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Dad asked me to consider whether this was the best course of action. He wisely pointed out that a lot of bullies were psychos. They could be very difficult. A more sensible approach, he suggested, might be to try and work something out with the bully—perhaps give him an amount of money each week.
Well, what do you know? The bully went for it. He took the money, and made me do other unspeakable things as well. But I came out way ahead, because, as usual, Dad was absolutely right: that bully was a psycho who grew up to be a criminal and a murderer. He killed a bunch of people. Yes, I'm glad I took Dad's advice. I counted my blessings... but that's another story.
Getting back to my relationship, I asked my father, "Dad, do women sometimes have the genital organs of men?"
Dad said he didn't think so, but he wasn't sure. But if there was one thing he didn't care for on a woman, it was testicles. I secretly winced.
Dad did point out, however, that he once worked at a factory with a man who had big unruly breasts. "Kind of a heavyset fellow. Kind of overweight. Oh, but those breasts. They'd melt in your mouth..."
A lot of other guys on the assembly line offered the overweight fellow money to kiss and fondle his breasts. But the guy said No Dice. He didn't take kindly—at all—to remarks about his breasts, dad said.
Dad said the guy was uncomfortable with his body image, and walked and spoke with an exaggerated affectation of masculinity.
But that was as close as Dad could come to analyzing my dilemna. His counsel was indeed helpful, but I was left with an incomplete sense of what was going on.
I prodded my new love. "Are you sure you're not a guy?" I inquired.
"Of course I'm sure," she responded, obviously annoyed by my question.
She placed her hands coquettishly on her hips and chastised me for my insensitivity.
Regardless of the ambiguity of her peculiar anatomy, I walked on a cushion of air that entire summer. Nonetheless, suspicion gnawed at me. I wanted to ask somebody—friends, my parish priest, my counselor at school. But I couldn't seem to articulate my problem.
Again I asked my love, "You're sure you're a woman, right?"
"There you go again," she challenged me. "You're obsessed with my vagina. You're acting like you're some kind of freak. Your attitude is really getting on my nerves."
There were things I wanted to get off my chest. I told her I had talked to friends. (It was a lie. I hadn't talked to anybody.) "They said a woman's vagina looks different than that"—I pointed between her legs.
"Friends? Friends? How could you?" she scolded me. "What do friends, tongue waggers, strangers know about our love?"
I asked her, "How come you shave the back of your hands?"
"I have dry skin"
"How come your breasts make a hard, wooden sound when I tap them with a pencil?"
"My breasts?! Your obsession with my vagina isn't enough—now it's my breasts!"
"Yeah. They're soft on the outside, but awfully hard on the inside"
Her face flushed. She retorted that this was all in my head. She complained that I was just looking for things to pick on. "Your behavior is revolting," she barked at me as she walked away. She slammed the door behind her and retreated to the privacy of her bedroom.
Harsh words were spoken, and it disturbed me. I had always felt a little ashamed that I hadn't been completely honest with her about my virginity. I should have been more forthright. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was blowing things out of proportion.
But I didn't have to worry. Like the azure skies of my magical summer, she too faded away. We lost contact. I figured she met a cooler guy.
A year later I met someone else.
Another woman. She seemed like a real one. For one thing, her genitals looked a lot different. More like the ones I'd seen in photographs. I felt secure in this relationship. At the same time, I couldn't resist the compulsion to quiz her periodically on the issue.
But I never forgot my first love. I thought about her frequently. I even saw her once many years later. Time had been good to her. She was still as beautiful as ever. It was late at night. She looked radiant as she strode proudly down the dimly lighted street, stopping momentarily to chat with a few passing motorists. I thought about getting up my courage, crossing the street, and approaching her. But a few seconds later, she got in some guy's car and sped away.
It was better that way. Because, a few weeks ago while watching the Maury Povich show, I came to a hard and bitter realization. It was painful, but I had to conclude that my love had deceived me, that she had tricked me, that she had misrepresented her gender. And where exactly did that leave me?
I have always been intrigued by the aphorism, "you only have one opportunity to make a first impression."
I guess the same could be said about love—you only get one chance to have a first time.
So I asked myself, "Did I have a first time with a woman at all?" Given the "default" nature of my so-called first time, did I forfeit my first time? Was my second time really my first time?
Oh, it was all so confusing. Hell, I'm no mathematician. And I must confess that still, after all these years, the mystery of love remains as inscrutable to me as Boolean algebra.
I guess I'm just a born romantic, more in love with love itself than most men. I'm a man without a first time, an exile, forever shut out from the tender world of boyhood memories. Yet I'll never forget... my summer romance. 
