94 comments/ 82544 views/ 27 favorites Born that Way By: FrancisMacomber My date and I were headed to a new restaurant on Church Street that had gotten good reviews. To get there we had to walk by one of Nashville's few gay nightclubs, and as we passed, the front door suddenly flew open to let two guys leave. Through the open door we could see a female impersonator on stage, dressed like Madonna. My date looked up at me. "I don't understand. Why do they want to do that?" Instantly, my thoughts flashed back to Mickey and Beth. Twenty-four Months Ago: Brooklyn "I hate the bar scene!" I exclaimed. Another quest for female companionship had just ended in failure. Mickey just laughed, but I was serious. I had been in the SoHo bar less than an hour when some drunken girl had turned abruptly and spilled two steins of beer all over my shirt and pants. She apologized incoherently and the bartender lent me a clean towel, but it was no use. There was nothing for me to do except call it an early night and head back to my apartment. It was so demeaning having to ride the subway in that condition. No one would sit near me; they must have thought I was a derelict who had pissed himself. I could hardly stand the smell myself. When I finally reached my stop, I saw a lot of sidelong glances in the station. People who ride the subway won't look at you, at least not directly, but I was still aware of the attention I was drawing. I just hoped no one I knew happened to be around. It's very rare to see someone you know in New York, but I figured it would be just my luck to do so tonight. When I finally got to my apartment, I had a hard time getting my keys out of my sodden pockets. Mickey must have heard me because the door suddenly opened and he stood there, filling the entryway. "Well, haven't we had a party!" he exclaimed amusedly. I didn't really appreciate his humor, but it doesn't pay to mouth off to a six-foot-five guy, even if he is a drag queen. I had moved to the Big Apple eighteen months ago, fresh out of engineering school. I'd gotten my master's degree in computer sciences with a specialty in security systems. Thanks to some unknown but benign deity, I landed my dream job with Google straight out of E-school. Not only did they offer me an amazing starting salary, but they also threw in a relocation to New York City from Nashville, my home town. My classmates were highly envious, and I felt pretty good about my coup as well, at least until I started looking for a place to live. I'd assumed that I'd be able to rent a nice apartment in Manhattan on my new salary. When I began checking the listings, I found my assumption was correct -- if I was willing to share a place with five other people! I actually checked out a few of the listings I could afford. The best one I saw offered a bedroom the size of a small walk-in closet. The worst – well, I won't even try to describe it, but you can find a description in Dante's Divine Comedy by checking in Inferno. Suffice it to say that after a couple of exploratory trips, all I wanted to do was to hide in my hotel room. This boy was in culture shock. "You're going about it all wrong," my colleagues at Google advised me. "You can forget about having your own place – you can't afford it. And you can forget about living in Manhattan unless you're willing to live in a high crime area." "You need to look in the other boroughs. Try Brooklyn -- that's where all the young professionals are. You'll still have to have roommates, but at least not so many that you'll have trouble learning their names. The place to start is Craigslist." And so that's how I wound up walking down a Brooklyn street a mile from the nearest subway stop, looking for an address. The street was lined with charming old brownstones, each with a stoop out front, all shaded by mature sycamore trees. But I'd been warned that I'd find nothing there; the yuppies had bought them all up and were busily rehabbing them, and they were being resold at premium prices. I could have bought a mansion in Nashville for what one of these remodeled brownstones was going for. I turned the corner onto a commercial street and nearly missed the address. Right next to a neighborhood restaurant was a plain doorway opening onto the street. The number painted over it had faded with time; I had to double back to find it. Once I did, I walked down a long hallway that led to a stairwell. The apartment I was looking for was on the second floor. The listing sounded nice and the rent was high but affordable. When I'd replied to the email account with the listing, I was given an appointment to view the place and meet the tenants: Mickey and Beth. I wondered if they were a couple, but the listing said three bedrooms. When I knocked on the door, I saw an eye peer at me through the peephole before the door opened to reveal a slim, attractive young woman wearing a skirt over a leotard. "Hmm," I thought, "this might not be so bad." "Are you Peter Morrison?" she asked brusquely. "Yes, I'm Peter," I replied, "and you must be Beth. I'm here to see about the apartment for rent." She frowned slightly when I spoke and I wondered if my southern accent had put her off, but she merely motioned for me to come in. I started to ask her a question, but she waved me off. "You need to talk to Mickey." We emerged from the short hallway into a decent-sized living area. Seated on the sofa was a man I assumed was Mickey. As Beth and I came in, he rose – and kept rising! He had to be six foot five -- even in the high-ceilinged room he was a towering figure. I was apprehensive. If he were ill-tempered or hard to get along with, he could make for a daunting apartment mate. But I relaxed as he politely began to show me around, pointing out the various attributes of the place. And it was nice, nicer than anything I'd seen to date. I guess the unprepossessing entrance must have scared away the developers and kept the rent down. In any case, I liked the place. I was even happier when I saw the sleeping arrangements. The apartment had originally had two bedrooms, but the larger of the two had been divided into two smaller rooms. To my surprise, Mickey and Beth wanted me to take the larger bedroom. The reason for their generosity became clear when they explained what my share of the rent would be: 60% of the total. Nevertheless, I could afford it and this looked like a real possibility, the first I'd seen. When we returned to the living area, however, I learned that my decision was not necessarily the important one. The two of them proceeded to quiz me about my job, my background, my interests and my lifestyle. I answered their questions patiently, but in truth it felt more like I was being interviewed for membership in some exclusive club. After another twenty minutes, Mickey suddenly stood up and began to pace. Even though he was on the other side of the room, it still felt like he was towering over me. "You seem like a nice enough guy," he said. "I just have one more question: are you gay?" "What?" I stuttered. "No, of course not." I wondered what I had done to give him that impression. "Oh," he said. "That's too bad. Beth and I are." I looked at the two of them in surprise. This man who looked like he might have played football and the graceful young woman who looked like a dancer were gay? Then I noticed that they were both staring at me, obviously waiting for my reaction. I realized that if I wanted to live in this apartment, my next words would be crucial. "I'm not gay," I repeated, "but I hope you won't hold that against me." They looked at each other; then, Mickey burst out in a laugh and Beth gave an amused smile. "Okay," he said, "I guess you can be our token straight tenant." After that, we all relaxed and they welcomed me into their little household. It turned out that I had been right about Beth: she was a dancer. Of course, that wasn't how she earned a living; her steady job was as a waitress at an upscale Brooklyn restaurant. During the day she'd spend long hours at a dance studio or going to cattle calls for Broadway musicals. She'd gotten a few chorus line parts, but they weren't lucrative enough to pay the rent. But the bigger surprise was that Mickey was a dancer too, except that he danced at a club as a female impersonator. I went to see him a couple of times, and there was something about this giant man in make-up, a dress and heels that was simultaneously hilarious and compelling. He had a regular weekend gig at a Greenwich Village club; during the day he was a Starbucks barista. I soon realized that despite the grilling I received when I came to look at their apartment, the two of them were desperate for an apartment mate, especially one able to pay over half the rent. And so we became comfortable with one another. I was soon inured to seeing Mickey in lipstick and eye shadow. And if Beth occasionally had a female visitor who spent the night, I politely ignored her in the mornings when I was fixing my breakfast. As for me, I think I became a cross between a pet and a zoo animal as far as Beth and Mickey were concerned. I'm exaggerating, of course, but they were genuinely fascinated by me for several reasons. First, I was straight. The last two roommates they'd had had been gay females, so having a straight male was a bit of a novelty. Added to that was the fact that I was a native Southerner, a creature they'd seen on television but never encountered in real life. My Southern accent was a constant source of amusement to the two of them. All in all, it was a learning experience for the three of us. Working at Google was also a learning experience. The place was staffed with highly intelligent people teeming with energy and ideas. I'd thought I was pretty smart when I got out of engineering school, but I quickly found out I was just one of the crowd at Google. My first few months there, I felt like an imposter. I didn't know the people, I didn't know the procedures, and I felt like I was running at the back of the herd trying to catch up with everyone else. But gradually I began to contribute to the team to which I'd been assigned, and after six months I thought I just might make it. One of my requirements in my new job was to travel periodically to company headquarters in California. At first it was exhilarating to visit the Google headquarters in Mountain View, but after several trips, the novelty quickly wore off. A direct flight from JFK to San Jose takes about six and a half hours. With the prevailing winds at your tail, the return flight usually only takes about five hours, but you lose three hours because of time zones, so by the time you've made the final approach over Jamaica Bay, it's usually very late. They still expect you in the office by nine the next morning. One result of all this was that my love life suffered. Or at least it would have suffered if I had had a love life. The stereotype of an engineer is a geeky dork who's just a little anal-compulsive. I'd like to think I'm the exception that proves the rule. It's not that I was voted "Most Outgoing" on campus, but I was certainly socially active during my undergraduate years, or at least as active as I could be and still get top grades. I hadn't found my soul mate, but I was actively engaged in looking for her. All that stopped in May of my senior year. My parents were driving on the interstate to my graduation when a drunk lost control of his car, crossed the median and hit them head on. They were killed instantly. At the age of twenty-one, I was suddenly on my own in the world. I had already been accepted to graduate school in engineering, but there was no way I could have enrolled that fall. Instead, I spent the next nine months in a daze, handling funeral arrangements, attending the trial of the drunken driver, who miraculously survived, settling my parents' affairs, and mourning. Other than occasional invitations to dinner from sympathetic friends of my parents, socializing dropped off my radar screen. MIT was very understanding; they held my slot until the following year, when I was finally able to get my act together. By then I had sold the family home and closed the Nashville chapter of my life. I would miss my friends and familiar surroundings, but I was glad to put some distance between me and the sad memories my home town held. I was off to Cambridge. At MIT I buried myself in my studies, only rarely emerging to grab a beer with classmates. And since the ratio of male to female engineers was woefully unbalanced, I found few opportunities for dating. By the time I graduated, I was more than ready to resume socializing, and I hoped that moving to New York would enable me to do just that. The city was teeming with attractive young women, so I'd heard, and I figured my prospects were good. I figured wrong. That's not to say there weren't plenty of available women, they just weren't the kind I was looking for. For starters, many of them were older than me, often ten to twenty years older. I had no problem with older women in principle, but the primary characteristic of the ones I met was an aura of urgency. They were looking for a potential husband, and they didn't want to waste any time. I often got invited to share their beds, which was fine, but the after-sex conversations usually revolved about my plans for the future, my thoughts about children, and other awkward questions I wasn't ready to answer. Of course in addition to the too-eager-to-get-hitched set, there were also plenty of women my age. Unfortunately, a large percentage of them that I met appeared to be well on their way to becoming alcoholics. The women I encountered in bars were often halfway to intoxication by the time I struck up a conversation. Those I asked out seemed to need a couple of stiff drinks before they could make relax. Parties just seemed to be an opportunity for them to get stinking drunk. My run-in with the drunken woman in SoHo who gave me a beer bath was the last straw. Complaining about one's love life to a gay drag queen might sound like a waste of time, but Mickey and I had become friends, so when I got home early that evening and changed my clothes, he patiently listened as I poured out my frustrations. When I finally paused for breath, he shook his head. "You're going about this all wrong, dude," he said. "If you keep trying to meet women in bars, the only thing you'll have in common is alcohol." Grabbing my arm, he led me into his bedroom to the tiny desk where his computer sat. "Here's what you need to try," he said, typing a URL into the browser. Up popped a website entitled "EyeContact". "A computer dating service?" I asked dubiously. "You've got to be kidding." "No, man, you've got it all wrong," Mickey assured me. "Sure, a lot of services are pretty lame, but this one's different. I know some of the guys who work there." I looked at him skeptically. "Hey," he protested, "not every gay guy is an interior decorator. We've got some computer jocks too." Ultimately, I let Mickey bully me into trying it. "Hell," I thought, "it couldn't be any worse than what I've been going through lately." Mickey was right about this service being different. The first difference I noticed was the cost. The initial fee for a one-year membership was a lot steeper than I'd expected. "What kind of a rip-off is this?" I protested to my hulking friend. "Don't you get it?" he asked. "This is an up-market site. Their fees are intentionally set high to keep out the 'hit-and-run' type daters." "Yeah, well that's a lot to pay for a service I've never even seen advertised," I shot back. "Exactly," he said smugly, "they're not targeting the mass market, they're aiming for a more exclusive clientele." Maybe I was tired, or maybe his arguments actually made a little sense. Whatever the case, I filled in my credit card information and hit Enter, hoping I hadn't just thrown my money away. The next screen that popped up was a questionnaire for me to complete. But where other services ask for your description of the ideal woman – as if any of us really knows that until we see it -- EyeContact asked questions about me, my background, my work, my interests. I'd taken some psychological assessments before, and these questions seemed similar in nature. As I worked on the seemingly endless questionnaire, Beth wandered into the room and began looking at my answers over my shoulder. "That's about what I expected," she muttered archly. I wondered which response she disapproved of, but since Beth seemed to disapprove of males in general, it was hard to tell. In any case, when I reached the bottom of the screen and hit Enter, I suddenly realized that I had finished. The next requirement was a photo. I didn't have any photos of myself around, but Beth disappeared into her room and returned with a digital camera. She messed with my hair a little, adjusted a few lampshades to improve the lighting, and snapped off a few shots. As she looked through her efforts, I tried to peer over her shoulder, but she fended me off. "Well," I demanded, "how do I look?" "Almost human," she snapped. Nevertheless, she downloaded one of the shots to my computer, and when I looked at it, I thought it wasn't half bad. Then I uploaded it to be included in my EyeContact profile. An instruction box popped up to prompt me to save my profile. When I looked at him quizzically, Mickey said, "That way, in the future you'll be able to review your answers and make changes if you want." That made sense, so I saved a copy to my hard drive. "Now what happens?" I asked. "Just wait," Mickey advised. "This is where it gets cool." A minute or two later, the screen suddenly displayed profiles of three women. Each had a headshot photo with a brief description below it. My eyes widened: all three were very attractive, and a quick scan of their profiles indicated that they might actually be interesting to meet. The bottom half of the screen instructed me to review the profile of each of the women and then to rate them on the basis of several criteria including physical appearance, common interests and overall attractiveness. I clicked on the first one – this was going to be fun. As I did my ratings, I could hear Mickey and Beth whispering behind me. I also heard a few snickers. When I had completed all three, the screen asked me to rank each woman in terms of datability: "Tell us which one you would most like to ask out." Damn," I thought, "all three of them look way better than most of the women I've met lately." But I dutifully reviewed each to be sure of my preferences. When I'd finally ranked them in 1-2-3 order, I heard Beth speak up behind me. "Told you! Pay up, buster." Mickey sheepishly fished in his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill, which he grudgingly handed over to her. "How do you do that?" he asked her. "You're not only gay, you're not even the same sex." Beth just smiled serenely. While this little interplay was going on, I was watching the screen to see what would happen next. Nothing did. I turned back to Mickey. "So what's the deal: how do I contact her? When do I get her number?" I asked. "You don't," he said with a grin. "Those are just models; they're not 'real.'" Before I could get upset, Mickey pointed me back to the monitor. A new screen had a message for me. Born that Way "That's right, dude," he said, folding his arms. "That's all there is to it. But you just wait. By this time tomorrow, I think you're going to be blown away." "By this time tomorrow," I thought to myself, "I'm going to be kicking myself for letting Mickey talk me into this con game." But he had already gone back out into the living area to watch tv, so I turned inquiringly to Beth. She just smiled patronizingly at me like I was a child. "Be patient, Petey," she said, "just be patient." The next morning I went off to work as usual, but I couldn't stop thinking about EyeContact. Part of me kept wondering if it was just some elaborate scam to separate me from my disposable income. But the other part of me couldn't wait to see who the system would come up with for me. I desperately wanted to log on to EyeContact at the office to see who awaited me, but Google keeps a close eye on all network connections made from within its virtual private network and frowns on personal use. I was well aware of the company's security capabilities, of course, so I certainly wasn't going to risk it. I'd just have to wait until I got home. Both Beth and Mickey were there when I made it back to the apartment, and they must have known what I was thinking because they both followed me to my desk as I booted up my computer and logged on to EyeContact. I should have been irked at their nosiness, but since they both already knew everything else I'd done, I guessed one more invasion of my privacy wouldn't make any difference. The welcome screen read "Good evening, Peter. Welcome back to EyeContact. (Very cool, I thought, to adjust the greeting based on the system clock.) We have three suggestions for your consideration." The first selection was a redhead with a really cute face. Her profile indicated she was a copy writer at a Madison Avenue advertising agency. "Very nice," I thought. "She looks like she might be a lot of fun to meet." I clicked for the second selection and saw a tall brunette photographed in front of an oil painting. Sure enough, her profile indicated that she worked in a trendy art gallery in the Village. I began imagining Sunday afternoons at museums with her and long discussions over dinner at intimate little restaurants. Definitely appealing. "Damn," I thought, "this is pretty cool. Both of these look really promising." Then I clicked on number three and – oh my heavens, look at her! All the photo showed was her face, but what a face! She had raven hair that fell to her shoulders, framing dark eyes and high, prominent cheekbones. Surely she had to be a model, I thought. I quickly scanned her profile and learned that she was actually an investment banker. Her interests and preferred activities seemed like they were patterned on my own. She was, I learned, a year older than me, but that certainly posed no problem, especially when I looked at her picture again. Beth had leaned over my shoulder, and I heard her draw in her breath. "Damn," she muttered, "I'd do her." I grabbed the mouse and moved the cursor over the button for her contact information, but Mickey reached down and stopped me. "Whoa, slow down, cowboy. Are you sure you want to pick her for your first time? No offense, dude, but I think she may be way out of your league." For the first time since I'd met him, I snapped at Mickey. "Back off, man. You were the one who pushed me to sign up with this service. If EyeContact thinks we're a good match, I'm going to go for it!" He held up his hands placatingly. "Sure, Peter, no problem. I just don't want you to get burned." I clicked on the contact information and saw her name, Susan Devereaux, along with what was obviously a cellphone number and her email address. I started to click on the latter, but this time Beth was the one to interfere. "Wait a minute, Peter, you're not going to send her an email, are you?" "Well," I said a little self-consciously, "I thought that would be a good non-threatening way to introduce myself." Beth snorted. "Like that will impress her: an email from some guy she's never heard of! You could say something like, 'Hello, my name is Peter, and I'm a dork.'" "Alright," I said in irritation, "what would you do?" "First of all," she said, "I'd call her. At least that way she can be sure it's a real person and not some sales pitch for Viagra!" "And if she agrees to see you, what are you planning to ask her to do?" Beth went on. "Well," I stumbled, "I guess I was going to ask her out to dinner on Saturday." "No, no, no!" Beth scolded. "In the first place, a girl like that almost certainly already has a date for Saturday night. You don't want a turn-down the very first time you call her. And if she doesn't have a date, you don't want to make her admit that. That's not cool either." "OK, then, what do I do?" I asked in exasperation. "Call her up and ask her if she's going to be in town next Monday. If she travels on business, it's more likely to be during the midweek, so she's more likely to be available on Monday. And if she doesn't travel, at least she'll be impressed that you were considerate enough to ask." "Then what?" I demanded. "Then you ask her if there's a place near her office where you could meet her for a drink after work to get to know each other." "But I'm trying to get away from the bar scene," I protested. "Just shut up and listen," she said, but she smiled a little so I wouldn't take it wrong. "First, letting her pick the place will increase her sense of security. She'll be on her turf, not yours. Second, if you're a complete loser, it'll be easy for her to get away, either back to her office or off to her home. By giving her an easy escape route, you reduce her anxiety level about you." "That actually makes sense," I thought. "Third," Beth went on, "if you actually manage to hit it off, you'll be in a place she likes anyway, and a drink can turn into dinner if she feels like it." "Damn," I said admiringly, "are you sure you're not straight, Beth? You've got this all figured out" "I've picked up my share of chicks," she said, pretending to polish her fingernails. "OK," I said, "I'm sold. Now shut the hell up and let me make a phone call." I grabbed my Droid phone, but before I made the call, I entered Susan's name and number in my phone's directory. "Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself, dude?" Mickey asked. "For good luck," I said. Then I hit "Connect." I was pleasantly surprised when she actually answered. Truthfully I hadn't believed this would work. Hell, I'm not sure I believed she was real! Her voice was low and throaty, but still very feminine. It fit her picture perfectly. I introduced myself and then played out the conversation as Beth had recommended. To my amazement, it worked! She accepted and suggested a place downtown, not far from her office. I told her I'd be there about 7:00, and after a little more conversation, we concluded. I got out of my chair, turned and knelt at Beth's feet. "I hail your infinite wisdom, o goddess of the dating world," I said as solemnly as I could without breaking into laughter. She wasn't impressed. "I'd like it a lot more if it were her down there instead of you." I dithered about our get-together the entire weekend. I kept wondering what I should wear and rehearsing possible topics of conversation. In short, I was acting like a high school freshman on his first date. "Come on, man up," I told myself several times. "It's not like you haven't done this a hundred times before." But I had to admit that I'd never had a date who'd intrigued me like this one. When Monday morning finally arrived, Mickey was already up when I came out to make breakfast for myself. As I headed for the door, he stopped me. "Look, man, just relax and be yourself. It'll be fine." As I walked toward the subway station, I laughed to myself. "'Just be yourself.' That's pretty ironic advice, coming from a guy who likes to dress up like a woman!" But I knew he was right; now if I could just follow his advice. During the day I imagined a dozen scenarios that would prevent me from getting downtown to the place Susan had suggested, but none of them occurred, and my cab actually dropped me off on the stroke of 7:00. I walked into the place, which was quiet and tasteful, and looked around for her. She was nowhere to be seen. Uh-oh! I sat down at the bar and began steeling myself for the sting of a no-show, but just as I had ordered myself a drink, I felt a hand grab my arm. "Peter?" she said, and there she was, looking even better in real life than in her photograph. The rest of her was a perfect match for her face. She was tall and slim, with long legs enhanced by stilettos. "Thank you, EyeContact," I thought. We introduced ourselves and she tugged on my arm. "Come on, let's go sit over in a booth where we can talk and get to know each other." From there, the conversation took off and just kept flowing. I never had time to be nervous because I was too caught up in what she had to say and in sharing my own thoughts. When there was finally a pause in the conversation, I realized that it was 8:30 already. "I didn't realize it was getting so late," I said. "Would you like to order some dinner so we can continue the conversation?" "Oh, I was hoping you'd suggest that," she answered immediately. I breathed a silent word of gratitude to Beth. We ordered a light dinner and then carried on as though we'd known each other for years. She was interesting, she was amusing, she was everything I felt I'd been looking for. I wasn't sure what kind of impression I was making on her, but at least she didn't bail on me. I was a little chagrined when I checked my phone and saw it was after 11:00. I apologized for keeping her out so late on a week night and offered to get her a cab. We walked out to the sidewalk and I flagged one down for her. As I opened the door so she could get in, she stopped me. "You're a lot different from the men I usually see," she told me. "Good different or bad different?" I asked apprehensively. "Good different," she said with a smile. "Most guys would have already tried to get into my panties by now." I decided to press my luck. "Good enough that you'd like to do this again some time?" I asked. "Definitely," she said. "Call me next week." With that, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and slid into the cab, the hose on her long legs glistening in the streetlight. I made it home about midnight, but I'm not sure how I got there. I might have caught a cab, or I might simply have levitated the whole way. What a wonderful evening! In a show of incredible self-restraint, I waited until Monday, not Sunday, of the following week to call her. The minute I heard that throaty voice on the other line, though, I was lost again. "Hey," I said, "are you still interested in getting together this week?" Then I mentally kicked myself. "That's no way to sound forceful and self-confident," I thought. "Sure," she said, "let's do it." I thought I detected a less-than-enthusiastic tone in her voice. Still, she didn't say no. "What day is good for you?" I asked. Again I mentally kicked myself. "Well done. You've just made it clear to her that you don't have anything else going on in your life." "Friday would work," she responded. "Great," I said, a little too enthusiastically. Then I made the ultimate capitulation to fecklessness. "Is there anything special you like to do?" The instant those words left my lips, I knew I had blown it. "How pathetic is that?" I asked myself. "We've had only been out once and I'm already out of ideas. She's going to want to bail on this date before we even get together!" And indeed I thought I heard a trace of impatience in her voice, although that could just have been my imagination. All she said was, "Surprise me." "I can do that," I said, with far more confidence than I felt, and after a few more minutes' conversation, we rang off. When I looked up, Mickey was staring at me oddly. "You're sweating, Peter," he said in a concerned voice. I shook my head sadly. "I've blown it, Mickey. I got my big chance, and I think I've already blown it. How in the world am I ever going to surprise a sophisticated, intelligent woman like her?" With that I told him the whole sad story, including my need to come up with something creative and amazing. Like the good sport he was, he sat there with me and tried to come up with an idea, but nothing sounded very special. But at the very lowest point of my fears, a little voice spoke up inside me: "This is your one chance. Go big or go home." And I decided at that moment that if I was going to strike out, I was going to go down swinging for the fences. Then it hit me, and I turned to my oversized friend. "Mickey, you've got to help me." He listened to my request, and a big grin spread over his face. "OK, Peter, I'll do it. It'll be fun. I can't promise you this will work, but I can promise she won't forget you!" I decided that was all I could ask for. I called Susan again on Thursday to remind her of our date. "I'll meet you outside your office," I told her, "and we'll go from there." "Where are we going?" she asked. "It's a surprise," I said, "remember?" Susan came down from her office about 6:30 the next evening, and I met her in the lobby. After a quick kiss on the cheek, I escorted her out to the sidewalk, then caught a cab. Once we were settled, I leaned forward in the seat and told the cabby, "Grand Central Station." Susan looked at me oddly. I just smiled at her. Once we arrived, I escorted her through the main concourse and up the staircase to the mezzanine. We found some chairs overlooking the concourse, and settled in. After we had sat there for a minute or two, Susan could no longer contain herself. "What are we doing, Peter?" I glanced at the big clock below us and then smiled at her. "People-watching," I said. "Don't you like to watch people?" She stared at me. "Well, yes," she agreed, "but . . ." "Take that fellow, for example," I interrupted her, pointing out a tall man wearing a floppy fedora hat and a long trench coat that stretched almost to the floor. He was walking in our direction, and as he reached a point almost directly below us, he suddenly stopped. While the throng of people around him continued to walk past, he removed the backpack he was wearing and set it on the floor. Opening the top of the bag, he reached inside and fiddled with the contents. Suddenly, a driving beat began to echo through the concourse. Then we heard the voice of Lady Gaga singing: Born that Way She didn't have the musculature of an athlete, but her body was toned and she didn't appear to have an ounce of fat on her. I saw with approval that her breasts weren't overly large; instead they fit her frame perfectly. "Thank heavens she doesn't have implants," I thought, "I hate those." After we'd dried off and dressed, she led me out to the kitchen, where her roommates were having brunch. I felt somewhat embarrassed – there was no way they couldn't have heard us – but Susan nonchalantly introduced me to Missy and Briana, who certainly seemed unfazed by my appearance. Susan explained that the three of them had been best friends together at Vassar and had reunited to room together after graduation. "We were known as the 'Three Miss-keteers' back in Poughkeepsie," she told me proudly. After we'd eaten, it was time for me to be going. Susan rode down with me in the elevator and stayed with me on the curb while the doorman whistled down a cab. She kissed me goodbye, and then looked intently in my eyes. "Last night was wonderful – all of it. Call me." I had no problem promising to do just that. As I got into the cab, she leaned down and said, "Surprise me again." Then she turned to go back inside, and the cabby pulled away into traffic. Thus began our romance. The intervals between the time we saw each other rapidly declined until my trips to Mountain View and her travel to Boston were the only interruptions. The extent to which we shared interests and tastes was truly remarkable; I thought about writing a testimonial for EyeContact. If there was any negative in our relationship, it was the self-imposed stress I felt at needing to find new experiences with which to surprise Susan. She loved them, and was always eager for the next one. I tried to vary them. One time I took her up to Fort Tryon Park on the Hudson to see the Cloisters. Everyone who lives in New York has gone to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but surprisingly few visit the Cloisters, which is a branch of the Met. She loved the art on display, and enjoyed strolling through the gardens and the colonnaded walks even more. She thought it was a magical place. Another time I surprised her by taking her on a Circle Line cruise around Manhattan. She'd never done that either, and she got a big kick out of playing tourist. I think we might have been the only passengers on board that day who spoke English. Beth helped me secure tickets for an avant garde dance performance. The music was really weird and I had no idea what the dancing was intended to mean, but Susan loved it, and I got big brownie points for taking her. As time went by, I found myself spending more and more time at Susan's apartment. For all intents and purposes, we were living together. Her roommates grew so used to seeing me that they virtually ignored me. Sometimes, however, I caught them making snide remarks when they thought I wasn't around. Of course I also took Susan to my place in Brooklyn, but she clearly wasn't comfortable there. I could understand that: her place was a lot nicer and had more amenities. But I also felt that she and Beth didn't seem to get along. There was never any hostility, but the two of them just never seemed to warm up to each other. I wondered if Susan didn't care for Beth because she was a lesbian, or if Beth didn't like Susan because she was disappointed that Susan was straight. The Hamptons One Friday, we rented a car and drove out to the Hamptons to spend the weekend with her parents. As we headed out the Long Island Expressway, I found myself growing increasingly nervous. I had gathered that Susan's parents were quite well-to-do, and I wondered what they'd think of me. My anxiety was not lessened when Susan directed me to turn into a paved driveway that led to an oval turnaround in front of what could only be termed a mansion. I fully expected to see Jay Gatsby come out the door. "Mummy, Daddy, we're here," Susan yelled as I wrestled our bags into the front hall. Mr. and Mrs. Devereaux came out of a back room at her voice and greeted their daughter lovingly before shaking hands with me. Mrs. Devereaux ("Please call me Elaine") was a tall attractive woman, although she had clearly added some pounds and had undergone a couple of plastic surgeries. She took my hands lightly and shared air kisses with me. I was careful not to touch her face. Walter Devereaux was stocky, but he looked as though he had been that way all his life. His hair, which was thinning and combed straight back, had turned white, giving him a distinguished look. Despite being in his late sixties, his handshake was firm. The drive had been a long one, and since we had stopped to eat along the way, it was pretty late by the time we arrived. Accordingly, after some brief conversation, we were ushered upstairs to our bedrooms. Susan went off to what was obviously her old room; I was shown to a guest bedroom. Mrs. Devereaux let us know that breakfast would be served at 8:00 in the solarium; then they bade us good night. Susan giggled and waved, then disappeared into her room. I got myself ready for bed, wondering what the next day would bring. No sooner had I turned off the lights than the door to the bedroom cracked open and Susan slipped inside. She had on a nightgown like a young girl might wear, but she still managed to look incredibly sexy. She pulled back the covers and slipped in beside me. "Should we be doing this?" I asked anxiously. "What if your parents . . ." She put her fingers over my lips to shush me, and when I quit trying to speak, she removed her hand and bent over to kiss me passionately. As she began tugging at my boxer-briefs, she whispered, "Forget about Mummy and Daddy. I do what I want." After that, there were no words, just sighs and grunts followed by moans which I tried to muffle with kisses. When I awoke the next morning, I was alone in bed. I checked the time and discovered it was already 7:30, so I hastily arose, showered and shaved, mindful of Mrs. Devereaux's breakfast schedule. At five minutes after 8:00, I found my way to the solarium, a large room with glass walls that overlooked the pool area. "Good of you to join us," Mr. Devereaux spoke up, and I wasn't sure whether he was offering a greeting or a rebuke for my being tardy. Over a breakfast I thought could easily have served twice as many people, Walter laid out the plans for the day. "I thought we might enjoy a light lunch out by the pool today. Then, we can take a spin around the area in the car and let Susan see how much has changed. Tonight we'll have dinner at the club." I was disappointed. Of course I had nothing else to do, but I had hoped I might have some time just with Susan. This weekend, however, it appeared that was not to be. After a leisurely breakfast, Walter and Elaine gave us a tour of the house and grounds. I could tell that the place was huge when we'd arrived last night, but as I walked through the long halls and oversized rooms, I was amazed. Their dining room alone was larger than my entire apartment back in Brooklyn. "If they walk through this place regularly," I thought, "how they could possibly gain any weight?" After the tour, we all went back to our respective rooms to change. I pulled on some old board shorts and a t-shirt, then walked barefoot through the lush grass to the pool. This time, only Walter had beaten me. He was shirtless, and his paunch hung over the top of his swimming suit. He had seated himself under the cabana in the shade, and at his arm was a large pitcher of what I was to learn were screwdrivers. The ladies then made their grand entrance: Elaine in a one-piece suit designed to hide her excess weight, Susan in a bikini that could arouse a dead man. I was a bit startled that she'd chosen such a daring outfit to wear in front of her parents, but they just smiled at their daughter indulgently and made themselves comfortable. It soon became clear that the pool and the sun deck were for the ladies. While they lay out there sunning, Walter and I remained under the cabana drinking screwdrivers. He had already finished his second while I was halfway through my first. As we lounged there, he began to expound on the current political situation. I was a guest, and, I like to think, a fairly intelligent fellow, so I kept my mouth shut and just listened. Politically, I considered myself a moderate, if anything, maybe a little right of center. Listening to Walter, I realized that he was somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan. He went on at great length about what was wrong with the country and what needed to be done to fix it. I just sat quietly as he pontificated, occasionally biting my tongue at some of his more outrageous statements. At one point I got a mental picture of introducing him to Mickey and Beth, and had a hard time stifling my laughter at that unlikely scene. Between the warm sun and more alcohol than I normally drank, I found myself growing quite drowsy. Apparently, I wasn't the only one, for after we'd snacked on the canapes that had been brought out, we all retired to the house for an afternoon nap. I had planned to catnap for only a few minutes, but I was startled when I awoke to find it was mid-afternoon. When I had dressed and come downstairs, Walter, who appeared none the worse for all the screwdrivers he'd consumed, piled us into his Jaguar XJ and proceeded to give us a tour of the area. Most of the conversation was directed at Susan: Mummy and Daddy were eager to point out all the things that had changed since she'd moved to Manhattan. As for me, I was content to gape at the mansions that backed up to the Atlantic. Clearly, there was serious money here. By the time we got back to the Devereaux home, it was almost time for dinner. The dress code, I was informed, was casual, but I'd already guessed that casual here meant something different from what I would have worn back in Brooklyn. Accordingly, I pulled on a nice pair of slacks and a knit shirt, over which I wore a sports coat. I felt comfortable until I walked into the hallway downstairs to see Elaine and Susan wearing cocktail dresses that I thought would have been at home at the Academy Awards. I was ready to panic at the thought of embarrassing Susan and myself when Walter appeared. If anything, his clothes were more casual than mine: he hadn't even bothered to wear socks. I was greatly relieved, and when we arrived at the club, it quickly became apparent that this dichotomy was the norm. The women all dressed to impress each other, and the men wore the most casual clothing their wives would let them get away with. Nevertheless, I noticed that the logos the men's clothing sported were all extremely expensive brands. The dinner was excellent; the conversation not so much. Susan's mother essentially conducted a monologue filled with gossip about people and families I didn't know. Walter's conversation was limited to pointing out various men at the other tables and recounting how they had made their fortunes. There were several names I recognized from reading The Wall Street Journal, but after a while I found it hard to pay attention to his litany of luxury. My only relief came when Susan looked away from her mother momentarily to give me a quick wink. When we returned home, Walter insisted I come into the library with him for an after-dinner brandy. As we sat in the big leather wing chairs, he proceeded to quiz me about my background and upbringing. "So you're from Tennessee," he said. "Did you grow up on a farm?" I had to smile. "Well, my great-great-grandfather owned a farm, but we've been city folks ever since." "Oh," he said, "then what did your father do?" "He was an attorney," I told him. "Of course, of course -- Music City. He probably practiced a lot of copyright law: music, lyrics, recording contracts, that sort of thing," Walter mused out loud. I loved my Dad and I was proud of him and his accomplishments. "Actually, no," I said firmly. "A lot of his work dealt with constitutional law. He even argued several cases before the Supreme Court." "The Tennessee Supreme Court?" he asked. "No," I said, "the other one." The conversation seemed to die out after that. I don't know whether Walter didn't believe me or just didn't care. I was relieved the next day after lunch when Susan and I were finally able to pile into our rental car and head back toward Manhattan. It was as though I'd been on trial the whole time, and I felt as though I had lost my case. As I drove, I was remembering the events of the weekend, when Susan began to laugh. "You should see your face right now. You look like you've just returned from a trip to the dentist!" Even I had to smile at that, but I wasn't ready to forgive and forget just yet. "Well, you'd look that way too if you'd just taken a drilling all weekend long. Are they always like that?" She smiled at me. "Don't let them get to you. They're just a little over-protective. You have to remember that I'm their only child." I looked at her curiously; we'd never discussed her childhood. "What was it like growing up in that household?" "It was actually pretty funny. I had them wrapped around my finger from as early as I can remember. They had all these plans for me: piano lessons, ballet, exclusive girls' schools and what-not. But I didn't like any of that stuff and I just did what I wanted. They always caved in and pretty much let me get away with murder. Whatever I wanted, they got it for me. I was pretty spoiled," she said with a laugh. "I remember they wanted me to go to high school at some stupid boarding school for young ladies. But I wanted no part of that, and the first week I ran away and stayed with some college guy I'd met at a party. They were frantic with worry, and when I finally came home, they promised never to try to make me do something I didn't want." Then her face took on a more serious expression. "For a while, I kind of ran wild. But in my sophomore year, one of my best friends lost her father in an airplane crash. Suddenly, all their money was gone and she and her mom had to move away to live with relatives. I realized that if something like that happened to me, I'd have no way to take care of myself. So I started getting serious about school and getting good grades. That's how I wound up at Vassar, and that's why I'm where I am today." Then she suddenly gave me that mischievous grin. "But I haven't changed completely. I still do what I want, when I want." I was fascinated to learn a little more about Susan's origins; I thought her story explained some things about her personality. But I was still smarting from the examination I'd endured that weekend, so I brought the conversation back around. "I don't think I made a very good impression on your folks this weekend." "Oh," she said dismissively, "don't take it personally. They don't think anyone is good enough for me." Then she got a gleam in her eye. "But Daddy did warn me to get a pre-nuptial agreement with you!" I sat there trying to digest that last comment. On the one hand, I was angry at the implication that I was some sort of gold-digger out for the family money. Hell, until this weekend I hadn't even known how wealthy they were. But, I suddenly realized, she and I hadn't even talked about marriage. Did Susan say something to her father? Could she be hinting that she'd welcome a proposal? Suddenly my heart was beating faster. I knew I was head over heels for her, but I wasn't sure she felt the same way about me. Could this be an indication of her true feelings? I reached over the center console, and we wound up holding hands all the way back to Manhattan. Unfortunately, I didn't have any real chance to explore Susan's feelings on the delicate topic of matrimony because I had to make another trip out west when I got back to work. And no sooner had I returned than she was off to Boston for several days. The only positive thing about our travel schedules was that the day after either of us returned was marked by the most intense sex imaginable. It was as though neither one of us could get enough of the other. I was not inexperienced when it came to the bedroom arts, but I quickly learned that I was merely a talented amateur. Susan was a virtuoso. She knew ways to take me over the moon, and she taught me how to do the same to her. Naturally, I was curious about how she had gained her expertise, but I told myself that I'd never expected to find a virgin, especially not in New York City. Whatever she'd done in the past, it was all to my benefit now. It was while she was away on one of her business trips that I made the decision to ask her to marry me. Being bold had worked for me once with her; I decided to go for it again. At lunchtime one day, I went to my bank and opened my safe deposit box. Inside a velvet jewelry box were my grandmother's wedding ring and engagement ring. She had entrusted them to my mother to give to me for my fiancée. Of course my mother never got the chance, but I had inherited the rings after my parents' deaths. I didn't know what they were worth in today's jewelry market, but the sentimental value of the antique settings was far more important to me, and I hoped Susan would feel similarly. Susan's flight from Boston didn't arrive until late Tuesday night, and she was so wiped out that all she wanted to do was go to sleep. But before she did, I made her promise to go out with me Wednesday evening. "Do you have another surprise for me, baby?" she asked. "You'll just have to wait and see," I replied calmly, even as my pulse raced. The next evening I met her at her office and we took a cab to one of her favorite restaurants for dinner. Afterwards, we went dancing at a club we frequented. We had a good time, but I could tell that Susan was a bit disappointed. Finally, when I thought the time was right, I grabbed her and pulled her to the door. I flagged down another cab and told the driver to take us to 5th Avenue between 33rd and 34th Street. As we rode, Susan asked me where we were going, but I simply waved her off. The cab pulled over to the curb, and there we were, at the Empire State Building. Again, I ignored Susan's questions and led her to the elevators, where I pulled out the two Express Passes I'd bought earlier. We rode up to the 102nd floor observatory in silence. Susan was obviously waiting for an explanation, but I said nothing. We walked out onto the viewing area, and I motioned her over to the fenced-in edge of the building. She gazed out at the sea of lights that was lower Manhattan Island, and then turned back toward me. "Well, why did you want . . ." Then she stopped and caught her breath as she saw me down on one knee, holding the open jewelry box to her. "Susan Devereaux, this is my grandmother's engagement ring. Will you make me the happiest man in the world tonight by accepting it and becoming my wife?" She paused in shock, but the tourists and other site-seers had spotted us, and they quickly took up the chant: "Say yes, say yes!" She looked around, then looked down at me. Suddenly, her eyes flashed in excitement, and she said, "Let's do it! Yes, let's do it!" The crowd cheered, and after I had slipped the ring on her finger, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me wildly. After that, we had to go back to her apartment so she could tell her roommates. Even though it was well after midnight, she woke the other two "Miss-keteers" up to show off her ring and recount the story of my proposal. The three of them exchanged excited embraces and whispered remarks while they glanced at me. I was a bit uncertain, but then Missy and Briana rushed over to hug and congratulate me as well. When all the excitement had died down, Susan and I retired to her bedroom. She held me tightly in her arms and whispered in my ear, "Oh, Peter, that was the best surprise ever! Such a cliché! I never would have guessed!" Born that Way "I'm so glad you're happy, babe," I told her. "Tomorrow we can start talking about wedding plans and . . ." "No!" Susan said emphatically, "I don't want to wait. No big Hamptons wedding, no engraved invitations, no parties. Tomorrow! Let's go down to City Hall tomorrow and get married tomorrow! "But your parents," I protested. "No," she repeated, "I want to do it now. It'll be great, Peter: engaged tonight and married tomorrow. It's just perfect. Don't worry about my parents, they'll get over it." So that's how on Thursday at noon we came to be at the Manhattan Marriage Bureau. What we learned, of course, is that getting married in New York requires waiting in lines and lots of paperwork, even though they now had computerized kiosks to make the task easier. After completing all the questions and paying our $35, we found out about the mandatory 24-hour waiting period. But this didn't dampen Susan's enthusiasm one bit. "This is even better," she said. "We can get married tomorrow afternoon, and Missy and Briana can come and be my bride's maids." She had the bit between her teeth now, and there was no stopping her. In truth, I didn't mind at all. I would have been glad to participate in whatever ceremony would make Susan happy, but if she was willing to forego a formal wedding, so much the better. I had no immediate family who would be hurt not to attend my wedding, and I knew my friends would be just as happy to read about the news on Facebook. But I did make a special point of calling Mickey and Beth, and they both promised to come. Thus on Friday afternoon, having taken a half day off from work, I arrived at the Marriage Bureau dressed in my best suit and tie, with Mickey and Beth along to serve as witnesses. We got there a few minutes early, so I had the pleasure of seeing Susan make her entrance. It was obvious that she was not one to stand on tradition: instead of white she wore a black dress that was sexy and sophisticated, and she had on a large hat that came down over one eye. Briana and Missy flanked her, each wearing identical off-white dresses. How they managed to coordinate their outfits I'll never know, but to me and probably many of the other onlookers, the three of them looked as though they could have been in a music video as easily as a wedding. The ceremony itself was very brief; after all, the Clerk's office had a schedule to keep. After we had solemnly sworn to forsake all others, I kissed my new bride and the deed was done. I heard a loud "pop" and saw Beth holding a bottle of champagne she'd brought along. I was surprised to see tears in her eyes, but I guess all women cry at weddings, even lesbians. We had to get out of the way to let the next couple get hitched, so we moved out into the hallway. No one had thought to bring champagne glasses so we all just drank from the bottle in celebration. As the excitement was dying down, Mickey walked in with the keys to the Zip Car he'd picked up for me. We all walked outside to Worth Street where the car was illegally parked, and I helped my new wife inside. As we pulled away from the curb, Susan blithely tossed the bouquet of flowers out the window and into Beth's startled arms. "I guess that's one old superstition that won't come true," I laughed. Niagara Falls As I headed west toward the Holland Tunnel, Susan turned in her seat to face me. "Where are we going?" she demanded. "Just be patient," I told her, "it's another surprise." I'd already had her pack a bag for a short honeymoon, but I wouldn't tell her where we were going. I was determined to surprise her again, since she liked them so much. We headed north on I-81 and drove all the way to Syracuse before turning west on I-90. It wasn't until we reached Buffalo that Susan realized where we were going. "Omigod," she said, bursting into laughter, "we're going to spend our honeymoon at Niagara Falls!" She'd guessed right. I had felt that the only way I could top the cliché of proposing marriage on top of the Empire State Building would be to honeymoon in the self-styled "honeymoon capital of the world." Susan loved the idea; she couldn't wait to tell Missy and Briana where we had gone. But she was even more delighted when she learned where we were staying. I had gone on line to search for the perfect spot, and I felt sure I had found it. When we pulled up under the heart-shaped neon sign that read "Lovers' Rest," she laughed out loud. And when the oily bellman unlocked the door to our room, she could hardly contain herself. It was the honeymoon suite, complete with in-room Jacuzzi and a huge heart-shaped bed covered with pink satin sheets. Later, when she had stripped down to her French-cut panties and dived on top of me in that kitschy bed, she burst out laughing again when I flipped the wall switch and the bed began to rotate and vibrate. "It's perfect," she screamed, "absolutely perfect," just before I made her scream in a completely different way. Despite having only a long weekend, we had a wonderful honeymoon. We actually got out of that ridiculous bed long enough to see Niagara and Horseshoe Falls, even getting drenched riding on the Maid of the Mist under the spray. Although Niagara Falls is tacky and over-commercialized, the surrounding area up toward Lake Ontario is quite lovely, and we enjoyed driving through the countryside. Manhattan We were tired but happy as we made the long trip back to Manhattan. When we got back to the apartment, we left our bags unpacked and tumbled into bed. After a long weekend of honeymoon sex, sleep was the only thing on our minds. "Good night, Mrs. Morrison," I whispered, cradling her head in my arm. "Thank you, baby. What a wonderful surprise," she murmured as she drifted off to sleep. By the time we awoke the next morning, Missy and Briana had already left for work. I had deliberately arranged to take another day off, not only to rest but also to get my clothes and other possessions moved. As I brought a load into the apartment, it seemed like a good time to broach a potentially tricky subject with Susan. "When are Missy and Briana going to move out?" I asked. "Why would they want to do that?" she asked. "Well," I stuttered, "you know, now that we're married, I just assumed that they . . ." "Oh, no," she said, "I couldn't ask them to leave. Where would they go?" I had no ready answer for that. "But wouldn't they be uncomfortable with us living together here?" I asked, groping for a persuasive argument. "No," she said dismissively, "you and I have been practically living together for months and it hasn't been a problem. Besides, the three of us have been together since we were in college. We can't stop now." I wasn't very happy with her answer, but I decided to hold my peace. It was clear to me that while Susan loved excitement and surprises, she didn't particularly like change. I felt my best hope was that she'd change her mind over time; either that or we'd eventually move and the problem would take care of itself. The idea of living with two nubile women in addition to my wife in a New York apartment might seem like an adolescent boy's dream, but the reality was a different story. Basically, the two of them acted as though I weren't there. I don't mean they were rude or hostile, just that they went about their daily lives as though nothing had changed. It wasn't unusual for them to parade through the apartment in their underwear, and although I enjoyed the scenery, they gave no indication of any seductive intent. It was more like I was a new piece of furniture to which they had rapidly become accustomed. We would have cordial conversations over meals; otherwise, I was largely ignored except for some occasional whispering and giggling among the three of them. I noticed that often happened the morning after Susan and I had made noisy love. I had expected there to be fallout from her parents once they found out what we'd done, but Susan wasn't concerned. I listened as she called them the evening we returned. "Mummy, guess what I did last weekend," she said blandly. It was clear from the half of the conversation I could hear that Mummy and Daddy were not pleased, but Susan wasn't cowed. After half an hour, she hung up the phone, saying, "I love you too, Mummy." "Well," I asked, "how did they take it?" "They were upset," she admitted, "but they'll get over it. They can never stay mad at me." As the weeks and months passed, Susan and I quickly settled into our new lives together. In truth, the new routine wasn't that different from the old one – only our marital status had changed. I continued to make frequent flights to the West Coast, but now my work status had changed. I had been promoted to team leader in the network security group, and I felt pretty good about my career. I tried to keep in touch with Mickey and Beth, although inevitably I didn't see them as often as before. At least I had been able to help them when I moved out. One of my workmates was in need of an apartment and I steered him to my old place. He wound up moving in a week after I had moved out, so Mickey and Beth weren't hurt financially by my abrupt departure. If there was any stress in my life, it centered around my desire to keep my bride happy and amused. As you might imagine, it's not easy to keep coming up with new and unexpected experiences. Our heavy work and travel schedules didn't help, and the intervals between surprises inevitably increased. Nevertheless, when I was able to pull one off, Susan took an almost visceral delight in it. My little surprises clearly appealed to her impulsive nature, and the pleasure she took in them encouraged me to keep trying. We were nearing our one-year anniversary, and I definitely wanted to do something special and unique as part of our celebration, but coming up with something appropriate was proving difficult. I was coming back from the Coast on a red-eye flight, and since I can't sleep on airplanes, I used the time to think about what I could do that would really knock Susan's socks off. The fact that she would be expecting something made it just that much more difficult. My flight had been delayed due to a massive storm system moving through the central U.S., so I didn't arrive at JFK until the next morning. I was completely beat, so I called the office and told them I was taking the day off. When I reached the apartment, it was empty; all three of the girls had already left for work. I dropped my bags on the floor and collapsed on the bed. But despite my exhaustion, my internal clock wouldn't let me fall asleep, so I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, my mind still searching for some way to surprise Susan. Suddenly I had an idea. Wanting to check it out, I started to pull my laptop out of my bags when I noticed that Susan had left her personal computer on. Usually, she's scrupulous about shutting it down when she's through using it, but I guess she must have been checking on something this morning before leaving for work and forgotten to do so. I touched the mouse and the screensaver disappeared to reveal the Google News window. "That's my loyal wife!" I thought. I switched to Google Search, but the search terms I used didn't turn up anything helpful. Without thinking, I clicked the Close command. I suddenly found myself looking at the other window that Susan had left open. I was startled by the familiar logo at the top of the screen: EyeContact. Why would Susan be visiting the EyeContact page, I wondered? Under the EyeContact banner was a display box that read: Born that Way There in the last photo was Susan, dressed smartly in a woman's business suit, being helped into a cab by the hotel doorman. I looked up at the detective. "So you have no actual proof of what went on in the room than night?" I asked. She looked at me calmly. "We are very thorough, Mr. Morrison. For a substantial gratuity, which you'll find itemized on your bill, we were able to gain access to Mrs. Morrison's room while she was at work yesterday. We planted a motion-sensitive spy camera in the room. After Mrs. Morrison checked out this morning, we were able to retrieve it. You'll find a CD-ROM with a recording of the evening's activities in the back of your folder." I flipped to the end of the booklet and started to pull the CD out of its sleeve, when Ms. Martin reached across the table and stayed my hand. "Mr. Morrison, we strongly advise our clients not to view a video like this one. You already know what transpired in the room; the video won't really add to your knowledge. What it will do is create emotionally charged images that you won't be able to forget. Please believe me: this is one of those cases when a little knowledge is better than a lot." I removed my hand. I'd have to make up my mind whether or not to watch the video later, but I felt the truth of what she was saying. How much more did I want to suffer? We sat there silently for a minute, then she spoke up. "Mr. Morrison, after receiving confirmation of a spouse's infidelity, a surprisingly large percentage of our clients is willing to consider reconciliation. Do you think you might be so inclined?" I didn't have to think about my response. "There's no way. In the first place, we haven't even been married a year and she's already sleeping with other people. How can I forgive that? In the second place, this wasn't some spur-of-the-moment affair. She picked this guy out and contacted him. And worst of all, I know good and well he wasn't the only one. There were thirty-seven profiles on her computer, and I'll bet she fucked every one of them!" Ms. Martin wasn't fazed by my outburst. "I understand, Mr. Morrison. If I were in your shoes, I'd feel exactly the same way. But I had to ask." She paused. "Now let me ask another question: do you have legal representation?" "No," I shook my head, "I guess I hadn't gotten that far yet." The truth was I didn't even know any lawyers. "In that case, I would be happy to refer you to an attorney with whom we've worked many times in the past. He's honest and reasonable. He also has the advantage of being located in the same building." I figured the detective agency must get some kind of commission or finder's fee for every client they steered to the attorney, but, frankly, I didn't care. I was on a mission, now, and I would have to hurry. "Can you get me in to see him today?" I asked. I returned to Brooklyn that evening with my personalized folder stuffed in an envelope, along with the business card of my new attorney. When I got to the apartment, Mickey had already left, but Beth had the night off, so she got to hear all the details. When it came to the CD, I was still ambivalent about whether or not to watch it. Beth surprised me: she volunteered to preview it and then advise me. She disappeared into her room with it, closing the door behind her. I had washed up and changed into jeans and a t-shirt when she reappeared. I was startled to see tears in her eyes. She put her arm around me and said quietly, "Don't watch it. I can tell how badly you're hurting now – this will only make it worse." I decided to take her advice. There was no question what I was going to do; now my only concern was to focus on the details and get them right. I didn't want any distractions. When Mickey got back, the three of us talked some more about what I had in mind. I would have to rely on the two of them to get everything organized and attend to the details, but they were already talking about it like it was their plan and I was just along for the ride. They seemed to take what had happened to me very personally, and that really touched me. Columbus Circle I went back to Susan's apartment on Friday afternoon, my bags in my hand as though I'd just gotten in from the airport. When I unlocked the door and walked in, the three miss-keteers were huddled on the couch, whispering and giggling. As I came into the room, Susan jumped up, ran across the room and jumped into my arms while Briana and Missy snickered. "Ooh, baby, I've missed you so badly," Susan exclaimed, kissing me wildly. Then she pulled back and eyed me slyly. "You do know that this weekend is our anniversary?" she asked. "How could I forget?" I replied calmly. "And before you ask, yes, I do have a surprise for you. But you're just going to have to wait until Sunday to get it." Susan was so excited she actually shivered. "Ooh, I can't wait that long. C'mon, baby, at least give me a little hint. What have you got planned?" "Nope," I said firmly, "my lips are sealed. You'll just have to wait." The rest of the evening went normally, except that Susan kept whispering to Missy and Briana as we relaxed in front of the television. I guessed either they were speculating about what Sunday would bring or they were drawing comparisons between Red and me. Either way, I ignored them. When it was time for bed, Susan wanted sex, as she usually did when one of us got back from one of our trips. But, given what I'd learned about her activities while she was in Boston, I decided I would never touch her again. So when she began to rub herself against me, I firmly pushed her away. "No, baby, not tonight. And not tomorrow night either. It's all part of the surprise – you're just going to have to be celibate until Sunday." I think she was shocked by this turn of events, and I knew she was frustrated because she was always really horny when I got back from California. Yet the desire for her big surprise pulled equally at her emotions, and she eventually lay back and fell into a restless sleep. Saturday was an equally frustrating day for her. She must have charged Missy and Briana with getting some clue from me because whenever Susan wasn't around, one or the other of them kept volunteering to help with the surprise any way they could. But I calmly told them that everything was well in hand and no help was needed. (I devoutly hoped that that was accurate.) Then I piqued their excitement further by informing them that they were going to be a part of the surprise. That set them to chattering wildly, and when Susan returned, they couldn't wait to tell her this new development. She in turn could hardly sit still, acting like a little girl on Christmas eve. That night I did nothing to give them any hint or any satisfaction. Rather than going out, I suggested we order take-out, and, unwilling to leave me alone lest I make some arrangements while they were gone, they reluctantly stayed with me. As we got ready for bed, I sensed that the conflict within Susan was reaching a breaking point. She was still eagerly anticipating her surprise, but she was also growing increasingly horny. She did her best to tempt me, but I stayed firm. "Come on, Susan, you know you don't want to spoil the surprise." That stopped her, and she sulkily rolled over and went to sleep. The next morning I knew I had to reveal something or I would have faced a rebellion, so over breakfast I gave them some instructions. I told them we had to leave the apartment at 12:30 sharp. No special clothing was required, no bags needed to be packed, and we would all depart in a single cab. Having revealed these preliminaries, I left them in fervent speculation while I went downstairs and out on the street to make a quick call to Mickey. He assured me that everything was in order. "Just be there on time, and relax and enjoy the show," he told me. At 12:30 I herded the three of them downstairs. The doorman found us a cab and I slipped him a $50 tip. He was startled, but I liked the guy and I figured I would likely never see him again. The three girls slid into the back seat of the cab and I sat up front with the driver. This allowed me to lean over and tell him our destination without the three Miss-keteers being able to hear me. That set off an uproar that I ignored with a smile. Even with the traffic, we actually got to our destination a few minutes early. The girls got out of the cab in some confusion as they stared up at the imposing figure of Christopher Columbus towering over them. "Why are we at Columbus Circle?" Briana asked. "Is this where the surprise happens?" With a smile on my face, I led them over to the base of the statue and had them sit on the wide steps on one side. Columbus Circle was filled with tourists and passersby, some taking photos, some strolling around enjoying the sunny weather. Just then, a man stepped up, reached behind the three girls and placed a large object on the ledge above them. I recognized it: it was as an old-fashioned boom-box. He flicked a switch. Suddenly, a rhythmic drum beat began to issue from the speakers, startling the girls and attracting the attention of many of the people in the Circle and beyond. As the beat continued, a number of passersby began to cluster in a circle that stretched all the way around the monument. I didn't hear the cue, but they suddenly began to dance as one, performing a modified version of the Rockettes' famous Radio City Music Hall routine. Then the drum line transitioned into the hit song, "The One that Got Away." I saw Susan clap her hands in excitement. Katy Perry was one of her favorite pop artists, and this was Katy's current top ten hit. As the dancers pranced, strutted and kicked in front of Susan, Missy and Briana, Katy's sweet voice sang out the chorus: