have won a wild delight,_

By daring wilder sorrow;

Could I gain thy love tonight,

_I'd hazard death tomorrow._ "

"That one must be yours."

"No, Charlotte Bronte."

"So, by 'aspiring,' you mean you haven't actually written a poem yet?"

"Very funny. We just haven't ventured into my territory."

"I thought love was the territory of all poets."

"It is. But love has many different stripes. I haven't dealt with the tiger-stripe variety yet."

"Or the white swan/turkey vulture variety?"

"Let's just say I'm not into mixing love and the animal kingdom, okay?"

He laughed, revealing straight, pearl-white teeth. She loved straight white teeth. "Now then," she said, trying not to stare at his mouth, "can we please get on with your story?"

"Of course. Drawing on my experiences with the ballerina, I knew exactly what to do next."

"What was that?"

"I took up gymnastics."

* * *

"When my army of famous teachers and assistants first descended with me on the gym, Maria's response was one of disdain. 'Your money doesn't impress me, gringo,' she said. 'A coward who picks up a sword is still a coward.'

"'Run along, _chiquita_ ,' I told her. 'You'll feel my sword if and when I choose.' That came out wrong, of course, but for the sake of my machismo, I couldn't take it back.

"At any rate, I began my training. It was brutal at first, not much more than a series of horrific accidents. I smashed my chest into the vault at a full run, cracked my head on the parallel bars, ruptured my groin on the high beam, gave myself a rectal exam with the horse pommel, nearly hung myself with the rings, and tumbled into the concrete wall so many times they padded it just for me. In the first three months alone, I broke my nose; lost three teeth; cracked five ribs; pulled every muscle, ligament, and tendon from my ankles up; and drove my testicles back into my lower abdomen.

"'Pah,' Maria would say whenever they carted me off on a stretcher. 'I've had worse injuries cutting my fingernails.'

"To which, at first, I could only moan and cough up blood. Still, I wasn't deterred. Starting my fourth month, I began to grow tougher, meaner. Once, when I smashed my face into one of the high bars, Maria said, 'Nice move, gringo. I never tried eating the bar before.' I turned to her, spit out a tooth, and said, 'Really? With a face like that, I'd have guessed you chewed a lot of wood.' I didn't know what I meant by that, and neither did she, but it was the first time she ever smiled at me.

"The situation escalated from there. Every day, we hurled insults at each other, mocked each other's performance, and even shoved each other when we crossed paths on the floor. Things finally reached a head when we both tried to use the trampoline at the same time.

"'The kiddy trampoline is at the other end,' she said, slowly bouncing up and down in front of me.

"'You know,' I replied, warming up myself. 'If I'd wanted to bounce up and down with a Cuban girl like you, I'd have hired a _jinetera_.'

"She responded with a three-quarter forward somersault pike, catching me square in the chest with her feet and laying me out flat. My back no sooner hit the trampoline than I was up again, responding with a two-and-one-quarter front somersault and one-half twist that caught her under the chin and sent her sprawling.

"Back she came, using a bounce roll followed by a cat twist in which she punched me square in the mouth, drawing blood.

"I countered with a full twist jump, a kaboom, then another full twist, kicking her first on one side of the head, then the other.

"Up and down we went, back and forth, pounding each other without mercy, inventing a new sport I can only call trampoline karate. Finally, we tumbled onto the floor mat together, landing face to face. Staring into her flaming black eyes, I said, 'Do you remember how, the first time we met, I tried to ask you out?'

"'How could I forget?' she replied. 'You were so pathetic, it still makes me sick just to think about it.'

"'Yeah, well, let me tell you a little secret. The only way I'd go out with you now would be as an appetizer for a real Latina woman, like one from Venezuela or Brazil.'

"She walloped me across the face. 'Pig!'

"I slapped her right back. 'Tramp.'

"'Snake.'

"'Harlot.'

"'Maggot.'

"'Hussy.'

"I grabbed her by the wrist. 'Your place or mine.'

"'Yours. You're not man enough to come to mine.'

"And that's how we got together."

Anna shook her head. "This is completely wacko. You called Valeriya crass and vulgar, yet this is like a script from some B-grade porno movie."

"No, no, you're missing the whole point. This was something different: a clean, earthy kind of dirty I'd never experienced before. Up to that point, our two inner tigers had merely been roaring at each other across the jungle. Well, we finally met in a clearing – the floor of my penthouse foyer, to be precise – to settle our dispute."

Anna still thought it was wacko, but couldn't resist her own curiosity. "So what happened?"

"What happened was I underestimated the other tiger. It's one thing to trade insults and even blows with a Latina woman. It's quite another to try to match her sexually. Her lips were like fire, her sweat like molten lava, her loins like an erupting volcano. Our first time together, I wasn't a man making love to a woman. I was more a survivor clinging to a tree, hoping the earth wouldn't swallow me up. A rodeo cowboy who couldn't stay on the bucking bronco until the buzzer. To this day, I don't know how I got through it in one piece."

"She was that passionate?"

"Yes, and she knew it. She smelt my fear. 'Pah,' she said after she'd thrown me from the saddle for the third time. 'Who's the appetizer now, gringo?'

"Insulted, humiliated, enraged, I made one last attempt. I tied her hair around my wrists, wedged my toes under the foyer's antique settle, and braced myself. 'You know what I think, chiquita?' I said through gritted teeth. 'I think my first date in junior high was hotter than this. I think, if this were an Olympic competition, you wouldn't even make it through the preliminaries. I think making love with you is so dull, I was about to have a nap.'

"She screamed and nearly bit my lower lip off. The volcano erupted once more. The earth shook. My toes splintered the bottom of the settle. Her hair yanked so hard against my wrists, my hands turned purple. Every muscle in my body trembled under the strain. But this time, I held on. This time, I made it to the buzzer and beyond. Not only that, having survived her initial onslaught, my confidence grew. My own passion multiplied. I discovered my true machismo, and with it, I finally became an equal and worthy foe.

"What an incredible battle we waged then: two great beasts snarling and thrashing at each other with our teeth, claws, and anything else we could use. It was Godzilla versus Mothra, or Godzilla versus Ghidora, or maybe Godzilla versus Biollante, depending on Maria's mood. Night after night, we mated in our marathon survival of the fittest – the happiest, most brutal time of my life – until one night, with both of us lying bruised and battered afterward, I made a fatal mistake."

"What kind of mistake?"

"I reached out and caressed her shoulder."

"Wait a minute. You're telling me that after all the lustful passion you two had shared, especially after everything you'd gone through to be with her, she lost respect for you again simply because you showed her a little tenderness?"

"No, the opposite. She sighed and moved closer to me. So I caressed her again, this time across her back, and she whimpered and moved even closer. Not realizing the danger of the situation, I kept stroking her lightly with my fingertips, and she kept moving closer and closer until we were...we were..."

"Until you were what?"

"Spooning!"

Anna couldn't hide her exasperation. "So what? Everybody spoons sooner or later. It's one of the great joys of intimacy."

"Yes," said Vincent, "I know. I have nothing against spooning, but you're forgetting the principle of self-perpetuating chemical reactions. Not all such reactions involve combustion, you know. Just as a static environment can turn violent, so can a violent environment become static. That's what happened with my poor Maria. After the spooning incident, there was a noticeable change in her. Suddenly, when I saw her at the gym, instead of insulting me, she greeted me with a smile and a peck on the cheek. When we walked alongside each other on the sidewalk, she tried to hold my hand. She even paused at doors, waiting for me to open them.

"Our lovemaking turned gentler, too. There was less growling, clawing, and biting. Instead, she'd kiss me softly and even caress me during the act. Sometimes, afterward, she'd lay with her head on my chest, one leg draped over mine, compelling me to wrap my arm around her shoulders.

"I knew things had changed forever when I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and didn't see a single bruise, bite mark, or scratch anywhere on my body. Once that downward spiral began, there was no way to stop it. Before long, she began insisting I hold her every time after we made love. A couple of times, she even asked me to hold her without making love."

"God forbid," said Anna.

"The end came sooner than I expected. For the first time in our relationship, she invited me to her apartment. I thought the change of scenery might do us good, maybe give us a new piece of jungle terrain to fight over. But when I got there, she had two pillows and a comforter on the couch, and a stack of romantic movies and a box of Kleenex on the coffee table.

"'What's this?' I asked.

"'It's a romantic-movie marathon,' she answered cheerfully. 'We just lie here all weekend, watching these love stories together and cuddling. It'll make us feel really close.'

"'Er, yeah,' I said. 'Just give me a moment while I go to the bathroom first.' But I didn't go to the bathroom. Instead, I bolted out the main door and down the hallway. I didn't even wait for the elevator. Instead, I took the stairwell, ran out the back door, and kept running until I reached the park over by Sheep Meadow. I wandered the paths there for a while, feeling dazed and disoriented, and that's when I saw her."

"Who?"

"Lin Chiang, a Chinese yoga master."

Chapter 4: The Yoga Master

"I'm completely confused," said Anna. "You started off with a woman who was gentle and artistic, whom you then abandoned because she became too sexual."

"Like I said before, it wasn't because she became too sexual. It was because she became something she wasn't."

"Yes, something too sexual. Then you were drawn to a woman of raw, carnal sexuality, only to abandon her because she became too gentle. Don't you find that contradictory?"

"I suppose..." replied Vincent. "When you put it that way, it does seem a little erratic."

"Precisely."

"I think that's what attracted me to the yoga master. There I was, in such a state of flux, while she looked so tranquil in this Scorpion pose on the grass."

Anna debated for a moment, then let it pass. "What's a Scorpion pose?"

"It's like this." He set his roses on the bench, slid down on all fours, leaned forward so he was standing upside down on his forearms, and bent his legs backwards until his feet rested on top of his head."

"Oh my God! Doesn't that hurt?"

"Not any more. Of course, at the time I assumed it did. I'd done a lot of stretching for ballet and gymnastics, and it always hurt. But she looked so comfortable, as if it was perfectly normal to bend herself backward in two. She also seemed in complete harmony with her surroundings. Numerous butterflies had settled on her legs. A chipmunk slept soundly in the small of her back. Even having people gather around to snap photos didn't seem to bother her."

He untangled himself, retrieved his roses, and once more sat on the bench. "I was understandably intrigued. I wanted to know how a young woman could achieve such perfect mastery over her body, emotions, and even, it seemed, the world around her. So I bided my time, and when there was a lull in spectators, I walked up to her and said, 'Excuse me. How do you do that with such ease?'

"She opened her eyes and looked at me. She was a pretty girl, twenty-five or so, with brown almond eyes and long, lustrous black hair. And she had an amazing physique, in some ways slender like a ballerina, yet strong like a gymnast."

"Oh Lord."

"No, it wasn't like that. I recognized her beauty, of course, but I felt no immediate romantic attraction to her. I was more interested in her knowledge. That's how she responded to me, too. 'It's called _Ashtanga_ yoga,' she said. 'With enough practice, anyone can achieve this and more.'

"'Really? How can I learn it?'

"'The exercises you can learn in many classes around the city. But yoga isn't just about exercises; it's about a way of life, of becoming one with your body, mind, spirit, and the universe. One is all, all is one.'

"'A package deal. Excellent. Where do I start?'

"She pushed herself up on her hands, then rotated smoothly into the lotus position, gently offloading her wildlife passengers in the process. I plunked myself cross-legged in front of her, and we finally introduced ourselves. 'To begin,' she said, 'you must agree to certain abstinences, called _yamas_. The first of these is non-violence.'

"'No problem,' I said. 'To be honest, I've had my fill of violence these past few months.'

"'I don't mean only physical violence. I mean violence in all forms – in your words, thoughts, even the food you eat.'

"'No worries about the food. I only eat things that are already dead.'

"'Eating an animal means you had a hand in its death. You provide the market that causes others to kill it. To truly commit yourself to yoga, you must become a vegetarian.'

"A huge fan of barbeques, I naturally inquired about loopholes, like road kill. I thought, for example, I might buy a cattle farm and build a freeway through it, but there were no exceptions. 'Fine,' I said. 'I accept a life of non-violence, including being a vegetarian.'

"'For your second yama, you must agree to tell no lies.'

"'I never tell lies.'

"'Perhaps we can try again,' she said with a gentle smile.

"I blushed. 'Well, I may have told the occasional lie, but I'll never tell another one.'

"She looked at me with those soft almond eyes and tilted her head slightly to one side.

"'Okay, okay. How about I do my best not to tell any more lies, and if one slips out, I'll confess it right away?'

"She nodded. 'Your third yama involves no stealing.'

"'Hah! I've never stolen a thing in my life.'

"'I'm not talking only about material theft. Exploiting someone's time, taking their ideas, or even grabbing their center of attention in a conversation – these are all forms of stealing. To be a true yogi, you must never take something that belongs to another.'

"I agreed and made a mental note to cancel all my future business plans."

"'Your fourth yama has to do with celibacy. As part of your journey, you must eliminate lust.'

"A brief, uncomfortable silence settled between us. I personally knew of only one way to eliminate lust.

"'Perhaps you're not ready to follow this path,' she said. 'Even now, I can sense your impure thoughts.'

"'No,' I insisted, amazed at her perceptiveness. 'I was just purging them, you know, one last look before deleting them off the old hard drive.' Thirty seconds passed. 'What?' I said. 'It's a big hard drive.' Another minute later, I told her to proceed.

"'Your fifth yama is _Aparigraha_. It means no greed.'

"'Now that one's easy. As a billionaire, there's nothing I want that I don't already have in triplicate.'

"'You're missing the point again,' she said. 'To renounce greed is to renounce both acquiring and possessing things.'

"'Fine,' I told her. 'I'll move into a smaller penthouse, park everything but the Porsche, and give half my spending allowance to the poor.'

"She accepted that as a start. To be honest, I thought she was asking a lot to show me how to bend like a pretzel, but I was intrigued so I agreed to all of it."

"Finally," said Anna. "A woman who insisted on some level of commitment. By the way, were there any rules against chocolate?"

"Not that I remember. Why?"

"Just curious."

"Figuring that we'd come to the end of our preliminaries, I asked her what she wanted me to stretch first."

"'Your mind,' she answered wisely. 'You must realize that the true nature of our existence is energy. Everything in the universe is made of energy, including you. Your body and mind are merely rudimentary forms of this energy. It's your causal self, or spirit, that contains your true energy. The goal of yoga is to transcend your mind and body to embrace this causal energy so that you may become one with the universe. That's the state we call enlightenment.'

"'One is all, all is one,' I said, mesmerized. 'Have you ever reached enlightenment?'

"'Not yet. My journey continues. Are you ready to start yours?'

"'Ready?' I answered with cult-like devotion. 'If I could, I'd go causal right now.'

"'Then let us begin.'"

"Wow," said Anna, "that all sounds really deep. I'd like to meet this woman."

"Yeah, well, you might want to hold off making an appointment until you hear the rest."

* * *

"While it's true Master Chiang demanded a great deal as my yoga guru, it's also true she gave me much in return – at least in the beginning. Within minutes, she'd taught me to stand like a mountain, tree, and lightning bolt. In the days that followed, she showed me how to draw more life force, or _prana_ , into me through deep breathing, and how to channel that prana to my _chakras_."

"What are chakras?"

"They're psycho-spiritual energy centers, sort of like spinning wheels, ranging from your bum to the top of your head. There are seven of them in total. Each one has a different color. The one at your bum is red. The one there, behind your heart, is green. That one sitting on top of your head is violet."

Anna covered herself with her arms. "You can see them through my clothes?"

"No. If yoga allowed you to see through clothes, a lot more men would sign up. I can only see the ones at your throat, forehead, and the one on top of your head, which is a little dim actually – more lavender than violet. You're probably in need of a recharge."

Anna reached up to feel the top of her head. "Why can't I see yours?"

"Because you haven't started down the path of enlightenment. Now, may I continue with my story?"

"Please do."

"Master Chiang worked me very hard for eight months. By the third month, I could twist my body into such weird shapes, people would stop and say 'Ew!' or 'Yuck!' One passerby even gagged.

"By my fifth month, I could see objects so clearly in my mind, I could rotate them at will. By my eighth month, I could not only stand like a tree, I could become one. I could feel my roots drawing moisture from the earth, my branches swaying in the breeze, my leaves absorbing the sun's golden energy.

"As you can imagine, I grew very excited. Next, Master Chiang and I became a pair of chipmunks playing in the grass. Then we changed into robins and began to fly. Oh, what joy it was to soar above the ground like that, free, the wind in my feathers, only the sky above me. Still, this was merely the beginning. In what Tibetans call astral projection, we soon shed our feathered bodies and travelled as pure energy instead, beaming from New York to London to Moscow and back again in only seconds.

"Curious, not to mention invisible, I popped in to see Valeriya, only to discover, sadly, that she'd become the lead dancer in a live pornographic show called 'Alien Girls Gone Wild.' Still, she seemed happy. I then looked in on Maria and found she'd left gymnastics to work in an animal shelter, grooming abandoned puppies. The Barracuda had become a guppy.

"I was tempted to check on all my ex-girlfriends, but then I heard Master Chiang calling my name. I opened my eyes. 'Take my hands,' she said, extending them to me. I noticed her top chakra was very bright. 'I've never been able to escape the atmosphere before,' she said, 'but perhaps we can do it if we pool our energy together.'

"I understood. We synchronized our breathing, drawing prana from the earth, trees, and the air all around us. Our chakras began spinning so fast, I could hear them whirring. Suddenly, we were projecting again, but this time, instead of hopping around the globe, we shot upward in one concentrated beam, piercing first the lower atmosphere, then the upper atmosphere, until at last we found ourselves in outer space.

"Oh, how beautiful it was – so dark and cold in some ways, so brilliant in others. I remember looking back at the magnificent blue and green of Mother Earth. If I'd had any breath at that point, her sheer beauty would've taken it away. But I didn't languish there. There were so many other places to go, so much to explore. Out we went past dusty red Mars, the icy moons of mighty Jupiter, and the colorful rings of Saturn. Out into the broader galaxy, past meteor showers, comets, nebulae, cosmic strings, and so many amazing things for which we don't even have names. Day after day, we explored the universe. Then it happened – the miracle we'd been waiting for."

"What?"

"We spotted a strange white light on the horizon, brighter than anything we'd ever seen. 'I think that's it,' Master Chiang said to me. 'I think we've found enlightenment.'

"We charged toward it, hoping to merge ourselves with its pure white energy. But before we could reach it, it flickered and disappeared.

"'What happened?' she asked. 'Where'd it go?'

"I told her I didn't know. A short while later, it reappeared on the opposite horizon. Again we charged after it, and again it flickered and disappeared before we could reach it. Five more times we saw the light, and five more times we experienced the same failure. Exhausted, we returned to the park. 'I don't understand,' she said. 'I see it. I feel as if we can reach it. Then that flicker occurs, like we're experiencing some kind of power fluctuation, and the light disappears before we can get there.'

"In direct violation of my honesty yama, I feigned innocence. By that time, you see, I knew perfectly well what was happening. To channel our energy, Master Chiang and I had taken hold of each other's hands. In moments of great intensity, like when we saw the white light, I could feel her desperately clutching me back here on earth. Despite my celibacy yama, this triggered impure thoughts about her, so I kept...I kept..."

"Kept what?" asked Anna. She'd moved to the edge of her seat as Vincent had described the encounter with enlightenment, and now she wanted very much to understand what had gone wrong.

"It wasn't my fault. With her always bending and stretching in front of me in those little black tights, I'd become infatuated with her. So during our joint meditations, even when we were chasing the mysterious white light, I'd open my eyes to peek at her, which would disrupt my concentration and cause a drop in our energy."

"You've got to be kidding me. You were on the verge of enlightenment, perhaps one of only a few humans ever to do so, and you sabotaged it all to be a Peeping Tom?"

"You don't understand. I'd never had an Asian girlfriend before. That shiny black hair, that cute little nose, those slender hips. Having her pose in front of me all day was like seeing a mystery gift under the Christmas tree. I just had to unwrap it. Besides, she was so calm and controlled, I couldn't help wondering what she'd be like if she lost control."

"Men! Every time I think I've heard the worst, you guys keep surprising me."

"Hey, that's not fair. It's not easy for us to be just friends with girls, you know. I mean, with our guy pals, it's simple. We drink, play sports, and talk about girls. It's never awkward or complicated. But with a girl, it's hard to ignore the fact our body parts are designed to fit together. It's like walking by a puzzle with one last piece remaining: who doesn't want to snap it into place? Like finding a hundred-dollar bill torn in half: who doesn't want to tape it back together? Like seeing a power cord lying on the floor beside a socket: who doesn't want to plug it in?"

"Not you, obviously."

"What can I say? I believe in making things whole. Besides, yoga isn't the only philosophy in the world, you know. Principles like 'follow your heart' and 'stay true to yourself' are valid, too."

"Uh huh."

"The problem was, I knew she'd never violate her vow of celibacy for the sake of pleasure, so I had to find another way in, pardon the expression. I had to find something in yoga itself – some special rule – that would allow us to become lovers. So I searched on the Internet for the words 'yoga' and 'sex' combined. I quickly found what I was looking for, and that's when I made my first big mistake."

"What was that?"

"I bought a book on Tantric sex. Have you ever studied it?"

"No," said Anna. "I'm still working on the basics, like finding a partner."

"Well, when you get there, don't bother. It involves a lot of rubbish like building a love nest, lighting scented candles, and calling each other mushy names like 'beloved' – sort of like singing hymns at a rock concert."

"That's a rather revealing analogy."

"There was one part of it that interested me, however, especially since I knew it would interest Master Chiang. It's the concept of both partners activating their Jupiter chakra, the one near their genitals, and cycling their powerful sexual energies through each other to help propel them to enlightenment. This is how I presented the idea to Master Chiang: not that we'd become lovers, but that we'd increase the energy flowing between us and by doing so, I kinda, sorta suggested we might fix our power fluctuations."

"Vincent! That was extremely dishonest of you!"

"I know, I know. I didn't say I was proud of it."

"So you not only betrayed your vows of honesty and celibacy, but of purity and discipline, too?"

"Hey, I didn't betray them. I fought shoulder to shoulder with them on the battlefield of life. It's just that desire slaughtered all of us."

"So you were the victim, not the perpetrator?"

"That's right."

"Sounds mighty dubious to me." She normally would have said more on this, but Vincent's boyish innocence seemed to defuse her natural desire to reprimand him. "So what happened next?"

"Well, Master Chiang listened patiently to all I had to tell her. Then she asked to borrow the book, which she kept for three days. At the end of that time, she said, 'Vincent, I think there's truth in this book.'

"'Me, too.'

"'I think we should use it to help us complete our quest.'

"'Let us embrace the truth.'

"'But I want to be clear about something. While I think there's value in joining our Jupiter chakras and cycling the added energy between us, we won't be lovers. I had a lover once when I was eighteen, and I vowed never to have one again.'

"'Really? Why?'

"'He was a selfish young man who merely used me for his pleasure.'

"'Yes, I can see how that would sour the experience.'

"'That's why I took up yoga, so I could look inward instead.'

"'Perfectly understandable.'

"'So if we do this, we won't kiss or stare into each other's eyes or allow ourselves to feel any pleasure. We'll instead focus solely on our chakras, our breathing, and our pursuit of enlightenment.'

"'Absolutely.'

"'Come along then. My apartment is only a few blocks from here.'"

* * *

"To be perfectly candid, sex with Master Chiang was rather awkward at first. We were in bed, my little Asian Christmas gift was finally unwrapped, and all lights were green, but otherwise, it was similar to our other poses and meditations. She instructed me to lie down on my back, which I did. She then assumed the lotus position on top of me and began chanting this little mantra I found anything but romantic:

' _Chakra to chakra_

Let the energy flow

Pleasure means nothing

_To the light we must go._ '

"That doesn't seem so bad."

"Not so bad? A naked woman sitting on top of you chanting 'Pleasure means nothing' over and over again? It's a mood killer, I assure you. In fact, for the first few minutes, I felt like an exercise mat with a phallic protrusion. But then our session took a different turn.

"'There,' she said, her body suddenly tensing.

"'Where?'

"'Shhhhh. Don't move. Stay right there.'

"I saw her face tense slightly, too, so I placed my hands on her hips. She batted them away. 'No. Assume the corpse pose.'

"I put my hands back at my sides and sighed.

"'Yes,' she said. 'I see it!'

"I, meanwhile, hadn't even left my body, let alone the room, so I couldn't see much of anything. 'What?' I asked.

"'A bright light.'

"'Like the one we saw before?'

"'No, different.' She began moving more and more. Her face contorted. Her breathing grew shallow. Perhaps Tantra had a different name for it, but it was starting to feel remarkably like normal sex.

"'Yes!'

"Again, I placed my hands on her. Again, she batted them away. 'Stay still!' she commanded. 'Yes, yes, yes!'

"I put my hands behind my head and started thinking about the Giants' chances of making it to the Superbowl.

"'Oh Brahman, God of all. Oh samadhi, ultimate bliss. Oh yes, I'm there!' she screamed. 'I'm in the light! I'm in the light!'

"Actually, I was pretty sure the Jets were the better team, mostly because of their defense.

"She collapsed on me, panting heavily. A few moments later, she lifted her head and looked at me with a blissful expression. 'Did you see it, Vincent? Were you able to enter the light, too?'

"'No,' I said, 'I was exploring something else.'

"'Oh,' she said. 'You have no idea what you missed.'

"'Actually, I have a pretty good idea.'

"'It only lasted a few seconds, but it was wonderful. Nirvana, just like the ancient writings described.'

"'Uh huh.'

"'I have to go back there. I have to find a way to make it last longer.'

"'No doubt. That's probably something the ancients wrote about, too.'

"'Can we try again in a few minutes?'

"'I suppose. Why don't we move into the living room, in front of the TV? I think it might be easier for me to lie still out there.'"

* * *

"Things went downhill quickly after that. Master Chiang paid a visit to nirvana four times that first afternoon. Each time, she complained it didn't last long enough. I, meanwhile, watched _Seinfeld_ reruns with the volume muted.

"The next day, I went to the park as always, hopeful we could resume our normal poses, meditation, and our search for the real nirvana, but she wasn't interested. 'There's no need, Vincent. I've found what I'm looking for. Let's go to my apartment and see if I can get back there.'

"Day after day, we fell into the same routine. Pretty soon, we didn't even bother meeting in the park. I just reported for duty bright and early at her place, often staying until dark. Then that wasn't good enough, either, and she insisted I stay with her round the clock.

"Talk about me violating yamas? Hah! By the end of that first week of having sex, hers were in total disarray. Do no violence, my ass. You try lying on a hard floor while someone rides to nirvana and back seventeen times in a row. My back was killing me. And celibacy, hah! Call it what you want, but when all you do is have sex over and over again, celibate you're not. As for greed, don't go there. My sex chakra had clearly gone from violet to black and blue, yet other than that first time, she never again asked me if I'd been to nirvana. Frankly, she didn't seem to care.

"Midway through the second week, I needed a break, so I called in sick, but that didn't stop her. She just showed up at my condo instead. 'Again!' she'd say as I tried to curl into the fetal position. 'Again!'

"By the third week, I was employing all sorts of tactics to get away from her: disguises, service elevators, decoy cars – the works. But she always seemed to find me. 'Again!' she'd yell as she caught up to me on the street. I'd be at Starbucks, fixing a cup of java, when suddenly her hand would clamp down over mine. 'Again!' Even at my small investment company, I couldn't escape. I'd be pacing my corner office, trying to figure out how to extricate myself from the situation, when suddenly I'd see her standing on a window-washing platform, her face pressed to the glass. 'Again!' she'd mouth at me.

"Feeling like a hunted animal, I bought a new penthouse and car, changed cell phones, and kept myself in near-permanent disguise. That's when she began using astral projection to find me. I'd be reading a good book, trying to relax, when suddenly I'd see her shimmering image above me. 'Again!' she'd yell. 'Again, again, again!' It was like being stalked by a perverted poltergeist.

"Nearly at my wit's end, I finally arrived at a solution. I hired twelve muscular gigolos to take care of her, putting them on four rotating shifts that gave her coverage twenty-four/seven. That was three days ago. I've spent most of my time since then recovering from the ordeal. But this morning, I decided to come here for a walk. As I did, I began thinking about all my failed romantic relationships over the years. Saddened by these recollections, I stopped and bought these eleven roses – one for each ex."

Anna looked at the roses. "Eleven? You mean you have more tales of woe than the three you just told me?"

He sighed. "I'm afraid so. Before the ballerina, there was the cheerleader who got depressed, the French maid who stopped cleaning, the belly dancer who wouldn't shimmy, the model who dressed like a slob, the airline stewardess who wouldn't fly, the nurse who refused to take care of me, and the stripper who became self-conscious. Even the dominatrix didn't work out."

"What happened to her?"

"She turned submissive."

Chapter 5: Two Ponds

Anna sat back. She started to say something, then stopped. Then started and stopped again. She didn't want to be too harsh with Vincent. She had a good sense of people and she was certain he had no ill intent. He was misguided and immature, true, but this merely confirmed he was a man. "Do you want to know what I think?" she finally said.

"Sure."

"I think you've been chasing fantasies, treating women as if they're one-dimensional. Think about it. Nobody is only a ballet dancer or a cheerleader or a nurse. People are more complex than that. And no one stays the same. We're all constantly evolving. I bet if you get to know a woman on a deeper level, not only what attracts you to her in the first place, but her likes, dislikes, fears, dreams – all of it – your relationships won't be quite so fleeting." She pointed to the water. "In some ways, a woman is like a pond. Not this pond, but a really deep one. If you try to embrace only what's on the surface, like a ripple caused by a gust of wind, you'll find that by the time you grab hold of it, it's gone. But if you plunge beneath the surface, you'll discover things far more interesting and solid, especially the structures at the bottom that make her what she really is."

Vincent nodded. "Like a pond. I think I understand."

"Would you like a few examples?"

"Sure, that might help."

"Take me. I've told you I'm an aspiring poet, but let me tell you how I came to be that way." She described how she'd been raised by two loving parents who happened to be avid readers, thus engendering in her a love of literature in general and of poetry in particular. She talked about her struggles to make a living as a writer, including all the years she'd spent doing mind-numbing office work.

"You're right," he said attentively. "It is more interesting down here. I'd no idea people had such struggles. And I'd love to read some of your poems sometime. I bet they're superb."

She smiled and continued on, describing her days in university studying classic literature, history, and art. "What I really want to do is visit the places where that history occurred or where those pieces of literature and art were created, then write modern poems about them that help breathe life into the past."

"Fascinating," he said, shifting closer to her. "Let's go deeper."

She talked about her desire for true love, how she wanted to find her soul mate and connect with him on a million different levels. How she hoped they'd get married, buy a small house somewhere in the country, and raise their children together, jointly teaching them about all the wonders of the world.

"This is amazing," he said, leaning toward her, staring intently at her with his marble-blue eyes, his golden forelock shining in the setting sun. "Do you know what I'd like to do?"

"What?" she said, surprised she hadn't collapsed into a gelatinous mass.

"Go as deep as we can, right to the very bottom."

They leaned toward each other, their lips pursing for a kiss, when suddenly she pushed him away. "Wait a second. How do I know this isn't just another one of your fantasies? You know, the...pudgy poet fantasy...that so many men seem to have these days?"

"No," he assured her. "This is different. It's more intellectual."

"Uh huh. And what's going to stop you from making me the twelfth rose in your little boredom bouquet when you lose interest in the intellectual? What am I going to become? The writer who wouldn't write? The poet who stopped penning? The scribe who wouldn't scrawl?"

"Not to get technical, but you haven't exactly been pouring out verse to this point."

"Hey, I'm still in my formative stages, okay?"

"I wasn't criticizing your productivity. I'm just saying it's not fair to accuse me of falling for your poetry when I haven't heard any."

She folded her arms across her chest. "Okay, fair enough. But I'll tell you what we're going to do. If you really want to pursue something together, we're going to take it real slow. That means no flying in world-renowned professors of literature or famous poets to impress me, or having a limousine full of chocolatiers following me around day and night."

"I'd never dream of using chocolatiers."

"Work with me here, billionaire boy. What we really need to do is build a solid, two-way relationship. Men are like ponds, too, and for two ponds to become a lake, they need to share their waters with each other before they start swapping saliva."

"I know I'm just an amateur, but I think there's something wrong with that metaphor."

"Quit stalling."

"Okay, okay. I grew up in Manhattan. I was raised by my mother, and—"

"What happened to your father?"

"He left when I was young. Apparently, he went off chasing adventures."

"Methinks the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree."

"To support us, my mother made costumes for Broadway plays."

"That's interesting. Ever get to see any?"

"The plays – no. But there were always actresses over at the house trying stuff on."

"So all through your childhood, you had beautiful young women running around your house in costumes?"

"Yes, why?"

"Oh, no reason. With all your money, you don't happen to have a budget for therapy, do you?"

"That's very funny. Tell me, when one pond mixes with another, does the first pond always criticize the second one like this?"

Anna smiled. To her growing excitement, she'd begun to realize there was much more to Vincent than met the eye. "I'm sorry. No more wisecracks. Say, it's getting dark, and I haven't eaten since this morning. Any chance you want to get dinner?"

"Sure."

They got up from the bench. "How about an appetizer of double tomato bruschetta," she suggested, "a seven-ounce filet mignon with a peppercorn brandy sauce, sautéed mushrooms, pearl onions, and roast potatoes, followed by a dark chocolate custard for dessert?"

"Hey, I thought fantasies weren't allowed."

She looped her arm through his. "I don't have anything against fantasies, my dear. I just prefer ones we can share."

Chapter 6: One Year Later

A lone fireman stood at the front door of an expansive Victorian mansion set on a private country lane in East Hampton. Thump, thump, thump, he banged on the door with his right hand, his left hand holding an axe.

The door swung inward, revealing a somewhat pudgy young woman in a silk crepe day-dress, circa 1938. She had a necklace of white pearls around her neck, and in her right hand, a long cigarette holder with an unlit cigarette.

"I was at the station," said the fireman, "and received an urgent call. I came here right away, yet find no urgency at all."

The woman leaned against the doorway and pretended to take a drag from her cigarette.

" _I'm afraid I've been a naughty girl,_

And made these false alarms,

I hoped you'd see my true distress,

And take me in your arms.

For though there's no smoke or flame,

It doesn't mean there's not a fire.

_The reason for my desperate call..._ "

She stepped forward and pulled the top part of the fireman's yellow jacket open, exposing his broad, muscular chest.

"... _Is that I'm burning with desire._ "

The fireman shook his head in disapproval. He leaned his axe against the door.

" _Ma'am, it truly saddens me,_

You'd violate our trust.

_In keeping with our policy..._ "

He withdrew a wooden paddle from inside his coat.

"... _Punish you, I must._ "

She screamed, turned, and ran toward the spiral staircase, the fireman chasing her. The distinctive chime of her cell phone stopped her in her tracks, allowing the fireman to catch up.

"Hello?" she said. She listened for a few seconds, then cupped her hand over the phone. "It's the caterer. She wants final approval on the number of guests at the reception. Are you absolutely sure there's no one else you want to invite?"

Vincent thought about it for a few seconds. "No, that should be it. Any more than five hundred and we probably won't be able to greet them all anyway."

"She's also asking about the two desserts per setting. She says people might think it a bit strange."

Vincent laughed. "Who cares what they think? It's our wedding, darling. Let them eat cake!"

They both chuckled. After she hung up the phone, she looked down at the fireman's jacket still draping from his waist. "Well..." she said.

"Yeah. Kind of ruined the flow, didn't it?"

"Hey, I know. Pool-boy fantasy number seven."

She bolted toward the French doors at the back of the house, Vincent again in close pursuit.

A few minutes later, Anna lay reclining on a lawn chair beside the swimming pool, soaking up the warm sun, a pair of oversized glasses covering her eyes.

A shadow fell across her. She lifted her glasses. "Yes, Enrique?"

Vincent stood in his swimming suit, a pool-skimmer in his right hand. "I'm all finished, Miss Simmons."

"Finished?" She took her glasses off and sat up, swinging her legs off the side of the lawn chair. "Oh no, Enrique. We're just getting started."

BOOK 3: MY THIRD-WORLD GIRLFRIEND

Chapter 1: September 17, 2010

Aiden's been gone two days now. From the look of them, Hank and Fritz aren't far behind. I probably have less than a week myself, so I've decided to spend this time recording how we came to such a miserable end. If this notebook's ever found, maybe it'll at least help some other poor schmuck avoid the same fate.

It's tempting to say all this began at Heathrow Airport, but I know in my heart it started much earlier, probably back in my childhood when Dad stumbled home every night singing and smelling of beer, often with lipstick on his collar. No matter how late it was, Mom always waited up for him, carefully arranging her ashtrays, canned goods, and other household items on the living room coffee table. I don't know why he never snuck in the back door, because the moment he stepped through the front, she'd turn into one of those multiple rocket launchers you see on TV.

Dad wasn't the best husband, obviously, but boy, could he take a lot of punishment. I saw thousands of objects rattle off his head over the years, yet the only time I saw him go down was when Mom hit him square between the eyes, tomahawk style, with a full bottle of wine.

I grew up vowing to avoid all that. I never stumbled home drunk to my wife, mainly because I never had a wife. Having seen how upset Mom got when Dad was unfaithful, I never cheated on a woman, either; I always made it clear from the start we weren't exclusive. And unlike Dad, who routinely got himself smacked for forgetting anniversaries, birthdays, and Valentine's Day, I dodged most of those blows by changing girlfriends every few months.

But here's the curious part: By the time I hit forty, I had as many lumps and scars on my head as Dad had on his. In some ways, I'd suffered even more. One girlfriend chopped my prize Harley into pieces, which she left in a mound on my driveway with a note that read: "Your genitals are next." Another had a sewage truck dump its contents inside my house, then texted me to say: "Now you're both full of it." A third waited until I'd passed out from drinking one night and had "Waste of Time" tattooed on my John Henry. It took a lot of painful needlework to clear that up.

I was hurt by these acts and disappointed I hadn't found romantic happiness. Looking back now, I realize every man wants to experience such happiness at least once in his life, to hold that special woman in his arms and completely lose himself in her. I couldn't have summed it up that way at the time, but I must have sensed it because I finally set out to understand what was wrong.

Having received hundreds of lectures on the subject, I didn't lack for theories, most of which claimed I was immature, irresponsible, and selfish. I carefully weighed the evidence, took a long hard look in the mirror, and even asked a few ex-girlfriends for their input, though two knees to my groin and a spritzer to my face didn't provide much insight.

In the end, I couldn't deny one fact: Most of my exes didn't start out angry or violent toward me. They were calm, rational, even affectionate women who only began their T-Rex impersonations after we'd been together for a while. Therefore, the cause of my problems had to be...

That's where Heathrow comes in. I was in the airline lounge formulating this very thought while simultaneously admiring the waitress's shapely behind, when I overheard a conversation between three older men at the table next to me.

"Ja," said a tall German man in his mid-fifties, whom I'd eventually know as Fritz, "I agree it is time to stop the carousel. It is getting more difficult to find a good place, and I cannot afford to keep moving around like this. But I don't vant to settle in Russia. The vomen are beautiful and intelligent, but they are too aggressive now. The last time vee vere there, I saw them hitting their men over the head with handbags, umbrellas, even a giant yam. Von Russian doctor told me some men have so many lumps, they cannot vear a hat."

Having recently been walloped with a giant yam myself, I was instantly intrigued.

"I concur," said a thin, sixtyish gentleman with a pronounced English accent. "I love how classy Russian women are. I love going to dinner with one on my arm. But I love hats, too, so if finances are going to force us to settle down now, I'd rather find a woman less inclined to violence." This was Aiden.

"I guess that rules out them hot-blooded Latinas," said a big-bellied, gray-haired Texan I'd come to know as Hank. "They're wild in the sack, but I sure wouldn't wanna git one angry."

"Ja," said Fritz. "Machetes are a lot vorse than giant yams. I don't vant sex three times a day, either. Sometimes I just vant to go to the pub, read my paper, and drink beer."

"It's the vigor of the sex that concerns me," said Aiden. "At my age, I have to worry about breaking a hip."

"Given what's been happenin' lately, I guess that just leaves Asia," said Hank.

"Ja, but vhere?" said Fritz. "The Chinese are too capitalist now. The vomen there vant so many things, vee'd have to share von just to split the costs."

"Vietnam's still quite appealing," said Aiden. "The women are as gentle and graceful as ever, yet still not too materialistic."

"Ja, but if you vant to see von naked, you have to marry her first."

"What about them Filipino girls?" asked Hank. "They're warm and lovin', and boy, do they know how to cook."

"Nein, too clingy," said Fritz. "I don't vant to hug and kiss all the time. Sometimes I just vant to lie on the beach, vatch the ocean, and drink beer."

"Well," said Aiden, "there's always Thailand: still poor enough to give us appeal, yet developed enough to furnish the basics. The girls stay slim and sexy, and aren't violent, demanding, or clingy."

"That's true," said Hank. "My last one even gave me one of them Thai massages every night afore bed. I never slept so well my whole life!"

"Ja," said Fritz. "My last von vas good, too. I could stay out all day playing cards and drinking beer, and she never said a thing."

"I, too, was without complaint," said Aiden. He raised his beer in a toast. "To Thailand, then." The other two raised their drinks, too – Fritz with a beer, and Hank with what looked like a whiskey.

I was totally absorbed by this point. These men seemed to be wrestling with some of the same issues troubling me, except on a global scale. What's more, it sounded as if they'd discovered a far easier solution than me trying to rewrite my DNA.

Unable to resist, I leaned over and said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Any chance I could buy you a round and hear a little more?"

They readily invited me to their table, so I slid my chair over and ordered drinks for everyone. After introductions, Hank turned to me and said, "So, partner, what is it you'd like to know?"

"Well," I said, "I've been experiencing a lot of romantic troubles lately."

"Define 'troubles'," said Aiden.

I leaned forward and parted my hair in a few places.

"Mein Gott!" said Fritz. "That's a lot of giant yams."

"Actually," I replied, "I had my first giant yam only last month. Mostly it's been things in restaurants, like ketchup bottles or salt shakers. Or those BBQ pokers if we're cooking at home. The worst ones are from automotive tools, like tire irons, which is why I've stopped working on the car when a girlfriend is around."

"Well, don't feel bad," said Hank. "We've all been there. Why, fifteen years ago when I first met Fritz, his left ear was half an inch longer than his right. Aiden was so used to gettin' poked in the chest durin' arguments, he'd cover his nipples every time a woman raised her voice. And my ex-wife had such an awful habit of elbowin' me in the ribs when she wanted me to listen to her, I started wearin' one of them flak jackets under my shirt. But we've left all that behind us now."

"I gathered that," I said. "And all you had to do was move to another country?"

"It's not quite that simple," said Aiden. "As you probably overheard, you can get clobbered, whacked, and prodded in a foreign country, too. In fact, it's proving increasingly difficult to avoid."

"The key," said Hank, "is understandin' why women are always smackin' us like that. You see, they're what you call true nesters. They not only want to build a nest; they want to keep improvin' it until it's the best, most fantastic nest in the world. That's why they're always givin' us those long lists of things they want done, then gittin' so upset when we don't do them. We men, on the other hand, are only casual nesters. For us, any old nest will do. In fact, we're happy flyin' from one nest to another so long as we have one by the time nightfall rolls around. And even if we do settle in one nest, we're perfectly content to leave it the way we found it for the rest of our lives."

"Ja," said Fritz. "It is a difference of expectations."

"Exactly," said Hank. "So the real key to romantic happiness – I feel like I ought'a have a drumroll here – is findin' a woman with low expectations. The lower she's willin' to put the bar, the less chance you'll have of trippin' over it, and in yer case, endin' up with one of those lumps on yer head."

"Which explains why we prefer foreign countries," said Aiden, "especially places where the local men drink too much, cheat on their women, and lack the capacity to earn a decent living. In those situations, women are so grateful to have a partner who can contribute anything at all – such as paying the bills – that's all they ask."

"Ja," said Fritz. "Vhich means you can sit around, play chess, and drink beer all day if you vant, vithout having to vorry about some fräulein dragging you avay by the ear."

I was awestruck. It was brilliant, absolutely brilliant – kind of like Maslow's hierarchy of needs in reverse. It also stopped my soul-searching in its tracks. I didn't need to make all those major changes women kept requesting of me. What I needed was to find a woman with such low expectations, she didn't make any requests at all! "Where do I sign up?" I said, half-joking.

"Actually," said Aiden, "as fate would have it, we normally operate as a team of four and just recently lost one of our mates."

"Ja, the eldest," said Fritz.

"What do you mean, you lost him?" I asked.

"Dead, kaput."

"How?"

"The lucky bastard had a heart attack beneath some foxy Ukrainian minx," said Hank.

I couldn't believe my good fortune. "So I'm in?"

"As long as you have twenty-five hundred a month to support yerself, you got my vote," said Hank. "Might be good for us to have a young bull around."

"I concur," said Aiden. "He can deal with the lusty ones."

"Ja," said Fritz. "I don't vant the lusty vons anymore. Sometimes I just vant to sit, do crossvords, and drink beer."

I hoisted my glass in a toast. A huge wave of optimism swept over me. After a lifetime of cranial contusions, I finally saw a path to romantic peace – a hope that I'd soon be able to share all the wonderful benefits of female companionship without having to wince every time I shampooed. Frankly, I couldn't wait to get started.

Chapter 2: September 18, 2010

Today was rough. I doubt even men who endured the rack suffered this kind of pain. I can only imagine how Hank and Fritz feel, both being fifteen years older than me. I think Fritz will be the next to go. His breathing seems labored now, and he spends most of his time complaining about his aching knees and back. I think he, too, knows the end is near. In the brief periods when he has enough energy to lift his head, I can see him eyeing my notebook, yearning to write a few last words of his own. But I can't afford any delays or I might not finish myself.

* * *

It was easy leaving my bullshit management job. I'd grown tired of it anyway. Thanks to fifteen years of lucrative stock options, money wasn't a problem, either – at least not for a few years. So within two weeks of that chance meeting at Heathrow, I was on my way to Thailand, ready to embark on my new love life.

After a couple of long flights, I finally landed in the small coastal city of Hua Hin around midmorning. The guys met me at the airport, smiling and looking relaxed in T-shirts, shorts, and sandals. We then took a taxi to a rundown area of the city, characterized by squat buildings, refuse on the streets, and stray dogs.

Our apartment building wasn't much better. Only five stories high, the rough concrete exterior made it look like an above-ground parking garage with balconies and windows. My apartment was a mere eight hundred square feet, with worn furniture and an ancient fridge and stove. I'd normally have rejected such lowly accommodations, but I understood their purpose: We were lowering expectations right from the get-go.

"Besides," explained Aiden, "if we live in a rich neighborhood where women already have everything they need, they'll select their men based on qualities such as looks, youth, and physique."

"Yeah," said Hank, "where we come up a few bushels short."

"But if we live here, where having one's own apartment is a significant achievement—"

"Then suddenly we git a lot younger and better lookin'!" laughed Hank.

Again, this made perfect sense. It did have one unsettling implication, however. If, as we continued to age, we had to compensate by seeking out partners of less and less means, wouldn't that mean we'd eventually be dating women on skid row?

"Don't forget to tell him about the vild oats," said Fritz.

"Oh yeah," said Hank. "Afore we settle down with nice girls, we usually go wild for a few weeks – you know, partyin' with bar girls and all that. Back in Texas, we call that sowin' our wild oats."

"Wild oats?" I said. "Didn't we sow those back in our twenties?"

"It doesn't work like that," said Hank. "You come to a new country with new, exotic women, you git new wild oats."

"That's correct," said Aiden. "It's a perfectly natural biological reaction, meant to encourage you to spread your seed among any new female populations you encounter."

"The thing is," said Hank, "you can't make good romantic decisions, like choosin' a girlfriend, with wild oats runnin' through you."

"So vee sow them in bar girls," said Fritz, "and vater them with beer."

I didn't know what to make of this. Hanging out with bar girls seemed like something my father might do, and I knew for a fact that didn't lead to romantic happiness. Also, women were always telling me to grow up, act more responsibly, and not go out drinking with my friends, yet here I was being encouraged to do the exact opposite. Both these points made me a bit queasy, but my three mentors seemed pretty confident of their approach. Besides, I'd already quit my job and moved halfway around the world, so I figured what the hell?

* * *

I'm not proud of what happened in the weeks that followed. I don't see any point of getting into the debauchery of it all. Most of it's just a blur anyway. What I can tell you is that as cheap as they sometimes look with their false eyelashes, fake fingernails, and body tattoos, there are some extraordinarily talented bar girls out there. One girl could shimmy all the way up a stripper pole using just her private parts. Another could juggle grapes with her breasts. A third could toss a condom on me from across the room. She'd be great at horseshoes. And no matter how much any of them drank, they always managed to get up early enough to empty my wallet and sneak out before I stirred. It got to the point where I just left a "thanks for a nice evening" note in among the bills.

The heavy drinking was the worst. I'm a binge drinker by nature, but I usually do it only on holidays. Well, every day in Hua Hin was a holiday for me, leading to seventeen hangovers in a row. It was so bad, I forgot what the whites of my eyes looked like.

Then it happened. On my eighteenth morning, I crawled out of whatever hovel I'd spent the night in and was enjoying my standard pre-breakfast vomit, when a shadow fell across me.

"You okay?" said a female voice.

I looked up through squinting eyes at the slender silhouette standing above me. It wasn't really the best way to meet a girl, but I figured there was no point in being uncivil.

"Yeah," I said. "Just a little indigestion."

"You not take care," she said. "You smell like beer, look like stray dog."

Well, I certainly couldn't fault her honesty. I struggled to my feet. Frankly, I was expecting her to look a bit like a stray dog herself, mostly because young, attractive women back home rarely stop to chat with forty-year-old drunks vomiting on the sidewalk. However, to my surprise, she was indeed an attractive young Thai woman. Like most Thai women, she was short, with long, satiny black hair and dark almond-shaped eyes. What made her different was the sparkling intelligence in those eyes and the way her mouth curled slightly upward at the corners, forming a pair of cute dimples. She wore neither the passive expression of most Thai women nor the exaggerated smiley-face of a bar girl, but something entirely unique.

"Where you live?" she asked.

I pulled my eyes away from her face and glanced around, but had no idea where I was. "I think it's called Darvan Place."

"You not know?"

I shrugged sheepishly.

"Okay," she said. "My name Kinlaya. I help you."

"Gerry," I said, extending my hand.

She wouldn't take my hand, opting instead for the _wai_ – the abbreviated Thai bow. She then turned and led me at a brisk pace to a nearby taxi stand.

Twenty minutes later, after circling the area a few times, we finally found my building. Unfortunately, when I took out my wallet to pay the driver, I found it empty, as usual. So Kinlaya paid while I promised profusely to pay her back.

Entering my apartment, she looked around at seventeen days' worth of accumulated mess and shook her head. Then she marched straight to the fridge, which, aside from a few beers, was empty.

She spun around, walked back to me, and held her hand out. "Five hundred _baht_ ," she said. "You shower. I buy food."

Ah, I thought, so this is her game. Yet her expression was so sincere, I immediately doubted this conclusion. I went to the bedroom and retrieved from my emergency stash five hundred _baht_ plus sixty for the taxi.

She again performed the _wai_ and headed off. I, meanwhile, took a long, hot shower. Looking at my scruffy face, I also decided to shave for the first time in days.

To my surprise, by the time I emerged from my bedroom in a fresh set of clothes, Kinlaya had returned with two bags of groceries. I then watched in amazement as she cooked a wonderful breakfast of eggs and vegetables – the first decent meal I'd had in a week.

I wolfed it down like a ravenous animal. Meanwhile, she not only washed the dishes but straightened up the rest of the kitchen, too. Feeling a little guilty, I offered her another five hundred _baht_.

"I not want money," she said, surprising me. "I only try help you. You have home – you lucky. You should sleep here, not in street like rat."

Again, she had a point.

"You should pay someone clean here, too. It smell like garbage."

I took a whiff and agreed.

"Good," she said. "I know old woman, live down street. She clean four hour, two hundred _baht_."

This wasn't what I had in mind, but I agreed to this, too.

"I bring her here tonight," she said, making it clear she was about to leave.

"Sounds good," I replied. I extended my hand again, and this time she reciprocated, her skin warm and soft against mine.

After she left, I replayed the morning's events and found myself a little confused. Had I just met a girl or hired a maid service? I decided to put the question to my three trusted advisors. It took another five hours before they were moving again, hung-over as they were, but around two in the afternoon, as we finally shared our first beers of the day, I told them what had happened.

"You lucky dog," said Hank. "You just got yerself a pity partner."

"A pity partner?"

"Ja," said Fritz. "A local girl who takes pity on you and tries to save you."

"One of those wonderful traits shared by women around the globe," added Aiden. "They all claim they love strong, handsome, successful men, but nothing delights them more than finding one in need of repair."

"Lucky for you," said Hank, "she's caught you at yer lowest. Why, at this point, yer nothin' but a low-down drunk hooked on bar girls."

"Ja," said Fritz, "you couldn't ask for better."

"The key now," said Hank, "is strikin' the right balance. On the one hand, if you wanna git intimate with her, you gotta show her a little progress – you know, give her some hope. On the other hand, you can't let her fix you too quickly, otherwise she'll git aggressive and try to turn you into a monk. The solution is baby steps. Take yer beer swizzlin', for example. If you drank twenty-five yesterday, today just notch that down a smidgeon to twenty-three or so. Don't go soberin' up all at once."

"That would convince her she's a miracle worker," said Aiden, "whereas you want her to be more of a slightly optimistic pragmatist."

"That goes for the bar girls, too," said Hank. "Even if you two hook up, don't just go cold turkey on the bar girls. Cut down a little, sure, and work on yer remorse speeches, but don't suddenly start turnin' yer nose up at girls just because they trade sex for drinks. Make her pry a few off you first."

"Ja," said Fritz. "Nothing motivates a pity partner more than having to fight off bar girls to save you."

"Just don't forgit the forgiveness fee," said Hank.

"The forgiveness fee?"

"The _baht_ you give her when she catches you with a bar girl. Not only does it git you out of the bind yer in at the moment, it also proves you've still got some good in you – somethin' worth nurturin' over time."

I tried to digest all this. Once more, their advice made me a little uneasy. Whatever my exes thought of me, I'd never set out to be a bad guy before. I'd always tried to make things work, especially in the beginning.

I reached up and felt some of the old lumps on my head – the only thing I had to show for my efforts. Maybe I needed a change. Maybe going against my instincts was exactly what the relationship doctor ordered. Besides, listening to Hank, Fritz, and Aiden hadn't hurt me so far. My eighteen hangovers aside, I'd actually had a lot of fun. So what harm could there possibly be in following this latest advice?

Chapter 3: September 19, 2010

I didn't get to see Kinlaya that evening. I found out later she did indeed drop by the apartment with the cleaning woman, but I wasn't there. I was getting a series of chest facials from a group of bar girls Hank had recruited for a lap-dance competition. This was followed, much later, by a drunken entanglement of naked limbs that I assume involved sex, though I can't honestly remember, and I certainly can't recall whom all the limbs belonged to. The rest of the night is even more of a blur. In fact, my next moment of clarity came with me down on all fours on the sidewalk again, making another unpleasant puddle, when a petite shadow fell across me.

"You like get sick, Mr. Gerry?" asked the unmistakable voice of Kinlaya.

I glanced up. "Well, I wouldn't exactly say that."

"So why you do?"

I pushed myself slowly to my feet. She looked wonderful, her pretty face as bright and energetic as before. "It's...complicated," I said.

"Not true," she replied. "Food go in here—" she pointed to my mouth "—come out here—" she pointed to my butt. "Maybe your ends mixed up."

I glanced at her, unsure if she'd just given me a dig, but I couldn't tell.

"Why you not go apartment last night?" she asked. "I come with woman for clean, but you not there."

I cleared my throat. "Ah, yeah, sorry about that. Some friends took me out for a...social gathering...and time sort of got away from me."

"Your friends leave you sick on street? Our culture so different." She glanced around. "You see woman push cart?"

I followed her gaze to an elderly woman pushing a small vegetable cart along the sidewalk. The woman had a bad crook in her back and partially dragged her right leg. I couldn't tell if she was pushing the cart or using it as a walking aid.

"She seventy-five," said Kinlaya. "She sell vegetables from sun go up to sun go down. No choice. You see man sweep driveway?"

I nodded.

"He work twelve-hour day, seven day a week, no holiday, to keep children in school. You see woman make clothes?"

I shifted my gaze left to another elderly woman, this one sitting at an old, beat-up sewing machine.

"She school teacher. Retire now. But son get sick, so she fix clothes pay medicine."

Kinlaya looked back at me, her expression a little more serious. "They never leave friend on street. They not fall down from drink, either."

A wave of shame washed over me. "I suppose not," I said softly.

"I not tell you what do, Mr. Gerry," she said. "But maybe not do here. Maybe not make big joke their sacrifice."

"I'm sorry," I said.

She shook her head and smiled. "No need say sorry. I only try help you. You can find apartment today, or you want me get taxi for you?"

I could tell by the way she said this that she had no intention of spending any more time with me. I didn't blame her, but that's not how I wanted to leave it. "Say, you've helped me a lot these past two days. Would you at least let me buy you breakfast?"

She scanned my face. "I don't know, Mr. Gerry. We different people. I not like drink too much."

"Me, neither," I said. "Well, not normally. It's just been...an unusual few weeks. But I'd still like to repay you for your kindness, and no booze – I promise!"

"Hmmm," she said. She fell silent for a moment, then added, "If I go, you keep food in stomach this time? Because I not want see on sidewalk again. Not good my appetite."

I laughed. "No problem. I'll keep it where it belongs. I promise." I pulled out my wallet and found it empty, as usual. "I just need to get some money first."

* * *

We ended up at a surprisingly nice restaurant, surprising in that it didn't look nearly as rundown as the rest of them. Most of its tables were in a shaded, outdoor patio with a small stone fountain as its centerpiece. It even offered something resembling eggs and bacon – my all-time favorite hangover breakfast.

"So," I said as my first few mouthfuls of coffee began their cavalry charge to the rescue, "what do you do for a living, Kinlaya?"

"I teach children slow learn," she replied. "Need special help."

Ah, I thought. That probably explained her extraordinary tolerance toward me. "Do you work in a school?"

"Sometime," she said. "Sometime I teach in home. What about you, Mr. Gerry? What you do when not crawl on sidewalk?"

I began to say I was a manager in a hi-tech company, but realized that was no longer the case. The truth was, I hadn't been doing anything except crawling on sidewalks and all the things leading up to crawling on sidewalks. "I'm...on sabbatical," I replied.

"Sa-ba-tickle. What this mean?"

"It means I'm...taking time out, kind of looking for something inside."

"Ah," she said. "That why you put insides outside? You want get closer look? When I like this, I go to ocean, walk on beach. You like go beach, Mr. Gerry?"

This question rattled me a little. Despite living in a seaside city, the boys and I had yet to get to the beach. "Actually, I haven't been there."

"You should do," she suggested. "When you fall down, sand very soft. But maybe not sleep there or you wake up in ocean."

This time her smirk made it clear she was indeed teasing me. "Good advice," I said. I asked her about her family and found out she'd grown up on a small rice farm with nine other siblings. "We very poor," she admitted. "When I young, cannot buy shoes, must go school in bare feet. My clothes made from other clothes sew together. Many times hungry but no food."

I learned that she eventually worked her way from these humble beginnings to obtain a university degree in teaching, and I couldn't help but marvel at her journey. I might have had to watch my parents fight a lot when I was young, and been conked over the head more than my fair share in all my personal relationships since, but I'd never had to endure the kind of poverty and hardships she had. What impressed me most was the persistent sparkle in her eyes – an energy and optimism that poverty had clearly been unable to suppress.

"Say," I said as our breakfast, and thus our conversation, came to a close. "You mentioned the beach earlier. You want to go for a walk there sometime? Maybe you could show me some of the best spots."

"Hmmm," she said, hesitating again. "I don't know. You show up this time, Mr. Gerry? Or you go with friends again?"

I held up my hand, palm outward. "You name the time and place, I'll be there. I promise!"

"Okay, tomorrow morning, six o'clock, in front your building."

"Six o'clock? That's a little early, isn't it?"

"Not if you go to bed early, not get drunk. Your choice, Mr. Gerry. I not tell you what to—"

"No, no – six a.m., it is!"

* * *

"She works with the mentally handicapped?" said Hank. "Why, that's even better! If you learn to fake a few symptoms, you'll be able to git away with just about anythin'."

"Might I suggest a childlike simplicity, a perpetually happy expression, and a slight drool?" said Aiden.

"Ja," said Fritz. "The drool is _ausgezeichnet_! Ten years ago, my Indonesian girlfriend caught me vith her best friend, but I had a bad fever, and vhen she saw me drool, she thought I vas delirious and blamed only her friend. Now I drool vhenever I get caught."

The three of them clinked their drinks together – our first round of the day. I didn't say anything, but I wasn't about to follow this particular piece of advice. Kinlaya seemed far too sharp to fall for something like that.

Of far greater concern was me staying sober and getting home in time for a decent sleep. The problem is, those decisions are never made only once in a bar. They're revisited – with increasingly less sobriety – each time the waitress arrives to take another order. To make a long story short, I got just as loaded that day as I had all the others. Then, around one a.m., Hank came up with the idea of playing musical bar girls, which kept me there even longer because we had five girls and I didn't want to spoil the game for everyone else.

My only salvation was that I managed to make it back to my apartment. It took a while to sort out the eight digits on my clock, but when I finally did, it was four-fifteen, which meant there was no way I could let myself sleep. So instead, I drank two pots of black coffee, took three cold showers, and ate half a tube of toothpaste to mask my breath.

* * *

"You okay, Mr. Gerry?" Kinlaya asked as she stood looking at me outside my building.

"Yeah, sure," I answered. "Wonderful. Never been better. Why? Don't I look okay?"

"Your eyes red like tomato. Your lips purple like grape. And your face white like dead jellyfish."

"Ah, that. It's just the change in schedule, you know, up and at 'em this morning. Raring to go for this walk. Speaking of walking, how far are we from the beach, anyway? Is it big or small? Is the sand white or golden? Is the water—"

"Oh, you talk like chipmunk, too."

Thankfully, a taxi pulled up and we climbed in. I gave myself a mental slap for talking so fast and vowed to do better.

After Kinlaya gave the driver what I assumed were directions, she turned toward me, her nose twitching. I slammed my mouth shut, but to no avail. "So," she said, "what you do last night?"

I paused, which isn't easy to do when you're suffering from a caffeine overdose. How quickly we men reach a crossroad in a relationship, even when it isn't actually a relationship yet. To be honest, I thought about clutching my forehead and drooling, but Kinlaya's knowing brown eyes stopped me. Ethics aside, there's little point in lying when you know you've already been caught.

"Well," I said, "I...er...kinda got swept up by some friends again...and, um...we sort of stayed out late."

"What time you get home?"

"Much later than I wanted to. My friends were doing something, so I stayed to help them out."

"What time on clock?"

"Oh, the time, yes. Ahhh...I think it was maybe a little after four."

"You drunk again?"

"Drunk...that's such a subjective term. We did do a little drinking, yes, but it was purely social."

"What time you start drink?"

"Start? Hmmm, that's going a ways back. Probably one or two in the afternoon."

"You drink fourteen hours and not drunk?"

"Fourteen hours? Now that you put it that way, I guess I probably was a little drunk."

"You still drunk now?"

"No, not at all! I'm as sober as a priest, as chipper as a morning bluebird."

"I not know bluebird. You sleep?"

"Not really. I...there wasn't time."

"So if you drunk at four o'clock in morning and you not sleep, how you not drunk now, only six o'clock?"

I was euchred and I knew it. I glanced at the driver's face in the rearview mirror, his broad grin suggesting he knew it, too. Of all the luck. Here I was, my mind simultaneously racing with caffeine yet still a little woozy from all the booze, and I was stuck in the back of a cab with a Thai Perry Mason.

Not wanting to blow things, I turned to face Kinlaya directly. "Look, maybe I am a little drunk, yes. I stayed out much later and drank a lot more than I wanted to, and if I could go back in time, I wouldn't do that. But I really wanted to go for this walk, so when I got home, I drank two pots of coffee and took three cold showers, and it may not be perfect, but I'm here, aren't I?"

She searched my face again. Why do women always do that? I wondered. Why do they have to scan every millimeter of a man's face when they're judging him? Don't they know how nerve-wracking that is?

"I just check your honesty," she said finally. "I not like man who drink, Mr. Gerry. But I not like man who lie, even more."

She said something to the driver. We pulled down a narrow road. I spotted the sea in the distance, and just like that, the inquisition was over. It was odd, but in many ways, it was the most open conversation I'd ever had with a woman. The fact it didn't end in a concussion was a bonus, too.

A few minutes later, we stood on a beautiful white-sand beach, staring out at the aqua waters of the Gulf of Thailand. Just looking at the ocean spreading out before me, listening to the surf break, inhaling the fresh sea air – it was far more of a wakeup call than any frying pan across the head. I couldn't believe I'd been living so close to this place for nearly three weeks, yet hadn't bothered to come here even once.

Kinlaya led us on a spirited walk down the beach that lasted well over an hour. The exertion was pretty rough on me. Three times I wanted to toss my cookies so bad, I could almost taste them. But I didn't want to spoil the moment, so I somehow kept them inside of me.

I was glad I did. Afterward, Kinlaya and I sat on a big rock jutting out into the sea, our feet dangling in the water, and had one of the nicest times I've ever had with the opposite sex: no lectures, cursing, or trips to the emergency ward. What more could two people want?

It's a moment I've been recalling a lot lately, especially since I don't have that many moments left.

Chapter 4: September 20, 2010

We lost Fritz today. As we watched the sun rise this morning, facing another marathon day of survival, Fritz looked down, his eyes sad and heavy, and said, "I'm finished. Kaput. I can't even get to my feet."

Hank and I tried to help him. We tried for a good twenty minutes, but it was no use. He just lay there like a sack of potatoes, drifting in and out of sleep. When we finally crawled back here this evening, Fritz, God rest his soul, was nowhere to be seen.

I know he and I went through a bit of a rough patch for a while, but I'll miss the big oaf and his love of beer. Yes, I'll miss him, but his passing also reminds me to hurry.

* * *

My relationship with Kinlaya blossomed in the weeks that followed. I drift off every night now recalling the wonderful hours we spent exploring Hua Hin's magnificent coastline together, talking about our lives, the differences between our cultures, and the many places we wanted to visit in the future. There was something so natural and relaxed about it all.

Our first kiss holds a special place in those memories. I'd just pulled Kinlaya up to a flat rock we liked to sit on, as I'd done on many previous occasions, but this time we kept hold of each other's hand. Later, as the sun began to set and the breeze turned cool, she leaned into me for warmth, so I wrapped my arm around her. She looked up at me then, and I down at her. Her eyes were so bright yet so soft, I couldn't stop staring into them. They seemed to have an unending depth – not just a single brown hue anymore, but an infinite number of hues. It felt as if I were literally falling into them, and I must have been because next thing I knew, my lips pressed down on hers, sending an electrical charge through me far more intense than any of the times I'd been tasered.

It was all truly magical, and I think the ocean played an important part in it. When you sit staring out at something so beautiful and inspiring, it opens your heart to other wonders. And when you share that with someone special, it isn't long before you discover the greatest wonder of all.

Our feelings only intensified from that point on. We enjoyed long, intimate conversations over bottles of water, without her ever christening my skull. We made love for many minutes at a time, once reaching the mythical half-hour mark. We even spent entire nights together, happily spooning the hours away, without her rising to empty my wallet or me plotting a pre-dawn escape.

Looking back, it was the happiest time of my life, and I wish I could spend my remaining hours writing only about that. But, alas, it's not love and companionship I'm trying to warn people about. No, the tale I need to tell, especially for the benefit of any young guys reading this, is one that's every bit as old as love itself. On the one hand, a man has his friends. That's all he's got when he's single because, without a woman in his life, he usually fritters away everything else. On the other hand, a woman can offer a man everything he's always wanted, but usually insists that first he gives up what he's already got.

Kinlaya was no different. I was still hanging out with the guys periodically, but the more time she and I spent together romantically, the more she began insisting my pals and I spend time apart.

"You go out again tonight?" she said one night when I mentioned I was heading to the pub.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say it was again," I replied, "since you and I spent the last five nights together. I'd call it more, 'checking in'."

"Up to you, Mr. Gerry," she said. "You must do as you wish. If you not want see me tonight, I cannot change."

"Whoa, I didn't say that. I just said I wanted to visit the guys and have a few beers."

"How many is few?"

"I don't know...four or five, maybe."

"Hmmm. In Thailand, that a lot."

"Okay, two or three."

"I think two is good number. We have two eyes, two ears, two hands. Maybe should have two beer, too."

I felt tempted to point out we also have ten fingers, ten toes, and lots of teeth, but I didn't want to cause any trouble between us, so I agreed to two.

* * *

Unfortunately for me, Kinlaya wasn't the only one riding me about my social life.

"Howdy, stranger," Hank said as I approached the table where he, Fritz, and Aiden were sharing yet another round of drinks. "What happened? Did the Mrs. leave the barn door open?"

"She is not a 'Mrs.'," said Fritz. "She is his kommandant. Heil Hitler, Herr Vhipenstein."

"Now, lads," said Aiden. "Let's not torment the poor bloke. You'd be a tad hesitant to go out, too, if your woman kept your gnads in a jar on her nightstand."

"Very funny, guys," I said, glancing around at all the bar girls milling about. This was about three months after our arrival in Thailand, and I couldn't help notice that my fellow ex-pats hadn't changed their behavior in the slightest. "Say," I asked, "what happened to your whole wild oats thing – you know, going crazy for a few weeks, then settling down with nice girls?"

"Now that you mention it, I don't rightly know," said Hank. "Must be all the hot, spicy food here in Thailand. It's got my woodpecker peckin' so much, I can't seem to settle on one tree."

"What about you, Fritz? I thought you said that some days you just wanted to drink beer and relax without having women around."

"Ja," said Fritz. "But the vomen here don't say much. They just sit on your lap and move around. Then at the end of the night, you get to fire your howvitzer vonce and go to sleep, so it's actually quite peaceful."

"Besides," added Aiden, "there are so many exotic strains of Thai women, our wild oat production seems to be keeping pace with our consumption. For the moment, at least, we appear to be in a self-sustaining cycle."

I shook my head. I realized then that they had no intention of changing their ways – probably never had. They liked to talk about finding the right girl and starting a relationship, but when you only meet girls who drink like cowboys, do tricks with their private parts, and have price lists tattooed on their behinds, it's hard to find one you can bring home to mother. Too bad for them, I thought. A couple spoonfuls of wild oats seemed a poor substitute for the love feast I was enjoying at that point. But these were old dogs with little interest in new tricks.

So it was that I continued with a toe in two different ponds, as Aiden once put it – abused at home for going out, and abused outside for staying home. It wasn't too bad at first – mostly just a clash of views on such things as fidelity, freedom, and the right to drink oneself into oblivion every night. But all that changed when I announced Kinlaya and I were officially moving in together. For the first time since I'd known the guys, they invited me to meet them in a coffee shop, with nary a beer nor bar girl in sight. I should have known by the way they were huddled in the shop's back corner that they were up to something. If that wasn't enough of a clue, they'd also set our meeting for noon – a full hour before they normally awoke – and they didn't even look that hung over.

I bought a full-sized Americano at the counter and joined them.

Hank, as usual, was the first to speak. "Listen, partner," he began, "it ain't our style to go stickin' our noses in another man's business, but we're concerned about yer upcomin' plans for cohabitation, and seein' as we're the ones who brought you here, we feel a mite guilty about it all."

"Guilty?" I said. "I wouldn't put it like that. Meeting Kinlaya's the best thing—"

"Now hear us out. We know what it's like to have an Asian girlfriend for the first time. All that nuturin' and kissin' and huggin'. Yes this, yes that to everything you wanna do between the sheets. And you probably ain't been clocked over the head once, have you?"

"No, it's been great. Most of my old lumps have gone down so much, I can almost comb my hair."

"The thing is, it's easy to git enamored with that kind of treatment. You probably even think yer in love. But remember what I told you about women and nestin? The moment you move in with a girl – and this is true of Asian ones same as for the rest of them – she's gonna undergo one of them Jekyll and Hyde transformations."

"Ja," said Fritz. "In fact, she vill spend so much time as Mrs. Hyde, she might as vell be Frankenstein."

"What especially concerns us," added Aiden, "is she's begun exhibiting some of these traits even before you've moved in together."

"Like what?" I responded defensively.

"Like only lettin' you come to the pub once or twice a week," said Hank.

"And don't think we haven't noticed you checking your watch every five minutes while you're there," said Aiden.

"Ja," said Fritz. "You are so nervous about the time, I start to think you are a suicide bomber."

"Nonsense," I said. "I...I just don't want to be so late that I make her worry."

"That's exactly our point," said Hank. "She's got you on such a short leash, you can't even look at a bar girl anymore, let alone take one for a giddy-up. Why, I've known fellows on death row with more freedom than you. And you know what the problem is?"

I wanted to tell him there wasn't a problem, that I didn't want to take any more bar girls for giddy-ups, but there was no point. "What?"

"You done let her expectations git too high. Why, she's only yer girlfriend, yet yer already behavin' like a bull with a ring through yer nose who's got nothin' left to look forward to 'cept plowin' the same field night after night. You gotta git back out there to the free range, where you can run with the other bulls and let her know that while you don't mind stompin' around in her field once in a while, you ain't no plow bull and never will be."

"Okay, this is ridiculous. I understand your concerns, but I'm the happiest I've—"

"Ja, ja, vee know. You are the happiest man in the vorld. It is never easy to talk to them vonce they go Herr Vhipenstein, is it?"

"Stop calling me that."

"What he means," said Aiden, "is—"

"I know what he means, and I don't appreciate it."

"Whoa, hold up there," said Hank. "We're not tryin' to feud with you. We're just tryin' to warn you that cohabitation doesn't always turn out like them happy fairytales women is always talkin' about."

"Ja. Usually, it is more like The Gingerbread Man."

"And if things turn out like we're sayin' – if, for example, you suddenly find yerself havin' to work day and night just to keep up with all her domestic demands – we wanna let you know we'll be here for you."

"Actually, not here," said Aiden. "At the pub."

"Yeah, at the pub, where the grass is always green, the barley grows in bottles, and young, nubile women is roamin' the plains in search of old bulls who still have their horns. So if you ever wanna stretch them legs again and go for a run without the Mrs. crackin' a whip on yer behind, you can come rejoin the herd anytime."

I pushed my chair back. "Thanks. If I'm ever feeling...hitched to a plow...I'll take you up on that." I left the coffee shop, shaking my head. Kinlaya wasn't trying to control my life, and I certainly didn't expect her to turn into Mrs. Hyde, Frankenstein, or any other mythical monster just because we were moving in together. We were in the love – the first time I'd been in love my whole life – and I wasn't about to let those three old dogs interfere with that.

The problem with conversations like this one, however, is they don't always affect you right away. What your conscious dismisses out of hand sometimes burrows itself in your subconscious instead. So it was that even as I hurried off to meet Kinlaya at her hairdresser, followed by a six-hour shopping quest for the perfect dishcloths, I felt disquieted. It was as if some subtle shift had occurred in the cosmos, the ramifications of which were not yet apparent.

Chapter 5: September 21, 2010

"No, over there," Kinlaya said, pointing to the far end of the living room in our new apartment.

I carried the corner table to its designated position. To be honest, I didn't even know why we had a corner table. I just knew it had cost me a lot of money, and was now costing me a lot of grief, too.

"No, other corner," she said. "Hurry, Mr. Gerry. More furniture come soon."

I picked up the pace, muttering to myself the whole time that if things were that urgent, maybe she could pitch in with more than just a finger.

"No good," she said after I'd lowered the table into place. "Put in extra bedroom. We try again later."

I eyed the open balcony doors and considered an alternate solution.

That wasn't my last battle with furniture. As I soon discovered, there's no such thing as a "moving day" when you live with a woman. There's only the first moving day, to be followed thereafter by many others, each initiated by a sudden, inexplicable whim. True, if one were to take before and after pictures, it'd be easy to see a vast improvement over time. No one can deny a woman's extraordinary knack for turning places into homes. But those of us actually lifting the furniture would prefer a much shorter path to perfection.

Money management was another area affected by cohabitation. Before we moved in together, I had lots of money. I didn't manage it per se, but I never had any problem accessing it. All that changed after we began living under the same roof.

"You want spend life with me, Mr. Gerry?" she asked one day.

"I hope to."

"Then we must save money, buy house. And many things for house. And car. And things for babies. And things for grandbabies, too. So maybe better I take care money, you not spend so much."

"What are you talking about? I don't spend much money."

"Every time you go pub, you spend five hundred _baht_ , sometimes one thousand. I know because I check wallet."

"You check my wallet? That's a little invasive, don't you think?"

"I not know what invasive mean. But two beer only two hundred _baht_ , Mr. Gerry. So maybe good thing I check. Now you know money fall out wallet somewhere. But don't worry. I can fix."

"How?" I said, not wanting to dwell on the discrepancy.

"When you go, I give you only two hundred _baht_. Then you not have extra money to lose."

"Two hundred _baht_? But it's a tradition for guys to take turns buying rounds. How will I be able to buy a round of four drinks when I only have enough for two?"

"Oh, that easy," she said. "You tell me when your turn, I give you four hundred _baht_ that week, then no _baht_ week after. Still equal two hundred _baht_ a week, Mr. Gerry. Still not lose money like before."

I didn't like her economic policies, but I sure couldn't fault her math.

Chores posed another challenge. Not housework or cooking. As part of their culture, Thai women insist on taking care of the house, and who am I to argue with culture? But not a day went by that Kinlaya didn't give me three or four errands to run, and that was on top of her endless requests for handyman improvements to the apartment.

"Can you build shelf for me, Mr. Gerry? I want put shoes there."

"But you already have a shelf for shoes."

"Yes, but I want dress shoe one side, sandal other. So can you take out one shelf, put back two?"

"Sure," I grumbled. It confounded me, however, why she couldn't just organize her shoes on the same shelf. It wasn't as if they were matter and anti-matter.

Refinished picture frames, a custom knife rack, a floor lamp that needed to be shortened by half-an-inch to be "just right", and a flat-panel TV I had to remount on the wall four times because Kinlaya's definition of "centered" kept changing. Add to that frequent dashes to the grocery store, pharmacy, butcher's shop, and the garden center for that special fertilizer we needed to keep our flowers extra bright, and it was no wonder I slipped out to the pub for a cold beer in between errands one day.

"Vhy are your fingers so dirty?" Fritz asked when I placed my hands on top of the table.

"Oh that," I said, looking at the black soil crammed under my fingernails. "Kinlaya wanted me to re-pot all our houseplants, but I didn't have time to wash my hands because I had to pick up the new silverware she ordered. What about you guys? What have you been up to?"

Hank held his glass up to the waitress. "Well, first, we're gonna lubricate all our joints to git them movin' again." He winked at one of the bar girls walking by. "Then we're gonna find somethin' worth movin' for."

The waitress set a fresh round of beers on the table. "Those look really good," I said. I pulled out my wallet, only to find it empty. "Say, you guys don't happen to have a few _baht_ you could loan me, do you? I seem to have left my money back home."

"Vhere?" asked Fritz. "In the jar vith your testicles?"

That irritated me, but when you're really thirsty for a beer and you're asking someone else to pay for it, you tend not to be too argumentative.

Aiden, always the gentleman, thankfully obliged. A few moments later, I had a tall, frosty one in my hands. I hadn't had a beer in over a week, and boy, did it taste good.

An attractive young woman stopped by the table, smiling and immediately placing her hand on Hank's knee. "Howdy, darlin," he said with a slap on her behind. "You enjoy the rodeo last night?"

"What is rodeo?" she said with another smile.

That was something else I hadn't had in over a week. Not that Kinlaya and I were having problems in the bedroom. She'd just been running me so hard with errands and chores, I didn't have the energy for sex.

After my first beer, I managed to throw back a second one quickly, but a check of my watch told me it was time to go.

"Vhere is the bomb?" asked Fritz. "Is it in your shorts? If so, I vouldn't vorry about it. Everything down there has already been incinerated."

The guys all shared a raucous laugh.

"Well, thanks for the beers," I said. "I'll get you back next time."

"No need, chap," said Aiden. "We wouldn't want to get you in trouble with the Chancellor of the Exchequer."

They shared another laugh.

I quietly departed. Despite the abuse, I would gladly have stayed for a few more rounds. When I got back home, I was thankful I hadn't.

"You smell like beer," Kinlaya said after giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"Yeah," I said, holding up the box of silverware. "I was thirsty, so I popped in to see the guys for a quick one."

"One or more?"

"Two, actually. Everything comes in twos, remember?"

"You are right, Mr. Gerry. So I ask you second question. How you pay?"

"Ah...I didn't. Aiden paid for me."

"He make gift or you must pay back?"

"Well, I should probably pay him back. Hey, that was a third question. What happened to everything comes in twos?"

"We do two-by-two today, Mr. Gerry. Where you get money pay him back?"

"Well, I was thinking that if you were to give me back my bank card, I could get it from the ATM."

"You not think clearly," she said with a disapproving nod. "I make spreadsheet for us on computer. Cannot change spreadsheet."

"Why not?" I said. "We seem to be able to change just about everything else around here."

A hurt expression descended on her face. "You not happy, Mr. Gerry?" Tears began filling her soft brown eyes.

"I didn't say that," I replied quickly. "I'm happy – happier than I've been my whole life."

She smiled sweetly at me. "Good. Then you pay Mr. Aiden from next week money, and we both happy." She lifted the box from my hands. "Oh," she added, "tonight we eat with new silverware. So exciting!"

* * *

There's no sense me going on and on about this, especially since I have only sixteen blank pages left in this notebook. The main point I'm trying to make in describing these events is that, despite the genuine love Kinlaya and I shared, we still went through a bit of a difficult phase after we moved in together. Most of our time we spent hugging and kissing and sharing some wonderfully warm moments together – easily the best moments of my life. But when we weren't doing that, it felt as if she was always pushing me, cracking the whip a bit, exactly as Hank had predicted.

Looking back now, I realize it was just a transition thing, that Kinlaya was merely trying to build the perfect nest for us, and that if I'd had a few more months to adjust, eventually I'd have ceased resistance and been fully absorbed into her collective.

Unfortunately, things took a turn for the worse before that happened. One day, I snuck in for a few beers with Hank and Aiden after completing my afternoon errands. We were having a good time, drinking and laughing, when Fritz showed up white-faced and out of breath.

"What is it?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

"It's the...the..." He took a few deep breaths to compose himself. "It's the _Fazis_!"

Hank and Aiden jumped to their feet, the big Texan knocking over his whiskey with his enormous belly. "The Fazis!" they yelled in unison.

I stood also, alarmed by osmosis. "Who are the Fazis?" I asked.

Aiden turned to me, his face almost as white as Fritz's. "Feminist rights activists," he replied. "Here to spread their diabolical message of equality."

"How bad is it?" asked Hank. "How many did you see and what were they doin'?"

"I saw only two," answered Fritz. "Then I ran straight here."

"We'd better git a closer look," said Hank.

The three of them hustled toward the door, with me tagging along out of sheer curiosity. At the first street corner we came to, I saw the two women Fritz had described – both western women dressed in beige uniforms. They appeared stern, forbidding, and the glare they tossed in our direction reminded me of how my exes used to look just before they whacked me over the head.

We crossed the street to give ourselves a clearer view in all directions.

"Anyone see any Festapo?" Hank asked.

Fritz, the tallest of us, looked both east and west. "Nein," he said with noticeable relief.

"Same here," said Aiden. "Oh Lord, wait a moment. Who's that coming out of the massage parlor at eight o'clock?"

We all turned to look. Two more beige-clad western women emerged, one carrying a clipboard and wearing thick, black-framed glasses, her hair in a tight bun.

"Goddamn!" said Hank.

Fritz muttered something in German – a cry or curse of some kind that definitely had the word "Festapo" in it.

"Who are the Festapo?" I asked.

"Don't you read yer history, partner?" said Hank. "They're the worst of the worst, the right hand of evil itself. Why, they make fascists look like ordinary Republicans."

"They're counselors," explained Aiden, "here to convince the girls to leave the streets, massage parlors, and bars."

"As if there's anythin' wrong with bar girlin'," said Hank. "Why, there ain't no higher callin' than takin' care of a stranger's sexual needs, 'specially when he's got a load of whiskey in him and ain't got nowhere else to turn."

"Ja," said Fritz. "They are like rescue vorkers vith high heels and tattoos."

I didn't see it that way, but I sensed the guys were in no mood for an argument. Instead, I said, "Well, it can't be that bad. They might convince a girl or two to switch lifestyles, but they're not going to convince all of them. I'm sure you'll still have plenty of bar girls to choose from."

Hank slowly shook his head. "Partner, despite everythin' we've tried to teach you, you sure got a lot to learn. Bar girls ain't no collection of individuals. They're a community, a fragile ecosystem where everythin' lives in delicate balance. If just a few of them git out of the bars into the regular world, they'll discover they can git a lot more for sex by datin' a man instead of just sittin' on his lap for a few hours. When that gits back to the others, there won't be only one or two who follow suit. The whole herd'll stampede. Afore you know it, we won't be able to git so much as a kiss around here without dinner and a movie first.

"It ain't gonna stop there, neither. Them pamphlets the Fazis is handin' out probably have nothin' to do with prostitution, massagin', or bar girlin'. They're probably full of more hifalutin' stuff like equal rights, mutual respect, and all that other malarkey. And you know what that'll do? It'll raise women's expectations around here so high, ain't none of us gonna be able to satisfy them. We know because we seen it all afore. What in tarnation do you think drove us out of Russia, China, and all them other places the Fazis showed up?

"Don't think yer gonna git off scott-free, either, partner. Why, the way that little jockey of yers has been diggin' the spurs in these past few months, I wouldn't be feelin' too comfortable, if I was you. Once all these female militancy hormones start floatin' around here, you'll be lucky if she doesn't throw you in her private gulag for twenty years hard labor."

I listened to this entire spiel, but as with all of Hank's warnings about Kinlaya, I didn't put much stock in it. I was surprised, however, at the severity of his reaction. I was also annoyed by the revelation that the Fazis, whatever their organization's true name, had chased the guys out of so many other countries. They hadn't mentioned that at Heathrow and, looking back, it seemed a rather fundamental omission.

Still, my general feeling as I left their company that day was that none of this would affect me, that Kinlaya and I, already in a serious relationship, would stay safely above the fray.

When I got home, Kinlaya's behavior seemed to reinforce this view. Sure, she gave me my standard breathalyzer test, followed by a formal audit of my expenditures and a line-by-line review of my to-do list. But she also gave me a warm hug and a big kiss, and served me a delicious Thai stir-fry that had my stomach singing love's praises after every bite.

Chapter 6: September 22, 2010

Hank went downhill fast these past few days. The weight literally fell off him, shrinking his once prodigious belly to a big empty sack of skin. As the sun rose this morning, I spotted a familiar look of resignation in his eyes.

"Well, partner," he said, his voice raspy, "I guess this here's my Alamo."

"Don't say that," I urged him. "You've got to keep fighting. Help could come at any moment."

"Keep fightin' with what?" he asked. "I'm plumb worn out, just like Aiden and Fritz afore they went down for the count. Even if I got out of here, there's no way I'd recover from this now. Nope, looks like yer gonna to be the last man standin'. I just hope you finish that journal of yers afore yer time's up, so people will at least know what happened to us."

I promised him I would. His words soon proved prophetic. When I got back here this evening, there was no sign of him.

* * *

The story of Hank's death, and of Aiden's, Fritz's, and probably mine before too long, is, in part, one of revolution. I couldn't believe how quickly things turned hostile in Hua Hin, at least for my three compatriots. One moment, they were happily drinking beer and carousing with bar girls; the next, they were in the middle of a war zone.

By the third day after the Fazis arrived, the bar girls were abandoning their customers' laps in droves. They literally scattered like miners in a gold rush.

By the fifth day, many of the men began disappearing, too. I thought this had to do with the absence of women at first, but then I witnessed something I'd never seen in Thailand before: Older women – wives, mostly – started coming into the bar and tearing strips off their husbands in public, even dragging them out by their ears.

The streets turned bloody, too. Well, not bloody per se. More lumpy. Almost all Thai women carry umbrellas to shield themselves from both the sun and rain. Suddenly they turned those umbrellas around, handles out, and began cracking their men over the head with them, not just once or twice but repeatedly throughout long, demonstrative lectures.

For obvious reasons, that made me pretty twitchy, yet things remained calm on the home front. Kinlaya had gone to a couple of unspecified evening meetings, which had me worried, yet she still didn't show any signs of the growing militancy of her countrywomen. Then one night, I came home to find her waiting in the kitchen for me, but instead of serving a hot meal, she had spread pamphlets on the table. Most of them had titles like "Know Your Rights", "The Three 'ity's': Equality, Accountability, and Responsibility", and "It's Your Choice: Educate Him Now or Reprimand Him Later".

"Sit," she said, pointing to one of the kitchen chairs.

I took my place, trying not to hyperventilate.

"Is it true," she began, "in your country, men help clean house?"

I cleared my throat, my heart pounding. "Well," I said, "I don't know if it's true. There are rumors, but I'm not sure anyone's actually witnessed it."

"I talk nice lady from west. She say men and women equal. She say they must share work same-same, too."

"Ah, that. I think what she meant is we should share equal responsibility. For example, I buy all the food around here, so it only seems fair you should cook it."

She picked up the "Know Your Rights" pamphlet. "This one say money not count. Only hours count. So if one person work, one not, person with no job should do housework. You have job, Mr. Gerry?"

I swallowed hard. "Well, not a job, no," I said. "But with all those errands and handyman things you've got me doing, it's almost like a job."

She picked up the "Equality, Accountability, and Responsibility" pamphlet. "This one say handyman chore not count. They call hobby, say is fun for man."

"A hobby? If I was building a boat, maybe. But I hardly call making shoe shelves—"

"I make spreadsheet. Errands only two hour a day, maybe three. I work eight hour as teacher, four more on home."

"I thought you loved teaching. Doesn't that count fo—"

"If you love me, Mr. Gerry, you not want me work so much, want help me more."

"Of course, I love you. Of course, I don't want you to work so much."

"Oh, happy feeling!" she said excitedly. She withdrew a piece of paper from her back pocket and unfolded it. "I make new schedule for us. I give you all chore so we work same hours. Now you work three hour to-do list, four hour chore, make seven hour. I teach eight hour, but I not mind extra hour, Mr. Gerry. You older than me, maybe need extra hour for sleep."

I looked from her to the chore list, then back at her. So many thoughts ran through my head at that point – mostly things Hank had mentioned like raised expectations, fragile ecosystems, and all the warnings he had tried to give me along the way. Suddenly those warnings didn't seem quite so preposterous.

Not that I had much time to ponder that. First, I had to partake in Kinlaya's new Equality Ceremony, in which we jointly stuck my new chore list on the fridge door beside my to-do list. After that, I cooked dinner, washed the dishes, and put on a couple of loads of laundry, all while Kinlaya giggled away at some Thai sitcom. But the longer I worked on those mind-numbing chores, the more I wanted to escape them. A shrill voice arose from within my breast, wild and primitive, like the howl of a wolf caught in a steel leg-trap. I just had to get free, at least for a few hours, even if it meant chewing off my leg. So when Kinlaya finally went off to sleep around eleven, I burglarized my bank card out of her dresser, took my keys, and snuck out to the pub.

* * *

"She gave you all the chores?" said Hank. "Well, partner, if I was you, I'd be mighty thankful it wasn't worse. Why, just ten minutes ago, we saw one feller dragged outta here screamin' his death throes. His girlfriend had him by his throat. His wife had him by the scruff of his neck. And his mother-in-law was cuffin' him over the head the whole time."

"Ja," said Fritz. "I hope he dies vell."

I couldn't believe how dejected they were. Even Aiden, who tended to be more optimistic, seemed completely deflated. "Won't be long now before they convert this establishment into a clothing store or a tea shop," he said with a long sigh.

That was hard to believe, as it had been such a busy bar before, teeming with customers and bar girls alike. Now all that remained were a few lone men, all sitting with their back against the wall, nervously glancing at the door.

"So what do we do?" I asked. "How do we turn things back to the way they were before?"

"Ain't no turnin' back," Hank said with a slow shake of his head. "Once the ecosystem's gone, ain't no way for critters like us to survive. Nope, me and the boys have seen it all afore, and we've decided it's time to pull out."

"You're leaving?"

"Yep. Headin' for the escape hatch afore the water gits above our noses."

"But where will you go?"

"That's what we've been discussing these past few hours," said Aiden. "Given that we've been chased out of so many countries, watching one after another fall to raised expectations, we feel it's time to do something extreme and go somewhere truly remote."

"Ja," said Fritz. "Somevhere the Fazis von't follow us, at least not until our howvitzers stop firing. Then vee von't care."

"So we're relocating to the Polynesian Islands," said Aiden, sounding a little more upbeat, "where the native girls still swim out to fishing boats to trade sex for trinkets."

"Now all we need to do," said Hank, "is find us a boatload full of trinkets."

"To trinkets," they all said, raising their drinks in a toast.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I'd come to them for advice, maybe even emotional support, but instead, I felt like I was being abandoned. "What about me?" I asked selfishly. "What am I supposed to do about all these changes around here?"

"Well, you can always come with us," said Hank. "Might save that noggin' of yers a few extra lumps in the days and weeks ahead."

Even hearing that suggestion made me instantly nauseous. I couldn't leave Kinlaya. True, she'd become a lot bossier since we'd moved in together, and, with these recent changes, a lot more demanding, too. But I still loved the girl. We still shared plenty of happy moments together. Besides, she'd never given any indication she was going to start whacking me over the head, which was pretty much the only thing I could imagine breaking us apart.

"I can't do that," I said. "This is the first serious relationship I've had my entire life. I can't just walk out on it."

"Suit yerself," said Hank. "Chances are, you'll be lookin' to buy a helmet afore too long, while we'll be stretched out on some beautiful beach with nubile native girls takin' care of our every whim. But each man's gotta choose his own path."

I looked at their faces, which, for the first time in a long time, seemed more sympathetic than mocking.

"What time are you leaving?" I asked. "At least I can see you off at the airport."

"Our flight leaves at eight," said Hank. "But you can do better than that, partner. After all we done for you, the least you can do is stay here and git drunk with us one last time. We ain't got no bar girls, but least we can still share a few good laughs."

"Ja," said Fritz. "I even have some new Herr Vhipenstein cracks for you."

"A few for the road, as it were," said Aiden.

I could hardly turn that down, especially since I figured Kinlaya would sleep until six anyway. "I tell you what," I said, taking out my wallet. "I'll not only stay here; in repayment for all the drinks you guys have bought me these past few months, the night's on me!"

* * *

There's only one thing worse than staying out all night drinking when your woman doesn't know about it, and that's getting caught when you try to sneak back home. I had no chance. I was as quiet as a drunken church mouse, but Kinlaya was already waiting for me in the foyer, her arms folded across her chest.

"Where you go?" she said.

I don't know why, but instinct told me to lie. "I went for a walk. I couldn't sleep—"

"A walk?" she said. "You barely stand. You smell like beer. And I waiting for you four hour!"

I hate when they rhyme off their counter-arguments like that all at once. If a man's going to strike out with a lie, at least he should get three fair swings at bat.

"Okay," I confessed. "I was upset about the whole chore thing, so I went out for a while."

"You upset share work with me? What you do? You go with other girl?"

"Other girl? What? No, there aren't any other girls around anymore. They've all been turned by the Fazis."

"So you look for other girl?"

"No, I didn't say that. I went for a few beers with the guys. They're leaving tomorrow and I wanted to say goodbye."

"You get drunk say goodbye? Where you get money drink all night?"

"I took my bank card from your dresser."

"So you take money from our future, go drink instead? Ooh, I so angry at you. You child, you know that? You not want share work. When I try share with you, you run off get drunk instead of talk like adult. And now you steal money, too." She stepped forward and snatched her umbrella from the umbrella stand, handle out. "I so angry, I want hit you over head."

I panicked. What can I say? I saw her brandishing that umbrella at me, and twenty years of bad flashbacks exploded into my mind. I thought for sure my miraculous run of lumpless, headache-free months was over, so I turned around, yanked open the door, and ran as fast as I could. And once I started running, once that animal instinct for survival kicked in, I couldn't stop it. I ran about a kilometer straight toward the airport, then flagged down a taxi to take me the rest of the way.

I don't know what I was thinking. Behind me was the love of my life – the only girl who'd ever made me happy. Sure, we still had some things to work out. There were probably some long, tense discussions ahead before I eventually caved and did everything she wanted. And obviously, I might have to accept a few bumps and bruises as part of that. But there were other solutions to our problems. For example, I could have bought her one of those big foam bats.

Instead, I ran. And what was I running to? Three guys at an airport heading to the Polynesian Islands to have sex with native girls for trinkets? Hell, I didn't even have any trinkets!

But that's what happened. I can no more deny the facts than I can deny I'm now sitting here tied to this log.

Chapter 7: September 23, 2010

I'm tired, so very tired. I miss the guys, too. Sure, I felt they were largely to blame for getting me into this mess, and we didn't joke or laugh much these past few weeks. But knowing we shared the same pain and suffering gave me some comfort.

I miss Kinlaya far more. She was such a bright light in my life, always full of energy and new plans. If only I could have a second chance with her, or even just see her one more time.

Sadly, that opportunity is long gone.

* * *

The guys greeted me at the airport that morning with open arms.

"It's about time you came to yer senses," said Hank. "Why any man would choose life hitched up as a farm animal instead of runnin' free is beyond me."

"Ja," said Fritz. "Especially vhen he sees the other farm animals get the bolt between the ears."

"The important thing," said Aiden, "is he's found enlightenment before it's too late."

We flew first to Bangkok, then Singapore, and from there to Port Moresby, New Guinea. It took all three of those flights before I sobered up, mainly because Hank and the guys started ordering drinks the moment we boarded our first flight and didn't stop until they passed out midway through our third, which lasted seven hours.

I felt terrible by the time we landed, and not just because of our twenty-hour drinkfest. I had that awful, sinking feeling every man gets after an argument with the woman he loves, when he finally realizes he was wrong. Yes, I knew even then I'd made a big mistake. I had this giant, empty pit in stomach that only Kinlaya could fill. But just as a man's pride usually helps get him into trouble in the first place, it also does a thorough job of keeping him there. After all the teasing and abuse the guys had given me with their Herr Whipenstein cracks, I couldn't bring myself to tell them I was running back to the same woman who only hours before had threatened to crack me over the head with an umbrella.

So instead I stood there on the end of that old wooden dock in Port Moresby, surrounded by ramshackle tin-roofed houses on stilts. I watched a truck deliver two huge chests of trinkets to us, all the while hoping I'd never have to use them. I watched the rickety old fishing trawler motor up to the dock, with its white-haired, leather-skinned captain who kept smiling and taking pulls from a flask. Then I watched the dock slowly recede into the distance, plotting the whole time to make an honorable escape the moment I got the chance.

I continued with that plan for nine days, doing little else but thinking of Kinlaya, picturing her sparkling, intelligent eyes and those cute little dimples of hers, recalling how good it felt to hold her every night. When the guys weren't looking, I'd write her short love letters in this notebook, which I'd bought in the Port Moresby airport. Even when I stopped to admire the astounding beauty of the South Pacific, with its emerald seas and small islands of coral reefs, white-sand beaches, and blue lagoons, all I could think was: what a wonderful place for a honeymoon.

On our tenth day on the water, however, a few days past the island of Tuvalu, just as we were reportedly entering an area of randy, trinket-hungry native girls, the ocean turned angry. A mass of black clouds suddenly appeared behind us, spanning all the way from one end of the horizon to the other. When the captain saw this, he immediately opened up the throttle, making me think we could simply outrun it. But minute by minute it gained on us, like a giant black panther in pursuit of its prey, its huge muscles swirling and rolling toward us in perfect symmetry, its yellow eyes periodically flashing with malevolent hunger.

Hank, Fritz, and Aiden gravitated to the stern. Having just finished a letter to Kinlaya, I stuffed the notebook in my waistband and joined them there.

"Wooeee," said Hank, looking at the approaching storm. "I ain't seen nothin' like that since the ex-wife caught me polishin' the maid."

That was an innocent enough remark, at least coming from Hank, but something about it struck fear into me. There did seem to be something feminine about the storm, and not just its anger. No, as I stood there beside three men who had spent the past fifteen years exploiting women all over the world...as I admitted I hadn't exactly been a model romantic citizen myself, especially with my recent abandonment of Kinlaya...that storm seemed more and more like an angry sea goddess intent on retribution than it did a natural occurrence.

No sooner did that thought occur to me than our engine sputtered and quit. The four of us turned to watch the old captain stumble down into boat's bowels, cursing yet still taking frequent pulls from his flask.

Within minutes, the wind picked up, pushing us first one way, then the other. The sea started to boil and froth, too. Worst of all, the black clouds began to devour the blue sky above us, a low, guttural growl coming from deep within their midst.

The captain's head popped up from below deck. "Get to the wheelhouse!" he yelled above the wind's growls. "Lash yourselves to something solid!"

Those instructions transformed my fears into reality. The four of us rushed to the wheelhouse, where we found an old rope and tied ourselves to the big map table.

The wind's growls soon turned to howls, buffeting the wheelhouse with huge gusts. The waves swelled to watery monsters all around us, soon crashing over the deck and knocking us around like a sock in a washing machine. One moment, we'd be at the crest of some sixty-foot beast, hanging on the edge of a watery cliff; the next we'd be at the bottom of a huge trough, practically buried in our liquid graves already.

"Don't worry, lads," Hank yelled, trying to instill us with courage. "I've seen worse. This ain't nothin' compared to a woman scorned!"

Not even Fritz laughed at that one. Instead, we all clung white-knuckled and white-faced to the map table, which by then had become our only hope.

It didn't matter. With the battering we'd begun to take, it was only a matter of time before that flimsy old boat flew apart. There we were in the wheelhouse, desperately hanging on and saying our prayers. Suddenly, a massive wave sheered the whole structure off the deck, tossing it in the air like a flimsy cardboard box with us still inside, the water suddenly below our heads, the black sky above our feet. The moment we hit the water, the wheelhouse shattered into pieces, somehow leaving the four of us still clinging to both the map table and each other.

I don't know how we survived. All I remember is an endless rollercoaster of gigantic waves accompanied by howling winds, flashing lightning, and booming thunder, along with the incessant fear that even if we made it through the storm, we'd probably end up as shark food.

Miraculously, none of that happened. Instead, we somehow washed up on a beach in the middle of the night. Exhausted, we crawled a few meters inland, then collapsed into a deep sleep – saved, I thought, by a miracle after all.

* * *

The next morning, just as the first rays of sunlight peaked over the horizon, I felt something sharp poke my side. I ignored it, only to feel it second time. I guess the other guys felt it, too, because we all kind of opened our eyes and rolled over at the same time, only to find ourselves with dozens of gleaming spear tips pointed at us. Behind those spears stood the tallest, most athletic, most beautiful women I'd ever seen.

"Whoa," said Hank. "Any you fellers got any trinkets?"

But these women weren't interested in trinkets. We couldn't understand their native gibberish, but their sign language was remarkably easy to comprehend. With a few more jabs of their spears, not to mention hisses and jeers, they had us on our feet in no time. Then they tied us together with hemp rope and marched us inland.

It felt so strange to be captured by a band of women warriors. Where were the male warriors? I wondered. Did they patrol in different groups? And why would anyone still use spears in the year 2010?

That mystery deepened when we arrived at their village twenty minutes later. Their entire population was female. Aside from us four, there wasn't a sign of maleness anywhere: no beer huts, pool tables, dart boards, or big screen televisions.

Our escorts took us to a big hut near the village center. A large woman in her forties stepped out to greet us, and by large, I mean in girth as well as height. The other women made us stand in a line, with Hank on one end, followed by Fritz, Aiden, and myself. The large woman took a knife from a sheath on her hip and immediately cut away Hank's pants and underwear, exposing his privates. "Hmmmph," she said with a nod of approval. She did the same to Fritz and Aiden, also seeming to give her approval. When she got to me, she first pulled this notebook from my waistband. She studied it for a few moments, then handed it back to me. When she finally got around to examining my privates, she seemed far less satisfied than she had with the other guys, hemming and hawing for a good ten seconds.

"What?" I said. "I've been in the water all night and I'm feeling a bit chilled." Worried there might be dire consequences to her disapproval, I began to dance and jiggle around, trying to get the blood flowing. I even started replaying some of my and Kinlaya's lovemaking scenes, doing my best to ignore the fact everyone was watching me. At last, things began to re-inflate, and I got the nod of approval, too.

The woman – the leader, I'd concluded – said something to one of her warriors. The warrior disappeared for a few moments, then returned with four of the smallest loincloths I'd ever seen. They might as well have been G-strings.

None of us guys were too eager to put them on, but a few jabs from the spears changed our minds. That made all the women nod and smile. A few of them even burst out laughing, which, to be honest, left me feeling a bit humiliated.

From there, the warriors escorted us to another hut, where they gave us food and water. At that point, I thought things might still turn out okay. The women were obviously militaristic and perhaps a little crass, but at least they were taking care of us. "What do you think?" I asked the others.

"Well, as a rule, I try to avoid women with weapons in their hands," said Hank. "On the other hand, I sure wouldn't mind seein' some of them young warriors naked."

"Ja," said Fritz. "But not the von who did the inspection. She looks like she could crush a gorilla."

"What I object to is being forced to strip like that, then having to wear these tiny loincloths," said Aiden. "We're not pieces of meat."

"Now don't go gittin' yer britches all crossed up," said Hank. "We're here in a village full of beautiful women – well, mostly beautiful. We're the only men in sight, maybe even on the whole island. And these girls have already taken an interest in our private parts. That's what I call a situation crock-full of potential. We just need to play it cool, maybe flash one of them pretty ones when we git the chance and see what happens."

It was reassuring to hear Hank talk that way, but deep down I still had my reservations. Reflecting on the morning's events, I was especially worried about the callous way in which some of the girls had looked at us. It reminded me of the way some men looked at the bar girls back in the pub toward the end of the night, after they'd had too much to drink and had shed their veneer.

* * *

We spent the rest of the day and all that night trying to figure out where we were, who the women might be, and what they wanted from us. Most of all, we debated what might have happened to their men.

Some of our answers came bright and early the next morning, unfortunately at spear point. Shortly before sunrise, eight warriors escorted us to a large hut in the village center, where they tied us by our ankles to wooden posts. Then they wheeled out cart after cart of fruit and vegetables, which they forced us to wash, peel, and slice. We were starving by then and tried to sneak a few bites, but they kept rapping us on the knuckles with the butts of their spears. After two hours of this, they took all the fruit to a large group of tables about twenty meters from us and had a huge feast. My stomach growled the whole time, drool running down my chin.

After the feast, they threw a few table scraps on the dirt in front of us. The four of us pounced on them like wild dogs, Fritz, thanks to his size advantage, grabbing the biggest share. Even this paltry feeding didn't last long, however, as they soon brought us carts full of dirty stone dishes and utensils, which they forced us to wash in a nearby stream.

They split us up in the afternoon, bringing each of us to a separate area of the village. I ended up in the elders' section, where I was forced to clean huts for the next six hours. I've never spent so much time down on my hands and knees scrubbing, washing, and polishing things. Even worse, the elders – mostly women in their sixties and seventies – kept coming in to slap my ass while I worked, some of them laughing so hard, they almost doubled over.

Even then, my ordeal wasn't over, as it was back to kitchen duty with the other guys for another four hours of meal preparation and dishwashing. By the time they dragged us back to our hut, we could barely crawl, let alone stand.

"Damn," said Hank, his voice ragged as he leaned back on the thin layer of dried grass they'd given us for our beds. "I ain't never had a day like that. I feel like one of them horses that's been forced to run through the dessert in the high sun till he keels over and the rider has to shoot him in the head."

"Ja," groaned Fritz as he rolled over on his side. "I vouldn't mind being shot in the head right now. I vas so long on my hands and knees, I cannot straighten my back."

"You think you chaps had it rough," said Aiden, lying flat on his back with one arm draped over his forehead. "Try doing this when you're in your sixties. You'd think those younger women would have more respect."

I didn't say anything. Instead, I just closed my eyes and dreamed of the times Kinlaya and I used to sit on the rocks, staring out at the sea.

Chapter 8: September 24, 2010

It's over. I can barely move this morning, let alone get to my feet. I don't know how it'll end. Once they find out I can't do my housework, I don't know if they'll run me through with their spears, throw me off a cliff, or just drag me somewhere where I can die quietly. I hope it's the third option.

In the meantime, I'm going to have to condense the rest of this story. There's no point repeating myself anyway. Every day's been pretty much the same since we arrived here: nothing but food preparation, cleaning, and other menial chores from before sunrise until well after sunset. And we have to do all this on a few hours of sleep and leftover table scraps. We're slaves in every way.

It's lousy going out this way. There are so many things I still wanted to do, so much I still wanted to experience. And Kinlaya – God, the thought of never seeing you again makes me nauseous. It took all those years of lumps and bumps to finally find you, and what did I do? I threw it all away because of some stupid aversion to the very things I'm doing now.

I'm so sorry, sweetie. Sorry I ruined all our future hopes and dreams. I love you. You're everything I've ever wanted in a woman – even with an umbrella in your hand – and losing you is a far greater tragedy than death.

If this journal's ever found, I hope you young guys learn from my mistakes. Look, I know good women can be difficult. I know they're always poking and prodding us to do things we don't want to do, then smacking us over the head when we don't cooperate. But if you want to—

Oh God, I hear them coming. This is it. Goodbye, cruel world!

Chapter 9: September 26, 2010

Incredible! I can't believe I'm back writing in this notebook again. It's a miracle – a modern miracle!

I'll do my best to tell it exactly as it happened. Two days ago, the warriors came into the hut. They motioned for me to stand, but I was so exhausted, all I could do was shake my head. They jabbed me a few times with their spears, but when it became obvious I couldn't get up, four of them carried me out. I thought for sure they were taking me somewhere to do the deed, so I began to pray.

Instead, they brought me to the far side of the village, then through a narrow path in the woods. When we emerged into an opening at the far end of the path, I was shocked to see a cluster of modern canvas tents.

They brought me to the largest tent, and that's where I got an even bigger surprise. The people inside weren't native girls; they were western women dressed in beige uniforms. And there, seated on three chairs in front of a large desk, were none other than Hank, Fritz, and Aiden. All of them looked a lot better than the last time I'd seen them, especially Aiden. They even had normal clothes on.

The warriors dumped me onto a fourth chair beside my old pals. I was so shocked and exhausted, all I could do was mumble, "What the hell is going on?"

As if in answer to that question, a tall woman came into the tent carrying a stack of thick file folders and wearing black-framed glasses, her hair in a tight bun. Despite my mental fog, I instantly recognized her. She was the Festapo lady from Hua Hin!

Taking her seat behind the desk, she slapped the file folders down in front of her. Three of them were as big as phone books. Then she slowly scanned us, meeting each of us eye-to-eye. I wasn't sure, but I could have sworn I heard one of the guys gulp.

"Well, well, well," she said, focusing on the other three. "If it isn't the Three Stooges. We've tracked you all the way from Ecuador to the Philippines these past few years."

Hank, as always, was the first to respond. "What's the meanin' of this? Where are we and why have you been treatin' us like slaves these past few weeks? You done nearly killed us!"

The lady smiled. "Killed you? We've been trying to rescue you."

"You call workin' us sixteen hours a day, slappin' our behinds, and laughin' at us the whole time a rescue?"

"We've been trying to save more than your bodies. Every year, thousands of you middle-aged buffoons show up in these islands with your chests full of trinkets, looking to exploit poor, uneducated native girls for sex. And that's after you've been exploiting poor women in other developing countries for years or even decades. I believe subjecting you to a little exploitation yourselves is a worthwhile lesson, which is why we've set up these kinds of camps throughout this region. Some men learn from the experience, some don't. Now we get to find out whether you have."

"Vhat do you mean?" asked Fritz.

"We're going to give you a choice. Option A is that we'll fly each of you back to your home country, as long as you sign a contract to work with a successful woman for one year – a counselor of sorts. In your case, Fritz, the woman is the owner of a small brewery in Hamburg. Given your mutual love of beer, we're hoping you'll learn a little about mutual respect, too.

"For you, Aiden, we've arranged volunteer work with a nice librarian, age fifty-seven, in Manchester. She doesn't like pubs that much, but she does love deep intellectual conversations over a cup of tea. According to your dossier, that sort of thing appealed to you back in your days as an English professor, before you started gallivanting around the world like a frat boy.

"As for you, Hank, we feel you need a slightly stronger hand, so we've arranged for you to work for a woman rancher in your home state of Texas. It won't be easy. She's an expert with a bull whip and doesn't suffer fools lightly. But she does share your love of wide open ranges, and we think that if you stick with it, you two might actually become friends."

"You said we were gonna git two options," said Hank without delay. "What's the other one?"

"Ah yes," the woman said. "Option B is we'll give you a rowboat and let you leave here on your own. Before you choose that option, however, you should be aware of the risks. Your chances of making it past the reef offshore are fifty percent at best. Even if you do, the winds and currents around here can be tricky. In a small rowboat without any engine power, you could easily be blown off course into some vast expanse of sea where you'd likely die of thirst and heat stroke. If that doesn't get you, you've seen how powerful the storms can be in this area. You were lucky to survive the last one; I wouldn't count on doing it again. Finally, some of the sharks in these waters are big enough to bite a rowboat in two.

"Even if you manage to survive all that, your chances of finding an island full of native girls looking to trade sex for trinkets are practically nil. That stopped years ago. So what's it going to be, gentlemen? Do you want to return to your home countries and learn a whole new way of relating to women, or face almost certain death on the high seas?"

Hank, Fritz, and Aiden leaned toward each other to confer. I was in such an exhausted stupor, I didn't even try to participate. Nor did I notice that the woman had yet to address me. I was more like a drugged patient in a mental ward, watching and listening to everything without fully comprehending it.

The conversation among my three friends didn't exactly illuminate matters. All I could hear were words like "reckin", "tarnation", "nein", and "blimey".

Finally, Hank turned toward the woman and said, "We'll take the rowboat."

At that moment, a bolt of terror shot through me, snapping me awake and thrusting me to my unsteady feet. "I'm not with them!" I yelled. "I'm not going in any damned rowboat in search of native girls!"

"Partner!" said Hank. "You don't know what yer sayin'. Course yer comin' with us!"

"Ja," said Fritz. "Vee have to row in teams."

"Quite right," said Aiden. "All for one, one for all."

"Besides," said Hank, "don't let this here Festapo lady strike the fear of God in you. She's as sneaky as a rattlesnake. There are lots of native girls around these parts, and they'll take a heap better care of you than these here Fazis, trinkets or no trinkets."

I faltered slightly, leaning forward to place my hands on the edge of the desk. "No," I insisted, shaking my head. "I'm not going with you. I don't care what you say. I'm never going anywhere with you again!"

"They done broke you, didn't they?" Hank said. "They done broke you and are fixin' to put the bit in yer mouth!"

"Ja," said Fritz. "Now he's Herr Brokenstein."

The woman behind the desk motioned at the warriors, who began forcibly removing my ex-pals, the three of them yelling insults at me the whole time. When they were gone, I slowly pushed myself upright again. "I'm not going back to the U.S. for counseling, either," I said. "I'm in love with a girl in Hua Hin, named Kinlaya. I'm going to marry her and start a family. And if you won't help me get back to her, I'll swim all the way to Hua Hin if I have to!"

To my surprise, the woman behind the desk smiled – a far gentler smile this time. She said, "We know all about Kinlaya. She was so heartbroken after you left, we had one of our staff stay with her these past few weeks. At her request, we also traced you to the boat in Port Moresby. When we heard that boat was lost at sea and four men had washed up on shore here, I put two and two together and arranged for Kinlaya to travel here. She arrived this morning."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Kinlaya's here?"

In answer to my question, someone pulled the tent's main flap open and in walked my beautiful girlfriend.

"Oh, Mr. Gerry!" she said, running into my arms. "You look so thin and tired!"

I picked her up and twirled her around, hugging her so tight I almost squeezed the breath out of her. "I don't care how thin or tired I am," I said. "I don't care about anything except that you're here, sweetheart. I'm so sorry I ran out on you. I'll never do that again, even if you hit me over the head a thousand times."

"Oh, Mr. Gerry," she said. "I not want hit you. I love you. Next time you bad, I only pull your ear, okay?"

I laughed and twirled her around again, the two of us hugging and kissing the whole time. As I did this, I noticed all the other women gathering around us, smiling and clapping. Even their leader stood to applaud. That blew me away. There I was in a room full of women smacking their hands against something, and for once, it wasn't me.

I also had the girl of my dreams back in my arms. And that's when it dawned on me: I'd finally found romantic happiness after all.

RJ SILVER'S HUMOR BLOG

To understand my humor blog, you need to know only two things: one, I've fallen in love with a Thai woman named Jan; two, she's a lot smarter than I am.

Without further ado, here are a few samples from my humor blog. Many others can be found at: www.rjsilver.com.

The Storm (Part 1)

Well, it's finally happened. After a miraculous four-and-a-half months of smooth sailing in my new relationship (the proverbial honeymoon period), I finally find myself in troubled waters. Dark clouds have formed on the horizon. The air's gone still. And the temperature's dropped, making the apartment a bit chilly.

Of course, I've received no official notification of an approaching storm. Women tend not to send out notifications like that. But after twenty-six failed relationships, I've developed a sixth sense for romantic bad weather. Like an old sea captain, I can feel it in my bones.

I just wish my bones were more informative. It's one thing to suspect a woman's angry at you. That gives you time to reef the sails, batten down the hatches, and don your safety gear. But it doesn't help you avoid the storm altogether. For that, you need up-to-date charts showing where the storm's coming from, where it's headed, and, most important of all, how big it is.

The challenge is obtaining that information. Those of you under thirty may suggest something like "Why not just ask?" But that's where an old sea captain like me would lean back, light my pipe, and say, "Ah, laddy, I admire yer innocence. But ye might as well hang yerself from the yardarm as try something as reckless as that. Only a fool gets close enough to a storm to ask er what she's thinkin' before ye know how big her waves is. Otherwise, ye be swamped before ye even open yer mouth."

Or something like that. No, experience tells me that what I need is reconnaissance, the subtler the better. I start by venturing into the living room, where Jan's watching TV, and engage her in casual conversation. "Hey," I say, "how's it going?"

The quizzical look on her face reminds me she has no clue what this ridiculous Canadian saying means.

"How was work today?" I ask instead.

She shrugs. "Same same." (A popular expression here.)

"You feeling okay?"

"Fine."

This is my first confirmation something's wrong. If a woman says she's feeling fine, she's most definitely not.

Time to test her tolerance level – a barometer reading, of sorts. I walk the four meters to the fridge and crack a cold beer. The can's pressurized pop immediately draws her attention away from the TV. I offer her an apologetic smile. Not just an I'm-sorry-about-the-loud-beer-can-noise smile, but something much broader, a kind of I-have-no-idea-what-I-did-but-whatever-it-is-I'm-sorry-about-that-too smile. It has no effect. It never does, but for some reason I can never resist making the attempt.

I return to my ship. I haven't really learned anything yet, but at least I've added a beer to my provisions.

The Storm (Part 2)

I've drained my first beer, yet I'm still no closer to understanding the approaching tempest. Clearly, I'm going to have to guess, my search for information turning inward.

I open up a Word document and start to list all the possible reasons for Jan's simmering anger, going back to the moment we met. Where and when was that, anyway? Oops – there's reason one! Clearly, I've forgotten some little-known anniversary based on reaching the ten-billion millisecond milestone, or something similar.

Stop that, I tell myself. Being flippant isn't going to get you anywhere.

I proceed to create a list of all my recent crimes great and small. In what I view as proof of my growing maturity, it's only two pages long. Next, I begin classifying each crime under one of three categories:

1.Things She Definitely Knows About.

2.Things She May know About.

3.Things She Probably Doesn't Know About.

This is a bit delusional on my part. At some level, women know about all of them. Still, when I'm finished, I feel better. There's nothing huge on the list. There's no way this is a Category IV or, God forbid, a Category V storm.

Time for a bit of a gamble. I take my best guess about the storm's center and head off for a little riskier reconnaissance.

"Hey," I say as I casually as I grab myself another beer. "Should I really bother leaving my cell phone on during the day? It's always running out of power and you never call me much from work anyways."

She tells me she thinks it's still a good idea in case of an emergency, but there's no discernible reaction, no flash in the clouds to give me a better sense of location.

"What about coming home for lunch one day?" I ask. "Any chance you can do that, because if so, I can change the time I go out for coffee."

She says she might come home on occasion, but it's too unpredictable to plan for it. A subtle change ripples across her face as she says this, but it's too fleeting for me to make anything of it. Both the water and wind remain disconcertingly still.

Damn, I say as I return to the bedroom. Damn, damn, damn. There's nothing worse than a storm that takes too long to break, having it hover over you like that with the ominous, unbearable silence of impending doom.

Given my added stress, my second beer lasts only half as long.

The Storm (Part 3)

I've made three exploratory forays to the living room, all without uncovering a shred of new information. Jan just sits there, calmly watching TV, casting that same mildly disapproving glance at me every time I crack open a fresh beer.

I, meanwhile, return to my thinking and theorizing and pacing in the bedroom, periodically reviewing my list of crimes in the hope they'll trigger some miracle epiphany. They don't.

I remain steadfast for a while, adopting the defiant resolve of a captain determined to complete my voyage regardless of what the sea throws at me. But my resolve begins to crack when the fridge runs dry after beer # 5. Even the hardiest sailors tend to lose heart once the provisions are gone.

The stress finally gets to me, causing me to break into a profuse sweat. I can feel Jan somehow watching me through the concrete walls. In fact, I'm reminded of that poor fellow in Edgar Allan Poe's The Telltale Heart. Only, it's not some pale vulture's eye that haunts me. It's a pair of deep brown, almond-shaped eyes, following me back and forth, back and forth, with their inescapable x-ray vision. And it's not the beating of a an old man's heart that ultimately hammers me into submission; it's the pounding of my own heart, spurring me to new heights of fear and paranoia with each passing second.

At last, I can't take it anymore. I rip open the bedroom door, charge toward the couch, and sink to one knee. "Okay, okay!" I plead. "I'll tell you. Last Friday, when I told you I worked all day, I was actually at Rob's with Heinrich and a couple of guys from Australia. We smoked cigars, drank beer, and played Texas Hold'em all day!"

She calmly looks over at me. "Have girls there?"

"Girls?" I say. "Of course not. We we're trying to have fun!"

"What else?" she says.

"Well, I know I said we should reduce spending. But this weekend, with my team playing in the AFC Championship, I paid 1,000 baht to watch the game on the internet."

She shows no sign of irritation. "What else?"

"Okay, you know how I've been preaching about us eating healthier? Well, every morning, when I go to the mall for coffee, I stop at Dairy Queen for a large container of chocolate brownie ice cream."

She nods. "Anything else?"

"No," I say. "No, that's everything of significance. Now, for God's sake, tell me what you're angry about!"

"I not angry," she says, her familiar warm smile returning to her face. "I just shake tree, see what fall out."

And that, gentlemen, is why we will never again rule the roost.

The High Cost of Motherhood

Last night, Jan casually asked me if I'd ever consider having children. She framed this as a hypothetical question, but I knew right away it wasn't. Only men ask truly hypothetical questions – usually inane ones like, "If you could sleep with any of the Kardashian sisters, which one would you choose?"

Women, on the other hand, are far more purposeful. If they're asking a question, it's because they truly want to know something (though not necessarily what they've asked, which is what makes answering them so darn tricky).

In this case, there didn't seem to be any ambiguity. I'd been officially put on the spot. Fortunately, I'd received many baby-making inquiries over the years (for whatever inexplicable reason), and had developed a highly effective response. "I don't think that'd be wise," I'd normally say. "I've done a lot of work in manufacturing, and the one thing you should never do with a malfunctioning prototype is start making copies of it."

Unfortunately, in Jan's case, our language limitations made this answer impossible, so instead I improvised on the fly. "I don't know," I replied. "They have a lot of gas."

"Gas not bother me," she said compassionately.

"That's not what you said the other night when you made me sleep on the couch."

She slugged me.

"They also vomit a lot," I added.

"I not mind that," she answered.

"That's not what you said when I got food poisoning and parked my head in the toilet bowl all night. I believe your exact response was, 'Gross!'"

Another belt in the arm. "That not same."

"Sure it is," I said. "You know, back home, to show young people how difficult it is to be a parent, we issue them practice babies, which they have to carry around with them for a week straight to see if they can handle it. How about, before I answer whether I ever want children, I'll be your practice baby for a week to make sure you're up to the task."

"Okay," she said, eager to give it a try.

"Ahhhhhhhh," I half-moaned, half-sighed.

"What?" she asked.

"I just filled my diapers. Don't forget to put cream on my bum. I don't want to chafe."

She slugged me repeatedly, then stormed off to the bedroom, annoyed at my inability to have an adult conversation.

I tried to follow but found the door locked. "Dear," I said, "I was just kidding. Let me in. There aren't even any blankets or pillows out here."

"Go tell Daddy," she replied. "Mommy's having a nap."

I Want A Nickname

It's immature of me, I know, but most western men living in Thailand have a nickname. In fact, it's the same nickname. They are called "butterflies" by Thai women because they routinely flutter from one Asian flower (woman) to the next.

That nickname does not apply to me, however, as I'm perfectly content with the Asian flower I have. I'm more like...like a frog with sticky feet. Yes, that's it: a sticky-footed frog who has hopped on one flower and intends to stay there.

Mind you, I should probably change that "hopped on" phraseology. That's never a good way to way to describe how one met a lady. Come to think of it, "sticky-footed-frog" isn't that great a nickname, either. It's a bit of a mouthful, for one. Then there's my personal history to consider. While it's true I've never been a butterfly, that is, I've never intentionally fluttered from one flower to the next, I have been carried along by storm winds more than most, so claiming to have sticky feet might be a bit of stretch.

I know what you're thinking. If I'm carried along so easily by a mere gust of wind, I sound more like a piece of lint than anything. But that's a terrible thing to say. I may not be that bright, but I am technically sentient. Hmmm...let's see. I think that makes me more like an insect that rides the breeze than a sticky-footed-frog or a piece of lint.

Wait a moment. What if I was a pollinating insect? Wouldn't that make me "The Pollinator"? That's an awesome nickname. If I ever decide to become a father, that's how I'm going to announce myself before every baby-making session: as "The Pollinator!" I might even get a little suit and cape. No tights, though. I'm just not a tights kind of guy.

The problem with "The Pollinator" is that I'm not currently in pollination mode. In fact, I go to great lengths to ensure I'm not pollinating. So doesn't that make me "The Anti-pollinator"?

You know, that's not bad. Of course, that raises the question of why I've stopped at the particular flower known as Jan, and why I feel I could be here quite a long time. Could I simply be lodged in her petals? Or is there something more insidious going on? She's a woman, which means she's from Venus. And we've already established I'm a fly ("The Anti-pollinator", in case you haven't heard). Is it possible she's my Venus Flytrap?

A quick read of Wikipedia has me concerned. It claims a Venus Flytrap is a carnivorous plant that catches and digests mostly insects and arachnids. It produces a sweet nectar that lures its prey between its two leaves, which it then slams shut on the poor unsuspecting bugger. The nectar is then replaced with acidic juices that kill and dissolve the victim, allowing the flytrap to fully absorb him over time. My lord, this is sounding familiar!

It's the last line that warms my heart, however. It says Venus Flytraps have a special mechanism to ensure they trap only victims of sufficient nutritional value. Jan has told me she's been fairly selective in her personal life. Could it be that she's entrapped me because she believes I have sufficient nutritional value? If so, that's the nicest thing anyone's said about the Anti-pollinator in a long, long time.

Parallel Universes

I read an article this morning about parallel universes, the notion that we're merely living in one of an infinite number of dimensions, with one dimension for each possible outcome of all decisions, actions, and events combined. I was fascinated. This meant there wasn't just one RJ – there were an infinite number of RJs!

As I thought about this, I grew even more excited. It meant that no matter how badly I screwed up, somewhere, in at least one dimension, one of my other RJs would get it right. Furthermore, because there was one RJ for every possible outcome, the fact that I screwed up wasn't actually my fault. It was simply a mathematical inevitability (which is what most of my exes said all along, and they're not even physicists!).

Put another way, I haven't been screwing up because I wanted to; I've been screwing up because some RJ somewhere had to do it, and I just happened to be the unlucky one! Furthermore, while it's true that when I screw up, this Jan gets mad at me, there's at least one other Jan who's actually happy about my actions. Heck, there's even a Jan that gives me screw-up sex instead of tearing a strip off me. No, no, it gets better than that. Somewhere, in one of those innumerable dimensions, there's a Jan who gives me screw-up sex AND make-up sex without tearing a strip off me in between.

Oh, you will not believe how thrilled I was by all this, perhaps even more thrilled than Einstein was when he figured out the Theory of Relativity. Wait, wait...in at least one dimension, I'd definitely be the more thrilled of the two!

Emboldened by this theory, I decided to change my plans for the afternoon. Instead of going out to buy batteries and light bulbs, as I promised Jan I'd do, I bought a 12-pack from the corner store and watched an action movie. By the time Jan arrived home from work, I was half-sloshed, empty beer cans everywhere, and the main living room light was still not working.

She looked around, a scowl quickly forming on her face. She was just about to give me heck when I jumped up and excitedly explained the theory of parallel universes.

"Don't you see?" I said to finish things off. "I did buy the batteries and light bulbs; I just bought them in another dimension. And here's what's even better: instead of getting angry at me in this dimension, you should leave that to another Jan in another dimension, and give me screw-up sex instead!"

She glared at me, her temper reaching a boil. "You want physics?" she asked in her typical broken English. "You have place clean and new light bulb in ten minutes, or I show you supernova!"

With that, she stormed off to the bedroom and slammed the door.

Damn physicists with their crazy hair and plaid pants. They're always tossing out wild theories, but they don't have a clue about reality.

Finding RJ Online

Website: www.rjsilver.com

Facebook: <http://www.facebook.com/pages/RJ-Silver/178637865500541?v=wall>

Twitter: @rjsilverauthor

