Bambi in love, and on her ass.

Is it just me, or am I the last person still astonished when nothing goes as planned? It's not as if I don't expect bad things to happen - in fact, I'm usually terrified when good things happen because I know it's only a matter of time before all holy hell breaks loose and I should really be spending the good times looking for a suitably spacious concrete bunker that could contain me and all of my shoes.

I expect bad things to happen, so it's not as if I'm unprepared.

What's relentlessly amazing to me though is that when things go bad, it's never in the way I plan for. By now I should know that if I buy flood insurance my home will burn to the ground within minutes and if I'm prepared for fire, flood and wind damage thrown in for good measure then I will sure as shite be battling a plague of locusts. This is a true story - locusts are nasty buggers.

And so is love at first sight - which happened to me on Sunday with Alex. Just not so much to Alex. After a year of virtual lust, friendship and romance I got to meet the man in person...and it was awesome.

I had debated how to play it when I first saw him. Do I play it cool? Shake his hand? Say something witty? Give him a friendly hug? A peck on the cheek? I was still going through these options when I launched myself at him like a deranged spider monkey upon opening my hotel room door.

Within 30 seconds we were full on making out like we had less than ten minutes to live. Somehow we managed to discuss how his drive was, what we felt like for dinner, whether we should order room service and how nice the room was in between swapping saliva, gasping for air and rolling off the bed on to the floor. It was the Best. Greeting. Ever.

We went to dinner. How we made it out of the hotel room I have no idea. We had such a good time laughing and carrying on over dinner in the snotty wine bar of the hotel that we annoyed the other patrons. I wasn't just in love. I was unconsciously choosing names for the children we would adopt, and hire several nannies to care for until we shipped them off to a boarding school in Sweden. The children that is, not the nannies.

Back in the hotel room, more kisses, and my poor little brain going to war with my heart. I swore I would not have sex with him. I reminded myself of all the good reasons why I shouldn't, couldn't and wouldn't. It took at least ten years off of my lifespan, but I said NO.

It was so hard to do, I swear I've now lost all of the brain cells necessary for motor function and whatever brain cells control whether I remember to eat or put on deodorant in the mornings. I won't tell you exactly how I know this, suffice to say I'm now having to remind myself of the basics before leaving my apartment. Basics like whether I have my keys. Whether I'm wearing pants. Where it is I'm supposed to be going.

Alex stayed the night with me and I wanted to punch myself in the face for being such a sap every time I woke up smiling. He snored in my ear and I was happy about it. How ridiculous! In the history of anybody or anything snoring in my ear, I have never once failed to elbow whatever or whoever it was in the ribs.

Dogs, cats, boyfriends, family members, sleepover buddies - every last one of them ended up with bruises, so I knew I was lost when I not only didn't mind, but snuggled even closer.

We were supposed to spend the day together, but early morning his cell phone started ringing. A client wanted to pick up his brand new car. Alex doesn't get paid until that happens, and even though it was his day off, he would have to go. This was sad.

It was sadder still when decided to stay in bed until the absolute last minute possible and I had to say NO again. Alex actually begged me, and you'd think that would be flattering. OK...it totally was flattering but it was killing me too because I wanted to but had to say NO again and now I had to tell him why.

Telling him why was what I should have done hours and hours before but instead I chose to laugh and have a great time with him instead of being upfront about what was or was not going to happen. I couldn't tell him why. If I said I chickened out it would be a tremendous insult to poultry who are actually fairly productive and tasty creatures whereas I'm neither.

I wanted to tell him that I liked him too much and trusted him too little. That it couldn't be casual for me and it couldn't be a one time thing because I was already afraid I would be holding on to his legs as he tried to exit the building and so we should really both try to spare my dignity by not making it any worse.

I wanted to tell him that even though he said he'd been to the doctor I was still terrified of the terror I knew I would feel in the hours and the days and the weeks after we left each other when my little STD phobia became raging obsessive compulsive disorder and because I didn't want to look back at a single second with him with any regret or fear.

But mostly, I wanted to tell him that somehow I had slipped up and my feelings for him were actually stronger than the fear and that was scariest of all. Instead though, I buried my face in my neck and when he asked me, "Is it because of what happened?" I just nodded yes. And apologized. He said I had nothing to be sorry for at all, but I think I did.

I was apologizing for feeling more for him than he felt for me, and because I'd gone and made something complicated out of something very simple.

So we got showered, got dressed and he left. Even though I'll be back in that same hotel in just two weeks for work, I won't be seeing him. He has family visiting that weekend, so our timing is crap. Since that won't work...we have no plans. There's nothing.

My friends are laughing at me, and I know it's kind of funny. I went there expecting to leave with some sort of confirmation. Either we were moving forward with something or we were done. There could be no in between. We were something to each other or we weren't talking - how could that plan go wrong?

I thought he'd love me or hate me, and I would know which it was. How I expected to have such a clear, definitive answer is kind of amusing, but what's not so funny is the fact that I probably do have my answer, and I just don't like it.

Which is why I've been a puddle since I got back. I'm a hot mess. I can not. stop. crying. It's like my head has sprung some kind of infernal leak. I'd say the crying is a problem, but I'm actually pretty good at it, to steal a line from Sarah Silverman. If this keeps up for just one more day some environmental group is going to have my face declared a protected wetland.

My nose is red, my eyes are swollen...I look like Mickey fucking Rourke for Christssakes. Mickey Rourke how he looks now...not when he was hot. Seriously. Find a picture of Mickey Rourke with his messed up face and that's how I look only I have boobs.

I don't even know how to proceed. Alex and I talked for a bit online last night, just confirming he our crappy timing when he can't come see me the next time I'm in Kelowna. He said that the up side was he got to meet me, and that sounded like a brush-off. Was fun, have a nice life.

So I told him it really was too bad, because round 2 would have been fun. Alex replied with, "Hell ya it would be." Present tense, not past tense like I used. It's not much at all, but it's something...or nothing.

So send tissue. Preferably with lotion. Slide cheesecake under my door, and hopefully I won't forget to eat it. This is really going to suck.

There is such thing as a stupid question.

On three separate occasions, some idiot or another has asked me about my pregnancy and impending baby. This is strange, and not just because I wasn't pregnant at the time, have never been pregnant in my life and hope to never know the joy of a some foreign entity stealing my food and nutrients.

What's strange about it is that I don't carry my weight in my stomach. Don't get me wrong - really low-rise jeans are out of the question and if I hop up and down my stomach keeps moving for a disturbing second or two after I stop.

The point is, if anybody was going to put her foot in her mouth by asking when I'm due, I would feel much less annoyed if they suggested the baby was about to come out of my ass. That would at least be a feasible explanation for the size of my trunk.


Instead, I had one dotty old woman approach me at a gala dinner I was forced to attend. I was looking good as far as I knew, and was sitting drinking a glass of wine. The old bat sat down next to me to make small talk, and asked the Question That Should Never Be Asked.

I could have told her that I was due half-past never, or whenever the fibre supplements started kicking in, but instead I took pity on her. A colleague of mine who was eight months pregnant at the time was making the rounds from table to table, and we were about the same height with similar hair and black dresses. Perhaps the old woman was thinking about the walking tent formerly known as my co-worker, Emily.

I counted to ten and told myself it may have been an honest mistake, and then I told her as gently as I could that she was mistaken. I was not pregnant. My colleague Emily...now that girl is pregnant. To further prove I was as empty a vessel as could be, I poured myself more wine. She laughed an embarrassed laugh and off she went.

Until five minutes later.

I was standing in the line-up for the buffet when the same old lady came up to me, and asked me the same unthinkable question. It had only been five minutes. I was now standing instead of sitting. I was still clutching a glass of wine. I was fairly certain I had not had unprotected sex on the way from my table to the buffet line, but perhaps that could have been an option. Now I wasn't just mortified - I was pissed.


In as cold a voice as I could muster I reminded her that I was the same girl she had asked the same question to not five minutes ago. And I still wasn't pregnant, there was still no due date, and if that changed between the salad and beef carving stations, she would be the first person I would tell.

More recently, I doing a little shopping at the beer and wine store. I was wearing a hoodie, with my keys and my wallet in my front pockets. Just as I decided on my selection, a little old man came up to me and told me I should be ashamed of myself.

For a moment I thought he was questioning my taste in wine, and so I asked him why. He told me I should never be buying wine in my condition, and I couldn't think fast enough as to what condition that would be. Overly-anxious? Under-sexed? Lacking a proper chin? Craving nachos? What condition exactly was the little old dude referring to...?

Aw hell no!

I pulled my wallet out of my front pockets. I pulled my keys out of my pockets. I smoothed down the front of my hoodie, and asked him what condition he thought it was that should stop me from buying and drinking anything in the store?

It seemed he was mistaken. He marched off, secure in his own self-righteousness and threw a glance or two back at me as if to make sure I really wasn't about to begin contractions.

Now I think very carefully about holding or carrying anything in my front for fear I look pregnant. By this rationale my steering wheel must make me look like I'm about ready for a C-section, and I don't even like keeping my arms folded in front in case I look like I'm hiding something, when really all I'm doing is trying to fetchingly squeeze my boobs together.

I suppose I should look on the bright side and be happy that really old, annoying people assume men would have sex with me. This has to imply a certain level of attractiveness, which I can't help but question occasionally.

The mess gets messier.

So to recap, back in August, I was facing having an extremely unpleasant and gut-wrenching conversation with Alex, needing to dissuade him from coming to visit me, even though I really wanted him to visit me, but knowing full well that he was a bad idea all the way around having been the main source of inspiration for Britney's song: Womanizer and knowing that the only guy I could possibly hope to feel comfortable with was a virgin or a guy who had only bedded virgins, and so basically I was looking at pursuing a relationship with either a 12 year-old or a guy my own age who had time-travelled from the 17th century just so that I wouldn't live in fear of contracting herpes, although the plague wouldn't be out of the question.

I'm glad we're all caught up, and my God was that a lot of commas.

I put it off and put it off. Everybody who knew my story, and knew anything of my online friend Alex, tried to prepare me for his inevitable reaction. General consensus said the conversation would go something like this:

Bambi - I have to tell you something awkward and horrible. This is what happened to me, and this is the mess I'm left with. Hope you understand, but I'm not sure I can go near you at all, even though that's not how I've made it sound until this point, and how much I wish things were different.

Alex - Wow. Sucks to be you. Good luck with all that. Don't worry about me - a bus full of cheerleaders just broke down outside my house and I'm going to go help out. Don't call again.

Bambi - Glad we had this conversation. Nice to know you!

You can see why I was avoiding this. I liked the point we were at then where we'd call each other just to say good-night and argue over who missed the other one more. (And yes, as sweet as that little ritual was, I did want to kick my own ass.)

Finally, during one good-night conversation he asked me to tell him something about me that he didn't know. I had the feeling he was really wanting to know what I was wearing, but that's not the answer he got.

I told him everything. Every little detail I could remember. What had happened to me since. Every single doctor visit, every injury, every gory diagnoses. I told him what it felt like to try to run and even try to walk most days, and what it felt like to try to sleep without nightmares. I told him that he scared the shit out of me. That sex with him would scare me so bad I'd vomit afterward just because he slept around. I told him about the panic attacks and what happened to me every time I had one. I told him that being with him would make me tailspin just out of fear. I told him how sorry I was and that he must think I'm the biggest liar and the biggest scam artist. I told him how every sexy thing I said to him was true, that I really did feel those things too, but that he needed to know I'm just a little bit screwed up right now. Maybe even a lot screwed up. But it's been really great talking to him all this time.

Then I waited for the inevitable, and the silence was looong.

About 30 seconds passed, and that's a long time when you have a phone to your ear and a pillow over your head. Finally, Alex proceeded to blow my mind.

He was horrified for me. All that time, every doctor, every counsellor, every person I had to tell my story to - none of them were as horrified as he was. I had only ever had to deal with the clinical side to my story. Only what goes on a medical chart. This is what happens when your pubic symphysis bone is wrenched apart. This is what happens during a panic attack. This is how you wipe yourself when you don't want to reopen any abrasions. Everything cut and dry - no emotion because that will just prove that any lingering pain must be psychological and not physical.

Alex, however, was losing it on the other end of the phone. He was so, so sorry. He wanted to help. He wanted to fix it. This should never happen to a girl. Men shouldn't hurt girls. You take care of girls. You always take care of them. You never hurt them. He would never hurt me. Not ever. Did I know that? Why would I apologize to him? Didn't I know that he would be perfectly happy just to know what it's like to go to sleep next to me? I didn't have to touch him at all. We'd even have different covers if I wanted, he'd sleep in three layers of clothes if I wanted but he just wanted to lie next to me or have dinner with me or just kiss me but if I didn't want that even it would not change whether he'd want to see me again.

I was speechless. The moment called for something profound. Something sweet. Something somebody would say in the movies. All I could say was thank-you. But he wasn't done.

Alex wanted to come over that weekend so he could change my locks. Had I changed my locks? Was my door locked right now? Was I sure? Did I have a deadbolt? He could change my locks really easily, because he's good at stuff like that and he could do it that weekend. This fucking piece of shit knows where I live now and why hasn't anybody changed the locks for me? Why?

I didn't tell him the locks weren't changed because I hadn't told anybody. I did tell him that I was sure I was fine. Even though the guy brought me back to my apartment, meaning he found out where I lived, probably through the ID in my pocket, he wouldn't be back. I'd be conscious if he came back, and he's a coward.

Finally Alex was dissuaded about my locks. Now he wanted to know why my voice was all muffled. I told him it's because I was talking to him with my pillow over my head. Umm...why was I going to sleep with a pillow over my head?...that's not very safe you know.

I had to try so hard not to laugh at that one, because it was laugh or cry time. I went with doing both, but kept the pillow in place.

We talked about him getting tested for STDs, and he said he'd do it. Anything I wanted. Anything at all. Anything to make me comfortable. He would never hurt me. He would never hurt any girl. I told him I was going to keep harassing him about it. I wouldn't be able to drop it, he had to do it for me and he said I was allowed to harass him all I wanted.

He wanted me to ask him anything I wanted then, because he wanted that to be the last time we talked about this - just because he didn't know what to do and he hated it. I reminded him that I was allowed to bring up him getting tested before we met or did anything as often as I wanted. He agreed. Then he said he wished he was there with me, and I agreed with that.

We stayed on the phone for another couple of hours, until both of us were asleep on the line.

Believe it or not, what happened next was an even bigger surprise than Alex not being a total jerk.

It was like a dam had broke with both of us. We had talked all the time, but now we were talking for real.

We wanted to know everything about each other. Childhood, pet peeves, first kiss, allergies, daily routines, favourite brand names...there wasn't anything that we did not want to know.

We'd spend entire days on the phone and on webcam - we'd make lunch together, clean house together, watch the same TV show...it was like meeting him all over again only better.

He was screamingly funny. I'd make him tell me stories more than once. I thought it was charming how he'd always want to know what had made me laugh, what part was so funny, just so he could hear me laugh again.

We tried to share our musical tastes, but that didn't work so well. He only listens to music crowds can riot to, but according to him my music can incite riots too - providing the riot takes place in a gay bar with too many people trying to speaker dance. He won that one. It's true.

He told me how glad he was that I wasn't just a sex toy to him. I told him he was still a sex toy to me and he loved that. Months went by like this. Somewhere in all of this, I decided I loved him. It wasn't that big of a decision really.

I was obnoxiously happy. Bambi in love is a sight to behold - from a great distance. I could not stop talking about him, and I could find ways to bring him up in any kind of conversation. Friends would reserve five minutes for me out of every conversation, just so I could try to get the giggling joy of talking about him out of my system. I'm sure my co-workers thought I was on drugs.

I thought I must of have been on drugs too when I got a three-word message from Alex at work one morning over MSN. I love you. That was it. No preamble, no good morning, just that. I didn't handle it well, because I didn't know if he was serious -- and if I answered him seriously I would mean it. So I changed the subject and we talked about something else entirely.

And then, about a month or two ago, Alex stopped calling. Crushing for me. Vindicating for my shrink. The withdrawal was excruciating - but at least it felt typical. What had been happening with him before was not typical at all.

I know he's busy. Hockey. Skiing. Job issues after the economy tanked. Having a whole lot of sex with random partners. Not talking to me. Obviously these things are taking up a lot of his time.

So this sudden silence is something to consider when I meet him at the end of this month. January 24th I'm going to Kelowna, close enough to where he lives for us to have a visit -- and I'm not sure what I'm going to do.

I'll be in Kelowna visiting a dear friend I haven't seen in way too long. She doesn't read this blog, she doesn't know what's been happening with me but she knows there's a guy I may have to see at some point during our girls weekend.

He knows I'm coming and he's happy. We've kept in touch a little - it hasn't been total silence. We've even managed to say dirty things to one another once or twice. He knows about the firefighter too - and he thinks it's awesome. More specifically, he thinks the idea of the firefigher's wife and me is fantastic. At least that's typical too, and we still aren't keeping any secrets.

We managed to talk for five minutes on the phone the other night, long enough for him to tell me he had some girl coming over. My heart used to just twinge a little bit when I knew he was with some girl. Now it stops beating entirely, collects its belongings, exits through my mouth and kicks me in the ankle on the way out.

But then he told me he'd rather just stay talking to me. He'd have more fun and he knew it. But I was going to be there soon right? He'd get to see me? I reminded him how long it had been since we talked on the phone at all - that I was sure he must have got bored of me. The reply was a gratifying, "Are you effing kidding me? Not you Bambi. I don't get bored of you."

I had one more question before the doorbell rang and whatever girl he was going to have sex with that night arrived. For all of our conversations, for every thing we spent hours talking about, we never mentioned the bad stuff again. Did he remember what I needed him to do for me before we met?

Of course he did. He remembered, and he will and it'll be recent. And then the doorbell rang.

And for some reason, I don't think I'm going to feel much safer.

The whole damned mess. And Alex too.

January 2009 is going to be a bit of a ride, and this post is going to be really long. Possibly a two-parter, so I suggest you go get a drink or a snack or something to get you through. If you have to pee, go now. I'll wait.

Now normally I would use this time to go over some of my New Year's resolutions, but I see no point to this. My resolutions for this year appear suspiciously similar to resolutions from last year. And the year before. Let's not judge.

This January though, I'll share a little bit about an event that's coming up that most people would find very exciting, whereas I'm already shopping for anti-anxiety medication just to get me through the next several months.

It all has to do with Alex. Well, a lot of it is Alex. Alex started as nothing special at all, about this time last year. January 2008 I was at work, procrastinating, much like now, and half-heartedly checking for responses to my brilliant, clever and enticing Plenty of Fish dating profile. I had none.

I was about to log-off and do something productive when I got an instant message from a guy named Alex, living in Redneckville somewhere in the Okanagan. He was shorter than me, but had an amazing smile.

Might as well write back, and I was feeling cheeky. I wrote back that he was shorter than me, lived in Redneckville somewhere in the Okanagan and why should I bother? Last January I was in no mood. Much like this January, but five pounds lighter. Alex asked me what could I possibly have to lose? Not much, and so we 'talked' for the afternoon.

Actually, we talked for the next eight months. On the phone, online, webcam, Facebook, flirting and goofing around. I would think to myself how funny/cute/interesting/awesome this guy is - too bad he's shorter than me and lives in Redneckville somewhere in the Okanagan.

Early on we agreed to tell each other everything. There would be no secrets, because there wouldn't be any point. We had nothing to lose, so if either of us were dating or just sleeping with somebody the other one would know about it - in detail.

We would feel comfortable telling each other every little thing. As you may assume, it was mostly Alex doing the dating and or sleeping around what with me being one of the Untouchables of the dating scene.

In between flirting with each other and more than often talking downright dirty with one another, we talked through Alex building his house, switching careers, the death of his grandmother, countless girls coming and going, my relationship problems, dating stories, my debating whether to go back to school and on through the summer.

Mostly we flirted though, and that's all it ever was until Alex started making some serious plans to come visit me. This was a problem -- because I had a secret.

Until then, Alex had been the perfect outlet for me. Entertaining as hell, ridiculously attractive and located in another city. I could never think of having anything more with him because of geography...and Alex being a total man-whore.

Don't get me wrong - I say this with respect. In fact, I say this with awe. Somewhere in this world, Hugh Hefner has awoken in his bed, surrounded by 20 year-old identical blond triplets, shaken his fist at his mirrored ceiling and raged because he knew that somehow, Alex was topping him in a big way.

Alex sleeps with many women. It's what he does. Some people watch TV, listen to music to unwind - Alex has sex. With whomever. Whenever. I know this, because he tells me.

It's not as if he's movie star handsome (I think he's gorgeous but friends who've seen his picture on Facebook think he's "OK...I guess") and although nothing surprises me anymore, I'm pretty certain there isn't any activity in his life that would inspire groupies, and yet - Alex gets more poon-tang than a rock-star and pro-athlete combined.

He's charming, and he loves women. He makes his living through commission sales, so you have to know he has a bit of a gift with people in general. Women on the other hand, are a special interest.

I should have seen what was coming when I started feeling a twinge when he'd talk about some girl he was dating. Any girl he slept with (the stripper, some girl at a stag party, his step-mother's niece, a nutritionist, some clients, and on, and on...) didn't rattle me at all.

It was only when he said the words, "this girl I'm dating," that something in my chest would spasm. Just a teensy tiny bit - nothing that couldn't be ignored at all, and that's just what I did.

I ignored it.

Well. Not entirely. Alex would occasionally complain about whatever girl he was dating, and seek some support. As a friend, I provided support...and sometimes advice.

(It's not my fault that there were obvious problems with these girls he'd talk about, so I can hardly be blamed for making him see that these girls were not right for him at all and he really shouldn't take the relationship any further, because he deserved much better.)

(OK - fine. I knew exactly what I was doing, but to be fair I didn't suggest anything he wasn't thinking about already. If things were perfect, he wouldn't have been complaining to me and I wouldn't have had a viable point to make.)

(In my defense, I always told him how to let them down nicely. I even told him he shouldn't do it over the phone in one instance and that it was cruel to tell one girl it was because she was like a corpse in bed so really, I was helping these girls.)

(Oh shut-up. They would have broken up anyway. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.)

So like I said, this went on for a long time, and even though I felt a tiny little spasm somewhere in the chestal region when it seemed he was getting serious with one of his many, many women - it was nothing to be alarmed about. It was under control.

Until he started making noises about coming to visit that is. It actually wasn't as though I was concerned he wouldn't find me attractive or that we wouldn't get along in person - I knew that he would, and that we would.

The problem was what he would be expecting of me once we were alone, and the one thing we never talked about, because I had no reason to ever tell him.

It's a secret I haven't told many people at all, and I'm not sure why. It's not something one would sky-write about, but then I'm the same person who told the entire Internet that I fooled around with a guy who ended up stealing my vibrator so you'd think I couldn't feel shame.

I've written in the past about some health problems I've had and how difficult it has been to find a diagnosis or to find a doctor who cares. The truth is, I've known what's been wrong; I know what caused the problems but I just can't find anybody to help me.

In August of 2007 I went to a friend's birthday party and we went dancing. I had consumed a couple of beverages and was feeling good. I sat down next to a good-looking blond guy near the dance floor and that's the last thing I remember of that whole night and quite a bit of the next day.

Well - not entirely. I have flashes of memory and can piece together what happened. The rest I can only imagine when I really want to make myself feel sick.

Long horrible story short, or just beginning actually - when I came to the next day I had a fracture in my pelvis and enough trauma down there to make one doctor comment months later that I presented as somebody who had once given traumatic birth.

Physically, it's been so slow to heal that I wonder if it ever will. The injuries I ended up with triggered a chronic pain condition. According to one doctor's explanation, the physical trauma tripped a breaker in my nerve endings. The nerve endings that sense pain won't shut off, and nobody knows what to do.

Being a person who consistently leaves the oven on, the hair straightener plugged in and the space heater blasting on high with nobody home - I can understand the stance my nerve endings have chosen to take. However, it's been terribly inconvenient. Actually, it's just been terrible.

Taking care of the physical was obviously a priority. There was nothing else that could be done, and believe me I've thought about it. I don't know who that sorry motherfucker was, and I never will. There was however, one other small problem that had to be dealt with, and that was trying to stay sane.

I found myself being unnaturally terrified of contracting a sexually-transmitted disease. If I kissed a guy good-night after a date I would spend weeks afterward checking my mouth for sores. This isn't an exaggeration, so imagine the terror any time I went any further?

After having spent so long with something so terribly wrong with my nether regions and doctors taking so long to make any kind of diagnoses at all, I convinced myself I had all of them. Multiple diseases. That had to be what was wrong. I must have contracted every STD known to man and woman and then developed some hybrids.

It stands to reason. Doctors couldn't tell me how to help myself and so I kept on suffering without knowing why. My poor little brain jumped in with its own conclusions - horrible conclusions.

It took months just to find a doctor who discovered that I was actually cut open where you can't stick a band aid, and it was bad enough to keep opening on its own. No other doctor told me this when they looked at me, and the doctor who finally noticed was female.

This was really just one minor episode in my quest to get myself sorted. Along the way my pelvis had triggered my back to sprain and I couldn't even stand to touch myself in the shower so learning such a small thing after so long was par for the course, but just an example of the quality of medical care available if you're a woman with a problem.

When I asked this female doctor if other doctors should have seen it, she said that sometimes some doctors don't know how to see what they're seeing. Very profound, but not helpful to somebody who had developed a sexual phobia after months of pain and being told I was crazy.

So there I was. All this time I had been talking hot and heavy with Alex, making him think I would be Jenna Jameson on Ecstasy if only we could meet and I was too afraid and too injured to follow through and Alex was wanting to come visit me for a weekend.

Obviously, since this past summer my physical health has improved thanks to a pain medication this brilliant and wonderful female doctor was able to prescribe. The pain is still there, but it's manageable now. The phobia is still there, but manageable now too.

(Particularly if you're a hot firefighter who assumes I want to go slow just because I'm adjusting to the wife situation - that's not the reason at all, but it's working for everybody. Especially me. It's been wonderful to feel something other than pain down there, even though my shrink does not approve.)

(And I haven't even told my shrink about the wife part. She's rather conservative. Oh well. You have to know I'm feeling slightly better when I'm disobeying the advice of authority figures, particularly ones who think I should not have any kind of sex for at least two years. Obviously this shrink doesn't have a clue about the Bambi before this incident, or how hot this guy looks in his uniform. And out of it. Anyhoo...)

I had to tell Alex something. I had to tell him not to come visit, or stop talking with him completely or...something. My shrink did not approve of my contact with Alex either. She was fascinated by my interest in somebody whose promiscuity could have me afraid to touch his hand. I couldn't help her figure that one out, because all he'd been was somebody to flirt with and so she suggested how I could end it.

Alex and I had sworn no secrets, so I would stop keeping them. I was going to tell him the truth - every little thing. I was going to tell him about why he terrified me and all the reasons why he couldn't touch me. Why nobody could.

I was going to demand he get tested for STDs before we met and I wanted to see the paperwork. I might even want to meet with his doctor and order an MRI of the patient's genital region.

Alex was a womanizing, shallow charmer who wouldn't want anything to do with me because why would he want that trouble? He was looking for some fun, not some problems. I'd talk, he'd back away slowly and I'd resign myself to missing our fun conversations.

And that would be that...right?