"So, I hear you're getting a divorce. Are you prepared?" Master Sergeant Charlie Kennedy had caught up with me as I jogged alone.

"What do you mean? Explain, we have at least another mile to go." I figured since my life was bachelorhood before my 6-year marriage, a return to singledom would hold no surprises.

"Divorce, my young man, is a word that suggests one or two individuals have recently been unhappy and unsatisfied. When the couple splits, each coincidentally becomes a target of other humans who are seeking to respark their own lives. Simply put, you will become prey. Fresh meat for those in need of a diet change and social calendar update."

Charlie had been divorced eight or nine years. His ex-wife lived with a replacement mate a thousand miles from the Arizona army post where we were 'being all we could be' by running at 6:30 in the morning. It was April, 1985.

"You sound a little negative, Charlie."

"I don't mean to be. It's like most role changes in life. You are provided an opportunity to make lemonade. For me, I wear the divorced label without regrets. I relish the role and use it to overcome complacency in my life."

We ended the jog and began a cooldown walk to the parking area.

Charlie continued, "a couple of weeks ago, I headed for Kmart's garden section when the flashing blue light caught my eye. I met a woman next to the lawnmowers. We shared small talk as I carried a bag of fertilizer to her van. Tomorrow night, dinner with dessert for the second time. I chose to get caught."

"My God. Blue light special to me means fishing lures or golf balls. It can't be that easy."

"For you, while you're still at Ft. Huachuca it should be even easier. Familiar members of the opposite gender will soon approach you bearing gifts."

"Charlie, what are you talking about?"

"You, SFC Michael Johnson, are already on dream lists of certain female soldiers and wives in your daily sphere. You may have a list of desirables yourself. Hell, President Carter is not the only married man to lust in his heart, but not act. I know you. Your marriage vows have not been trifled with."

"Here we are." I opened my car door. "Many thanks, 'Big Chuck'."

"Mike, one piece of advice. Ride the wave for the year you have left here, but stay out of deep water. Have fun, but don't get too serious. It's too soon. Partake wisely and don't trap yourself. Down the road, when you are again considering serious commitment, your decision should be easier. See you in the office."

"Later." I pulled my car door shut and turned the key.

A mere two weeks later, it was top of the 1st inning and I stood hands on knees at 3rd base. The umpire yelled "Play ball" and our pitcher delivered.

Dave, a fishing buddy of mine, stepped into the batter's box and shot a quirky smile toward me. I tried not to tense up, but I knew he was coming my way.

He killed the ball and I didn't get my glove all the way to the ground. Still, fortune shone on me and the one bounce line drive secured itself in the leather on my hand. Cheers, with a background of hoots and hollers, woke the surrounding desert. I looked in my glove, then gave a thumbs up to the opposing bench and crowded concrete stands.

Ego sufficiently inflated, I then remembered Dave sprinting to 1st base. With the accuracy of a drunk baboon, I threw to first. The ball landed eight rows up near a distant blonde. The cheers turned to jeers, and loud laughter burst from the opposing bench. Dave yelled from second base that the next round was on me.

My ego had knocked me off a short-lived pedestal. I could feel burning red in my face. Seven innings later, the red returned when the game's final out certified our loss.

Last player to leave, I collected team bats and balls, placing them in a duffle bag for the trip home. This was a rotating task assigned to the goat of each game. I was the unanimous choice for that night's job.

"Happy to see you're being punished for almost beaning me in the stands. You only missed my head by a foot."

I looked up and there was the blonde fan. Close up, I recognized her as the wife of a soldier I knew. "Eve, I really didn't do it on purpose. I would have to be real mean to throw at a young mother who recently had a baby. The true culprit was a lack of ability on my part."

"Don't get defensive, I'm only kidding. Just trying to cheer you up after a tough loss."

"That's nice of you, but I usually self-treat my failings with cold beer." She was cute and recent birthing had not altered a well-defined thinnish figure. "Is your husband Jeff babysitting while you attend local sporting events?" I thought I heard Charlie giggle in my right ear.

"No, my seldom seen husband is once again playing Dungeons and Dragons with pals." Eve delivered the information with venomous sarcasm. "My neighbor's daughter is watching the kids."

"So, your free night is wasted watching a softball game?"

"Actually, I was watching you, Mike. Come with me and both our nights will get a lot better. I promise. Granted I'm much warmer than the beer in your fridge, but I have fewer calories and cost less. For you, I'm free." She turned around and began to walk away while dangling her keys over a shoulder. She shook the keys loudly.

I was a modern Adam, offered forbidden fruit by an Eve who had surely shared a bushel basket of apples with others. About to turn down the ride, the jangling keys chimed as Pavlov's ringing bells promising nourishment. I became a salivating dog seeking a biscuit. "Sounds good, let me toss the equipment in my car."

"That's convenient, since I parked next to you."

Sure enough. Only our cars remained in the small lot. Eve displayed no subtlety in words or actions that evening. She did not care about propriety. After locking my hatchback, I jumped in beside her. "Where we headed?"

"This way." She left the lot and turned west away from main post and toward open training areas. "We'll get there soon."

Eve wasn't kidding. In less than ten minutes she turned off the pavement onto a dirt road and drove about a mile into the dark. She stopped near some old wooden bleachers. "Lets get out."

"Okay." I was a little nervous and thought I heard invisible Charlie whisper, "I told you so." I shut the passenger side door and we met in front of the car. She delicately put her hands on my shoulders and gently kissed me. Then she attacked. She pushed me against the car and greedily rammed a seemingly footlong tongue down my throat.

"Hold on, I can't breathe." I tried to stop this wanton succubus from draining me with her deadly tongue. I visualized my dry white bones eternally scattered on the desert sand.

Suffocation near, she surprisingly eased off, "I'm sorry." Eve did seem repentant. "But I've wanted this quite awhile." She then began kissing me in a civilized way and I pulled her close. I whispered something about beer never tasting that good, cold or not.

After a pleasant 15-20 minutes on the bleachers under the expansive desert sky, it was put up, or shut up time. I had managed to pleasantly dawdle between 2nd and 3rd base, but scoring was the goal. I hadn't crossed home plate all night and now it was a gimme.

Nevertheless, I quit running.

Why I chose not to hit a homerun is not pertinent to this writing. In my mind, there was more than one good reason to stop going further. In retrospect, I provide the words of a much wiser man than me, Mark Twain: "There are several good protections against temptation, but the surest is cowardice." Of that, I was guilty.

A week later, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I and two roommates opened our house to an assortment of friends, single and married. VHS tapes fed the television, music played in the library, and someone brought Trivial Pursuit to a cleared carpet area. Outside, thunder provided a background beat.

Before I took my seat with four other pursuit players, chants of "pizza, pizza" arose from several house locations. To quiet the masses, I walked to the kitchen wall phone, dialed and adlibbed an order for four large pies. As I ended the wish list with "large kitchen sink," I turned to see who had been rubbing the small of my back.

A surprise. My unblushing masseuse was Sharon Burns, unattached that afternoon because her husband had weekend duty. There, unexpectedly in each other's space, I was struck how lovely she was. Her facial expression hinted at practiced maturity while her eyes conveyed personal interest.

When I hung up, she pulled nearer, nuzzled my ear, and whispered "I wish you would pay more attention to me. Now, point me to the bathroom and I'll see you back on the carpet. Make sure you see me."

I gave directions and wondered what the heck did she mean? Then I watched her float down the hallway. She looked great in that blue dress. My mind was muddled. My heartbeat increased, as did respect for Charlie's wisdom.

Back at the carpet, I sat down as other players were tossing dice for first move. Sharon returned and sat legs crossed, opposite of me. "Let's get this contest going before pizza arrives. I feel lucky."

I didn't know what to feel, but it was a little easier to relax as the game progressed. Then it happened.

"You know, Mike, your carpet is uncomfortable." Sharon shifted and uncrossed her legs. She sat in a manner selected to share with me a most personal feature of her womanhood. She wore no panties. "This is much more comfortable. You ought to try it."

Astounded and unavoidably awestruck, I was speechless. She had insisted I see her and I definitely did. Oddly, my first thought was Goya's painting of the 'Naked Maja'. Eventually, pizza arrival returned a bit of stability to the afternoon. Still, with concentration unsettled, I missed a lot of questions.

Hours later, with pizza eaten, games played, movies watched, and even some dancing done, visitors made their way to the front door and headed for their cars. Wordless, I escorted Sharon to her family SUV. Under a partly cloudy and clearing sky, I opened the door for her entrance.

As she settled in her seat, she broke the silence, talking through the opened window, "Mike, I didn't mean to scare you dumb. I want you...the whole package...including your brains and wit. I'm willing to make time for us."

"Sharon, you are beautiful, smart, and appear to be interested in me. However, you have a great family with three wonderful children and a husband. I don't believe I can mess with your life and still respect myself. And hell, I don't even like your husband."

"Listen Mike, my husband is not coming home after duty. He has plans with one of my friends and I don't care. For years, we've had an open marriage which allows sex with others. It strengthens our partnership. I guarantee you, our children are unaffected." She reached out and put her hand on mine. "Don't worry. We leave for Fort Ord in a month." She backed out and hit the road.

Her revelation on her successful 'partnership' was a slap of reality. I stood in the driveway, a lump of confused putty in the hands a sculptress who was attempting to shape me into another knick-knack for her collection. The scary part was my eagerness to be collected.

My opportunity came. The following Friday, a monthly house poker game in progress, the wall phone rang. "Mike, it's for you."

"Excuse me guys." A short walk and the phone was to my ear, "Hello."

"Mike, he's gone for the weekend. Come over." Click. Short but effective.

My decision making process was greased by the fact I was losing badly at cards. "Cash me out. Something came up at the office. If you're drunk at game's end, use the couch." Then, a fast exit.

Sharon met me at her door. The rest is 'private' history. A tinge of post-tryst guilt remained with me through my two follow-on visits before the Burns family departed to the gold coast. Her spell was real, even though her marriage was a fraud when evaluated by my shifting morals. I was becoming cynical.

Years later, about the time of Desert Storm, 'Basic Instinct' hit movie theaters. Unexpected flashers became a topic of conversation. Fans and critics praised the cinematic exposure of a mainstream career woman's vagina as cultural phenomenon. I was amused. None of these people evidently had ever played Trivial Pursuit on a rainy day. They probably attended the movies instead. Their loss.

Those first few months of divorce, proved to be what Charlie foretold. Having moved on to Korea, he wasn't around to hear my 'cliff notes' on events. Before he left, I purposely did not tell him about the actions of people he would have easily identified.

A divorced female admin sergeant in his office played poker with us often. She regularly flirted with me, and although I was very interested, my best friend was 'sweet' on her so I resisted. One day she gave me her phone number and told me to file it until I was ready. She also insisted I pass a copy to my married boss. I did.

Later, they both seemed happy with their meeting. Rumored accounts of the pairing told of sweaty acrobatics between a man, a woman, and a tall stool on a balcony. When she left for a D.C. assignment, I threw away the unused phone number and pondered my stool virginity.

My social life unexpectedly shifted after Sharon took her open marriage west. One of the female softball players I coached became my girlfriend. Patty had been divorced in the previous year and also in need of opposite sex companionship. We liked each other quite a bit and nature took its course.

It was a couple of carefree months, void of attacking tongues and flaunting flashes. Two people who enjoyed their private moments and budding friendship. The public nature of our 'courtship' served as a shield from intrusion and confusion. Sadly, Patty interjected talk of commitment into our conversations. Unready, I drifted away and as a consequence became an available target again.

The beat went on. After a wild bowling night, I was too drunk to drive. Married Nikki volunteered to give me a lift. Halfway to the house, she abruptly swerved her car into a construction site and pulled to a stop hidden from the main road. She leaned over and eagerly kissed me with what appeared to be a sort of 'finally'. Her attack on my senses was only mildly surprising.

Two weeks prior, I had taken photos of her. Photography has always been my hobby. Back then, I often took pictures for friends to be used as keepsakes or gifts for others. The pictures sometimes included children and pets. I preferred one-on-one sessions. Clothes on, no cost, with a professional atmosphere.

When posing first time adult models, you have only words to loosen them up. Targeted compliments about looks, perhaps hair or smile, and definitely the clothes chosen for the session, work for most females. For Nikki, hair and clothes were key to motivating her. She did a good job.

When saying goodbye after the shoot, I ended with "You looked good enough to eat but don't tell your husband I said that. He's much bigger than me." It was just one last off-the-cuff compliment, but it elicited a sour retort from her, "Don't be so sure he would do anything." She left.

That was then. Now, after coming up for breath behind a half-finished convenience store, I found myself warning her about the danger of nails in a construction site. "Watch the road as you drive out of this place."

"Mike, don't give my husband a second thought. He is a confessed cheater who is on his best behavior, while steering clear of me." We were then back on the road again headed home. When Nikki dropped me off, she asked when I took my lunch break.

"My usual time is 11:30 to 12:30."

"I'll be here no later than 11:45 tomorrow and we'll have lunch together. See you then."

The next day we did lunch and never ate a thing. We shared numerous lunches and many a rendezvous. Having a family, she scheduled our meetings and I made myself available. I was a willing actor in her affair. A lot of pillow talk passed between us. Conversation was as satisfying as the physical to us.

However, Nikki held secrets which continually hurt her. More than once, she spoke of her husband's drinking. One day, she tearfully described his drunken fist hitting her. My advice was to tell his commander and also a trusted family member. She said she would think about it, but didn't mention abuse again. We continued 'our secretive life' until the army separated us. The goodbye was tough.

About nine years later, I was in Heidelberg at a conference and saw her husband working at a post office. He had been discharged from the army because of his drinking problem. On my return to Frankfurt I had a phone note waiting from Nikki. It provided a date to meet her.

We spent a day in Heidelberg below the city's castle. Time passed as if Arizona was just yesterday. Nikki said she had confessed to her husband about us and nothing changed. Our day together was a familiar pleasant addictive elixir for both our lives. There were plans to meet again.

But we didn't, and it was because of me. Unknown to her, and to an extent me, a post-Nikki Arizona dalliance had injected me with a potent antidote to any dependence on personal feelings.

Back when Nikki left Ft. Huachuca, I was on orders for Central America. I gladly anticipated my two weeks leave and a plane ticket south. It was time to leave Arizona and gain control of my life.

One afternoon, I got a phone call from Julia, wife of an acquaintance. At the time, her husband was in Vegas with a buddy celebrating a 30th birthday. Unfortunately, Julia had been thrown off a horse and banged up her shoulder. She needed a ride and got my number from his contact list.

At the clinic, she sat in my car wearing a loaner blue scrubs top and dark jeans. Her right arm was in a sling and a small bandage covered scrapes on her cheek. Her brown medium length hair looked like she was still riding the horse. Her smiling attitude was upbeat, praising the horse and taking all the blame for the accident. All in all, she was beautiful and I was utterly smitten.

I wrote myself a mental note, "Mike, bad timing. She's married. Forget it."

Not wanting to be in her empty house, she came home with me. My roommates and I entertained and fed her. While there, she saw a couple of my pictures and profusely praised them. She was a photographer herself, bound for a college arts program once her husband got orders to leave. A roomie made up the couch and after a pain pill or two, Julia went to sleep.

When she sufficiently healed, we took photo trips together. We visited a canyon in search of wildlife. There was more hiking and talking than clicking. At days end, my resolve cracked, my knees buckled, and I kissed her. I can only conclude that being close to Julia caused me to make the boyish first move. She gave a quick hug and I tossed my recent mental note on the canyon floor.

A week later we visited a ghost town. Adobe walls, bleached cracked wood and a few rusty cans. All were appreciatively recorded on film. Not recorded, but remembered, were personal talk, laughter, and kisses with embraces. Our relationship grew, physical contact increased, and four nights later, after jointly critiquing a box of her slides and photos, we consummated the relationship.

Our final trip was to Chiricahua National Monument with its stone columns, called hoodoos, and other marvelous rock formations. From ground level, they were giants moving toward you. From a higher viewpoint, the hoodoos were like chess pawns and rooks marching into a canyon.

A lot of pictures, followed by cheese and wine from my cooler, capped off the visit. I was mentally high, but worried about my departure and leaving such afternoons with Julia behind.

On the road back, I tried to get a true feel for her plans to return to college in California. She admitted her marriage was in jeopardy and his next assignment would not alter her plans. Before this, I was reluctant to talk about the situation, but now, my departure was imminent and she was in my blood.

Just outside Tombstone I rolled the dice. "Julia, I want to be in your life when your marriage ends. For that, I can be patient for a long time. Just give me a reason." I had just jumped off a five story hoodoo and had forgotten to yell 'Geronimo'. Ergo, my chute failed to open and I plummeted toward earth.

"Mike, you know I care for you and regret we're separating so soon. But I can't tell you to wait and will not give you what may be false hope. The future is more complicated than you know. I've actually been seeing someone else. Not my husband."

"Are you saying, I am in a line after your husband and others. How many ahead of me? Do you hand out numbers to those waiting?" Frustrated, I unknowingly sped up a little. "Man, I'm so stupid!"

Stupidity was confirmed, when a flashing red light almost immediately lit up my rear window. I pulled over and handed my license to a modern day Wyatt Earp, "Sir, we prefer that Tombstone tourists survive their visits and live long enough to return some day." License and ticket placed in my hand, he commanded, "Drive carefully."

As I drove away, I lamented aloud, "I've been shot down in the shadow of Boot Hill. A single cold bullet to the heart. Charlie told me not to get too serious while still here."

"Who is Charlie?" Julia sought to dilute a thickened air of tension.

"Doesn't mattter who he is, or even who I am. Unfortunately for me, though, it does matter who you are. And it will matter for a long time." Those were my final words.

Ten days later, at my going away party before Honduras, I was given a blowup doll to accompany me south. The spoken logic for the gift, "an airhead for an airhead." So true.

Space for the doll in my travel bag was easily provided by the dumping of homegrown naivete and old fashioned beliefs about the relationships between men and women.