I was supposed to look cute. But Miss thought I was acting not cute but "Slutty". She told me and everyone else what she thought. Although all there...knew something about our relationship a lot had no idea what it really involved which made what happened next so bad. "Come here!" I was told as I was led to the couch. "Skirt off!" I was mortified-I learned what that word really meant now."No, please, don't do this, I-I'll be..." SMACK! I was stunned. All of a sudden I was standing there in. " 'Ookey-pookey?'" he muttered in amazement."Or sweetums!" she said gleefully. He shuddered. "Anyhow, may I ask a question?" Ask." Why do you talk so ... well, stilted?" She felt him stir. "That's not a criticism," she said hastily, "I don't mean it that way, I even think it's kind of cute. But the perfect grammar, the way you use words—you have a huge working vocabulary—I never hear you use contractions, you have to admit most people don't talk quite that way." 'Cute, '" he murmured. "How. "I don't know Jay. You seem pretty smart to me." So, are you a reporter Patti?" Yes, I was planning on writing a story about you." I knew it. Please Patti, don't write a nasty article about me until you get all of the facts OK?" What gave me away, Jay?" Well, I knew something was different about you, but I couldn't quite figure out what it was. When you said you weren't on a timetable I knew for sure."Patti grinned. "I guess you are right Jay. I can't picture either Ashley or Amy saying that.". It was a unique experience, opening up with a personal history in – pardon the pun, the oral tradition. Perhaps now, in this forum, I can repeat it in writing. I am, in the great scheme, a typical bisexual man of the postwar “Baby Boom” era. A product of the 1960s and 1970s—when an interest in sex with male partners was finally legal, when casual sex became an accepted objective, and before risk involved more than basic good judgement. Depending on whose research you accept, I am that.