It's near the end of the Millennium and I'm near the end of my fear-of-intimacy rope. I have experienced tidbits of closeness with many women but what I've experienced much more is fear. Fear of being swallowed up. Fear of being criticized. Fear of never doing enough. Fear of her leaving me, out of the blue, for reasons she can't explain. Fear of having too much fear while being with someone I dig. Fear of having double the fear because I become guilt-ridden with her fear of me leaving her. Fear of being too funny when the moment doesn't call for it, and being chastised for it. Fear of basically never being myself again--even though I have never really been that content being myself. But mostly, fear that I'm with the wrong woman. I can't ever restrain myself from continuing to look for the real Ms. McCoy.

The low point in my fear-of-intimacy saga occurred while I was dating someone I was convinced was absolutely the best woman for me I had ever dated. I had gone to see my therapist and spent forty-five incredibly honest, revealing minutes going on and on and on and on listing every incredible quality my girlfriend had and showing rousing enthusiasm over how meaningful our relationship was. Then I went on and on and on and on about how odd it felt being comfortable in a real dynamic, loving commitment, instead of lonely and always on the make. To the apparent delight of my shrink, I seemed to be feeling very positive about my wonderful involvement and the possibility of settling down and really being close with someone. I mean, I don't know if my psychotherapist was really happy or not but she seemed to be; as if she felt she was actually helping me win the war I have been fighting ever since I first sat across from her and went on and on and on and on about having so many women and so many issues and enough unhappiness and uncertainty for at least two, middle-aged Jewish men.Stupid joke. I mean, twenty middle-aged Jewish men.

So the session ends. I always end it. It's a therapy quirk of mine. I hate being told when to stop feeling. So during my visit I usually take a few furtive glances at her many clocks, all placed perfectly around her office so she can help me and tell time simultaneously, and boastfully I can say that I have always started to leave before she has ever, in recent memory, said "We have to stop now."

Moments later I was in my car trying not to daydream too much as I am prone to do after feeling euphoric over some great shrinkage. I have come frightfully close to running down pedestrians simply because I was lightheaded from some much- needed elucidation and somehow driving without looking consciously through the windshield.

Then it happened. I was so thrilled with my session, so thrilled about how I had sounded--like an honest-to-goodness adult in a loving relationship--that I must have unconsciously put out my antennae while driving for any hot woman in any car or crosswalk to take my mind off of my personal growth. I felt alcoholic again, and this time without even the thought of a drink. I was looking for trouble and drama.

It didn't take long. There she was. The windows of her jeep were a little tinted but I nevertheless seemed to spot a woman who was so beautiful, so hot-looking, it made me crazy. I started to drive like a desperado. All the sanity I had felt in my therapist's office was drained like a great orgasm after fiery sex with a stranger. I tried to fight off the compulsion to catch up with this woman, but I was hooked. Like any good addict, I wasn't thinking about the consequences.

I drove like the crazy man I am, weaving in and out of traffic to try to sidle up next to her, aiming for a simultaneous stop at the next intersection. I'm occasionally good in bed but I'm even better at this. I made it. No ticket. No guilt. Total excitement. The rush was there. I shamelessly stared at this woman's car--it was twilight and the shadows made her look even more beautiful through her passenger side. I prayed that she would open her window. I didn't care if she recognized me nor did I know what I would say. I knew, though, that if she looked at me, if she smiled at me, it would be easy to ask her to pull over and worry about the shame and guilt afterwards.

She made it easy. Her electric window came down real fast. I was in a state of shock. She was amazing looking. I knew my insane car chase hadn't been in vain. But not for the reason I had thought.

The fantasy woman was my own girlfriend.

She looked at my guilty face and laughed. "So, just how long was it before you knew it was me? Call me when you get home, honey."

She sped away with a loving gleam in her eye and her understanding and acceptance of me never wavered even after we spoke later that evening. I, however, was in a quiet state of intimacy alert. There was an air-raid siren continuing to blare between my ears. It was less a siren than three words in response to this million-to-one, humiliating episode. The absurdity of it all after all these years gave my inner voice a quiet sense of irony and nerve-jangling self-confidence. My intimacy rope was indeed hanging me by my own petard.

All I could hear my inner voice saying, over and over and over and over again, was "Marry her, asshole."