I have come to learn that most men have fears. Fear of losing their hair, fear of losing their job, fear of commitment. And then, there's the fear of appearing in this column. These men are the cowards who read this, take it at face value, and bolt with a fear of being humiliated. These men have no balls.

On an average day in this extraordinary city, I met a man. We will call him Joe.

I'm pretty much a fixture at Kung Pow Kitty these days - for the mere fact that they have $5 beers and amazing $3 shrimp pot stickers. Kung Pow is the perfect unwind from the daily grind.

We were both reading and took up a conversation. After several beers and discussions on hidden museums and the art of making the perfect quiche, he brings up one of my favorite words, opera .

I love the opera. Some people could care less about the subtle beauty of the melodic tones and even though you can't understand what they are saying, it touches you to the core. (Don't get me started on how I think Giacomo Puccini is a natural aphrodisiac.) When he told me he had season tickets to the LA Opera, I was even more interested.

Normally, I would be so turned on I would have to take him to the bathroom and have a little session for his sheer wit alone, but I kept my composure. I thought he could be someone I could actually make nice with for a more extended period than a few hours. Maybe someone I could keep around. He was cute, charming and we shared basic ideals.

He invited me to Il Trittico, I was ecstatic. A real date in this city of one-night stands, impromptu midnight meals and dive bar drinks. I was going to do something interesting. And I liked it.

But then he did the unthinkable - the one thing that could shake up a weak man to the core: he Googled me. He read this column and, needless to say, he was less than thrilled to take me with him to experience one of our favorite past times together.

My heart sank for a second.

He didn't ask about whe he read, he didn't reference anything in particular. It was basically, "I read it and I didn't like it." He told me he didn't want to be someone I wrote about and bid me adieu. Another victim. I chalked him up to being some pervert and he didn't want his dirty laundry aired out, which it would have been.

I said, "You know what Joe, you're a douchebag, and you just gave me a great idea..." So here you are Joe, you made it in the column anyway!

Story by Priscilla de Sade.

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