Allow me to introduce myself: I am Double Post's prom date. What? I look like Art Garfunkel? Yes, I get that a lot. But I'm not Art Garfunkel; I am a broken man.

You see, Double Post is a heartbreaker, a dream-maker, a love-taker. She left me a shattered shell, unsure of anything, including my own sexual preference. And it all stems from that fateful night in late May, 1978...

I dressed myself carefully that night, matching my baby-blue tux to what I'd been told she would be wearing. I could just imagine the blue of her dress matching her lovely eyes. I could almost taste the magic.

I picked her up in my dad's station wagon. People didn't really rent limos in those days, unless you were Rick James. She was entrancing. Her spaghetti straps gracefully held up the cascading ruffles of her dress, her hair curled around her ears like an angelic halo of puffy clouds. It was magic.

Did we walk or float into the banquet hall? I don't remember. It certainly felt as if I were walking on air. This would be the night, I thought, that I would finally become a man. I was drifting on the sweet winds of love's promise.

I decided to make my move, and I placed my arm lovingly, protectively around her shoulder, and she ... flinched. And winced. And pulled away. And made a face at me. I came hurtling downward to the earth, and felt my innards splash out onto the parquet dance floor, to be ground into pieces by stilletto heels doing "The Hustle."

The next thing I knew, I was questioning my whole life. I became a flight attendant so I could put as much distance as possible between me and the place of my shame. I was unsure of my heart's desire. Perhaps I wasn't meant for the love of a woman. But men??? I don't know. I already had the lisp and the lithe boyish figure. But, no. A sad, sexless, loveless life was for me.

And all because of Double Post's cold, cold heart.