The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

When I was three years old, I was in love. Her name was Heather Callaway -- she was in the four year old class upstairs, and the only time I'd see her was at recess. She would run up to me and twist my arm, around and around, in its socket until red lines would shoot up from the wrist and tears would well in my eyes. Then she'd laugh and run over to her friends on the other side of the playground. I wanted to marry her.

My relationship with the opposite sex stayed pretty much in the same vein until the age of seventeen. I was terrified of attractive women -- I could feel that terror bubble up from this deep, secret part of my gut, swell in my throat so that I could no longer breathe, no longer speak right, just these guttural "ah... ah, ah... ah"s, could feel the terror wrap around my heart and squeeze like it was trying to make a diamond. We would be at the Pizza Hut or the movie theatre, and my friends would say, "Well, if you like her, just go up and talk to her!" and I wanted to grab them by the collars and shake them and scream, "ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME!!!"

I tell you this story not as an attempt to humiliate myself, but as a precursor to a rather strange incident that happened to me last week. I was in the Melrose Diner on Belmont with my ex-girlfriend Brynn and her roommate/lesbian lover, Sam, which is, really, too long of a story to get into, so I don't know why I even mention it. I was sitting quietly, eating my potato soup and Brynn and Sam were drinking coffee and stealing my cigarettes even though neither of them smoke and reading through the Personals section of the February 2, 1996 issue of the Chicago Reader, pointing and laughing every time they saw a lesbian ad that had the words, "No butches, please."

All of a sudden, Sam says, "Holy shit," and then she looks at the paper for another minute and says, "Holy shit!" and they spin the paper around so that I can see it, and it says... and I quote...

"You: black hair and goatee. Read a story about sign language last week at Sweet Alice, that touched me in a way I can't describe. Me: another reader who you see every week. Am very interested, but too shy to say so. Be patient -- I'll get my courage soon."

"That's you, isn't it?" Sam says. I mumble something, so Brynn pokes me in the forehead and chants, "Jason's got a stalker! Jason's got a stalker!" I got so mad that I took my cigarettes back from them and wouldn't let them play with them any more. ...Yeah. ...That'll teach 'em. ...Stupid... lesbians.

I entered the University of Missouri at seventeen, and it was there that I was introduced to a magical, almost heavenly technique for finally overcoming my phobia of beautiful women that had had a stranglehold on me over my entire life. The technique was thus:

1) Get to party.

2) Fill plastic cup with Bud Lite.

3) Drink contents of plastic cup.

4) Repeat as necessary.

With the aid of the sweet liquor, I found myself for the first time in my life talkative around women. Some might even say... flirtatious. Debonair, even. Well, okay, maybe not, but I found out that, you know, there actually existed some women out there that found me as cute as I found them, which was a revelation to me. And more importantly, I found out that the ratio of stupid, idiotic beautiful women to smart, interesting ones were roughly the same as men, which completely demystified the opposite sex and allowed me to hold conversations. Which led to dates. Which led to... well. You know. And pretty soon, I found that there was nothing to fear at all, and pretty soon, I found that I didn't need liquor to talk to women, and pretty soon, I found that I was actually asking out women that I thought were way too supermodelish and sophisticated for me. And they were accepting. And we were dating. Which led to... well. You get the picture.

I've been looking for you tonight. I've been studying all you people who I recognize as readers, seeing if your glances at me linger just a moment longer than politeness requires. Ultimately, it's a futile endeavor, because if you're the type of person to run an ad like that, you're the type of person who's going to completely avoid eye contact whatsoever. Still, I make the effort, and as I watch, I think. And I think.

There are definitely people I look at and hope to God it's not them. People that just scream "Stalker" with every fiber of their being. People that I just know that, despite me not owning a phone and having an unlisted address and a security gate, I would find sitting in my apartment one night, watching the Star Wars trilogy videotape I got for Christmas and eating my Cheetos, clad only in their underwear with the words, "Hello, Loverboy" painted in lipstick across their belly.

And then again, there are three people here that I have been getting on my knees every night and praying is my secret admirer. Women that I think might just be more beautiful than life itself, women that I have found myself having waking fantasies of as I make that long, long el ride back to my apartment in Edgewater every Tuesday night. Now, I can tell you that one those three works here -- one of them usually hangs out with the guitar players and the pool players -- and one sits at the coveted "cool table" where everyone seems to be personal friends with the host. I can't tell you any more than that, because of... well, you know... because of... ah... the bubble.

For we've gotten to the main point of my story, which is that since 1992, I have been regressing, like Cliff Robertson in that bad '60s movie I can't recall the name of, where he's severely retarded but takes this drug that makes him smart, but the drug wears off and you watch him slowly turn back into an idiot again.

In 1992 I went through a breakup that was so horrible, so paralyzing to me, that I am slowly losing the ability to talk to beautiful women again. Every time I think about introducing myself to one of these three women, my breath starts getting shallow and my heartbeat starts climbing until I get so hyperventilated that I just have to start thinking about baseball or that stupid "Third Rock from the Sun" show to calm myself down. Surprisingly enough, my dating history is currently at its most active since 1992, but it's all been with women that I don't find that horribly attractive or interesting or intelligent, just because I know deep within myself that when it ends, as it always will, I will experience a feeling of mild disappointment, and nothing more.

I find it fascinating -- just absolutely fascinating -- the prospect that one of these three women might just be my admirer. That I am head over heels for them and they are head over heels for me, but we will never get together because we are both too big of wusses to ever make the first move. Then again, there's something terrifying about that concept, and it makes me wonder if I will ever, for the rest of my life, get into a satisfying relationship again.

I don't have a moral to this story, or a great antidote to wrap it all up. I can tell you that Heather Callaway grew up to be a real bitch, who thought she was better than everyone else. Recently I saw her at my high school reunion and she had turned into yet another white trash wife, her third baby in the oven and a used-car salesman for a husband who smacks her when dinner's not ready. And secretly? Yeah, I was glad. Am I going to hell for this? Well, those of you without sin... etc.

I really hope that the person who wrote that ad talks to me tonight. And, you know, if there's someone here you like, maybe you should say something to them tonight. Maybe that's my moral -- that we all run the risk of becoming fourteen year olds again if we don't take the occasional chance. Maybe I'll even talk to one of those three women tonight. So... if I seem to be trying to hold a conversation with you but I'm hemming and I'm hawing and pretty much acting like a complete dork -- please, be patient. Hopefully, I'll get my courage soon.