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“I swear every time I get on the phone … ”
    “What’s his name? Where did she meet him? Give me details or else. I mean it, Maya.”
    “I don’t know. All I know is she seems to think you have a lot in common with him.”
    I closed my eyes trying to squelch my anger at Simone while wondering whether my own sister knew more than she was disclosing.
     The last time Maya introduced me to a man with whom she thought I had a lot in common, he turned out to be an ex-con who had
     found Jesus while incarcerated. Not that I don’t believe in the power of God to transform criminals, but after he beat up
     a guy who took his parking spot on our second date, I decided he still needed some more Jesus.
    “You never know,” Maya continued, “this could be your Mr. Righteous.”
    “Riiigght,”
I said cynically.

CHAPTER 2
ADAM
    THERE IS NOTHING like a good old-fashioned STD to clear a man’s head. After I got one three years ago, I vowed to be more
     careful with my choice of ladies and to wear condoms more consistently. I abstained the required six weeks—which was torture—and
     thereafter I did the condom thing—more torture, but the alternative, another STD or a child, would have been worse. After
     that, I dated sporadically, never spending the night, or sending the woman I bedded home rather than waking up next to her
     with lies or excuses. Not that I had been with that many women. If I thought about it, I could probably count them on the
     digits of all my extremities and still have fingers and toes left over. I could even remember their names—well, with the exception
     of two.
    Sondra was the first and last woman who broke my heart. We had met at an African arts festival, and truth be told, I was attracted
     to her looks and body at first. But she manifested into something more, the kind of woman who made a man want to do everything
     to defy male stereotypes. We talked about moving in together, but after my first live-in disaster, I was still cautious and
     held her at bay. I couldn’t handle the fact that I was falling in love, so we broke up.
    A few weeks later, I slipped and slept with a one-night stand without protection. As sadistic as it sounded, having an STD
     the second time around was a blessing. Thanks to an overzealous resident who insisted I have an ultrasound, a mass was discovered
     on my testicle and eventually diagnosed as cancerous. Subsequently, I was referred to a specialist. Even though the doctors
     all assured me it wasn’t related to my sexual partners or the STDs, I became scared enough to put women on the back burner.
     The first specialist recommended surgery but I refused and sought a second opinion. The second urologist also stated he couldn’t
     treat me without surgery. The fact that the specialists were men who didn’t seem to understand my refusal to part with a vital
     part of my manhood made me search for a third opinion. After doing some research on the Internet, I found a doctor, a woman,
     who was conducting a study that involved removing the tumor without surgery, using an ultrasound-guided needle. I agreed to
     this procedure, which was followed by multiple courses of radiation and chemotherapy, then months of observation and tests.
     During the treatments, I was too weak and sick to care about sex, let alone think about it.
    After the doctor declared that the cancer was in remission, I also went into an emotional remission. I no longer viewed women
     as beautiful creatures or Venuses, nor were they Delilahs or Jezebels. They were just mortals from another dimension to be
     treated with extreme caution. Now, whenever I saw a hot lady teasing me with her short skirt or low top, I saw warning lights
     blinking on and off:
Danger, Danger! Proceed with Caution!
All I had to do was envision the humiliating examinations, or the life-draining radiation and chemo treatments, and that
     would be all she wrote. Most times it wasn’t that hard, since some women were turned off