I hope, least of all Michael.

He would never imagine that I gave up my virginity at fifteen. Seventeen year-old Barry Bono, whom I fantasized at the time was eternally committed to me, was no less than a serpent ripe with human passions; the ultimate predator, a player enjoying the strength of his youth. I became merely his twentieth beguiled, (twentieth!) and lucky not to have needed surgical extraction of his sting. But how was I to know, believing I knew everything there was to know when I was only fifteen.

I survived to win another boyfriend at sixteen, and another at seventeen, giving each my all, before finding, at eighteen, my dream-god. Ha! He turned out to be the devil incarnate from that other church. When my dream-god-cum-devil-incarnate stopped returning my phone calls after our fourth erotic encounter, I thought he was sick. I searched for him to comfort him, because he was so good ... so, so good.

Clue-less, I did not expect my kind, warmhearted intentions to be branded obsessive, psychotic, clingy. Nor suspected habit’s criminal mischief is to recycle itself. The first evening I caught up with this-devil-revealed to inquire why he was not returning my calls, his response was very matter-of-fact: "Don’t you get it? It’s over. We’re done. Finished. Kaput. Move on. Don’t stalk me now. Get on with your life. Leave me alone."

"Just like that?" I asked. "I was so stunned I don't know how those words came out."

"It’s over. Over and out. Leave me alone. I need my space. Go."

For a moment I thought he had pushed me. Or broad-sided me. Somehow I was still standing. Barely. "Wha-wha-wha-wha-what do you mean?"

"I mean leave. Go. Leave."

"Don’t I have a say in whether we break up, or how we break up?"

"I'm dealing with my life. You deal with yours."

"What?"

"Think about it."

"Think about it?" This was so incredulous to me.

"Yes. Think about it. One of your brain cells might spring alive."

"You-you-you-you used me."

"I’m not your mother. Leave. I want you to leave. Now. I don’t want ever to see you again. Do you understand? Never."

"Uh!"

Somehow, I got home. I don't even remember what route I took. I smoldered for hours, then waited a couple of days for temperatures to cool. I desperately wanted at least to know what I had done wrong, why this intensely passionate relationship suddenly turned sour. The concept of someone wanting my body but not my heart or presence had not taken hold at that point in my life so I sent him a painstakingly selected Hallmark card.

No response!

Another Hallmark card. Pathetically romantic.

No response!

A bouquet of flowers. Expensive.

Good God, still no response so I paid the snake a visit.

It took me three visits, each time waiting for hours outside his apartment, only to be told in no uncertain language how much I was obsessive, psychotic, clingy, and in danger of being slapped with a citation for stalking, for invading a man’s private space.

The shock threw me into deep despair.

I was used ... almost used up!

All my spinning and twirling, all the dark and brooding art I could create or bury myself under could not kill my grief. Nothing stopped his friends from smirking either. God, this generation is cruel.

When Aunt Meme came upon my latest painting, she gasped. I had painted a naked blue-eyed monster with a stone for a chest, a serpent for a tongue, barbed wire for veins, and loins so erotic, a dog would bark. I painted this creature on pitch-black canvas. When Aunt Meme recaptured her breath she expressed her utter ignorance of a painter's passion. "I don’t understand art, my dear Angie, but I do know that that is an intensely cruel creature on your canvas."

So I told her my whole story.

In response, she exhaled, "Men!" And irked a virulent blast from me.

"Damn men! Creatures with no conscience."

"No." Aunt Meme comforted me. "No, dear. They do have conscience. They simply justify their actions at whim."

"Why? Why?"

"Drowns their guilt, baby."

"How?"

"Years of practice. We have centuries of catching up to reach their level of coldness. Centuries. Don’t worry." Aunt Meme laughed. "Don’t worry, baby, we are blessed with spite. Ha, Lord have mercy. Spite, hot as hell. And we don't have to suffer ulcers for it. Just pile coals of fire on their heads. Literally or metaphorically. It makes no difference."

"But they are so unfair, Aunt Meme."

"No. No. No-no-dear. It’s got nothing to do with fairness. Don’t kid yourself, baby. Forget fairness. Fairness doesn't exist outside the dictionary. You know, let me tell you something. There's no escaping what a gold digger wants. Do you know what a gold digger wants?"

"Gold."

"A gold digger wants gold. So she digs. And she digs. When she has thoroughly mined one place she figured gold should be, and for all her effort churned up only rock and mud, dead bones, now what do you think that gold digger would do next?"

"What?"

"She tacks a big sign on that spot: Mined Already - Pure Dirt! She washes her hands and she packs her belongings. You see what I mean, baby. Saves the good people who pass by later from wasting time on that spot. And you know what that smart gold digger will do after that?"

"No, Aunt Meme."

"She moves right on over to another spot. And she digs again. And she keeps digging till she finds what she is looking for. Gold! That’s what a smart gold digger does, Angie. That’s what she does. Only a fool will stand by that old churned-up lump of dirt, and dig, and dig, and dig, then blame that empty hole for not containing gold. Only a fool will do that, baby. Cause it ain’t gon’ ever be that dirt-hole’s fault that no gold’s in there. It ain’t ever gon' be. Try another spot, precious. Listen to your Aunt Meme. Just try another spot. There might be good gold in that other spot. Then again, there might be pure dirt. And if it's pure dirt a smart gold digger tacks her sign up and keeps on moving."

I heard what Aunt Meme had to say that day. And I moved on

Then I met Michael. New place. Better time. Precious person. Sweet in every way. I am ready to get comfortable with myself. And him. Let's see what will develop this time. I am ready to breathe again. And I'll be seeing him soon.