And one night about three months after that, three months of no booty at all, not even a kiss, you were sitting on the green sofa in your crappy little house, channel-surfing, and on the Entertainment Channel Kevin Costner or Matthew M-something or one of those Hollywood guys was saying sincerely to some interviewer, “Yes, I did it, and I’m quite happy to talk about it. I think it’s made me a better lover and, you know, even a better human being.”

So then, the next morning, you were standing on a crowded street corner in Manhattan waiting for a green light. And you see this absolute babe standing next to you: miniskirt and gray tit-hugging sweater, breasts like mangoes, perfect ass, looking like a younger, shorter Cindy Crawford—way out of your league. You turned to her, not getting too close though, not wanting to scare her, and said, “Hey, you’re beautiful.” She gave you the kind of brutal stare you expected, like What the Fuck. But not scared. It was a confident, intelligent stare, with a little humor behind it—like she was wondering, what’s he going to say next, and if it’s sufficiently out there, I’m looking forward to laughing my ass off about this guy with the girls.

And you said, “Listen—if I did the Program—would you go on a date with me?”

And get this. She blinked. She looked you up and down—she looked you up and down—and a slow smile spread over her face, like a cat looking at a canary whose cage just popped open.

And she said, “Hell yeah.”

Man: you were hard, just like that.

The light turned green, and everyone but you two crossed. She took a pen and a piece of paper out of her purse and handed them to you and said, “If you’re serious, write down your name and number. You do it, I’ll call you.” The light turned red again.

You couldn’t believe it. Your hands were shaking. Your throat was dry. You grinned kind of lopsided, making a show because, shit, of course she was putting you on, as you wrote down your name and number. “Oh yeah? And how are you going to know if I really did it?”

She frowned as she took the paper back. “Don’t be dumb,” she said. “I’m a subscriber.”

The light turned green again. She crossed. You stood watching her ass as it went up Fifth Avenue. She didn’t look back. But you saw her tuck the paper back in her purse.

“Gary,” said your doctor, “three months without a relationship doesn’t mean you have a disorder.”

“It’s not just that,” you said. Trying to recall the articles you’d read. “I’ve never really felt comfortable in relationships. And anxiety, I, uh, have a lot of anxiety about it. You know, keeps me up at night.”