If you stand very close to me, you might notice a small scar in front of my right ear. The scar is from surgery I underwent when I was seven. After a long series of tests, a mysterious bump turned out to be nothing serious, and a short procedure was required to remove it. Ever since, there have been no after-effects other than the scar.
Or so I thought.
While things seemed normal growing up, the last few years have seen me stricken with occasional moments of inexplicable and extraordinary romantic awkwardness, and I think something fishy is afoot.
It started my senior year of high school. In a moment of blinding stupidity, I did two things that a smart man should never do: I asked out a friend I hadn't seen in months, and I did it over the phone. The injury came when she politely informed me that she had a boyfriend. The insult came when the call ended and I decided to cheer myself up by looking at my \Far Side"" calendar. That's when I learned that it was the day before Valentine's Day. But things would get worse in college.
My sophomore year here, I took Sociology 160: Human Sexuality. My discussion section had a woman/Amos ratio of about 17, which seemed like a great thing. But things went wrong quickly. One day in discussion, we were broken up into groups, and each group had to present a form of contraception, including a demonstration of how to apply it. My group was given the female condom to present, and I was picked to demonstrate its application. To do so, we were given a plastic model vagina.
At the time, I didn't realize that the model was designed to break into two pieces. It didn't take me long to find out. One of my group partners recited the pros and cons of the apparatus while I demonstrated its usage. Suddenly, my gentle touch failed me and the plastic vagina snapped in half, just as my partner was saying that insertion can be included in foreplay. A dozen women instantly shot me horrified stares that clearly stated, ""Not with you, it can't.""
My love life hasn't consisted entirely of Valentine mishaps and broken vaginas, but it would explain a lot if that vague surgery was really something much more sinister. What if I'm the guinea pig for a secret new chip? An awkward chip inserted in my head. Once, maybe twice a year, scientists could force uncomfortable moments just by pushing a button. Perhaps it's a study of human behavior. Maybe it's the work of an eccentric billionaire, who wants to be able to watch me via satellite to fulfill his sick entertainment needs.
It would explain why my Cultural and Artistic Images of Black Women class has given me a Pavlovian reaction, where the thought of naked women makes me feel guilty and sad. It would explain why I thought it might be a good idea this spring to put up a tent in Library Mall with a sign that said, ""Catholic Women, Give Up Not Sleeping With Amos For Lent.""
Either way, it would be more comforting than merely saying that men like me were put on this Earth to periodically do stupid things. And it would give me a much better story to go with my scar.
Amos can be reached at amosap@hotmail.com.
