Three things can happen in a marriage and two are bad. I'm experiencing one of the bad things. It's called divorce.

What am I doing now? I am now sitting in my girlfriend's Sunday school class at a protestant mega-church. It's a class for divorced singles. The speaker is telling them how men don't understand their wives and moms, and there is one reason for the awful divorce rate -- MEN!

So where did this start? Last night, we made the night club circuit. We danced. We kissed and groped. She came to my apartment; and after a lot of sex, I was exhausted. I took her home at 3 a.m. Let me think ... I promised to pick her up Sunday at 8 o'clock for a day of fun. Now, I'm sitting here ... and this is definitely not fun!

Where did this this story really begin? I am 36-year-old black man, who went to a well-heeled university and got into a banking career in North Dallas. Then I got married! It was beautiful wedding and honeymoon. She was white. We were married for 11 years. Actually, make those two happy years and nine miserable years. Then I was divorced.

I was determined to make the best of my divorce. The last thing on my mind were women and dating ... at first that is.

"This is not good! I really didn't expect this, ' my twin brother, Gerald said. He lived 250 miles away. He was a devout Christian and the subject of divorce was abhorrent to him. He still lived within 20 miles of our birthplace. While I was determined to leave there and never come back, he would never leave. He married his high school sweetheart. He settled down with a safe government job and had three kids. The youngest was still living at home.

"I just wanted to let you know. I don't need any help. I'm doing fine," I said. We continued to communicate about once a week.

I was determined not to let divorce get the best of me. I certainly did want my family believe I had turned into a bum. In the ensuing months, I paid off all my debts, saved a lot of money, and bought a two-level condo on Addison Circle. The town of Addison is in North Dallas. Nearby are the fabulous Galleria mall, Neiman Marcus department store and lots of fine dining places. It was near my banking job, too. So life was good.

After work and on the weekends I sat on my patio or sipped coffee in the many sidewalk cafes in the area. I worked out at the gym. I lounged in my spa. I listened to my classical music. I read. I supervised the remodeling of my condo to my tastes. I made acquaintances and chatted.

I made friends with one of my neighbors. Bill was his name. He was a confirmed bachelor. He had lots of advice.

So why you say am I not like all the other divorced men? You know the drill: Every other weekend taking the kids to the park, with the kids to the movies, keeping them on the weekend, and then rushing them home on Sunday. The simple fact is: I don't have any kids. That was the cause of my divorce. Katherine -- that's my ex-wife -- never conceived. She blamed it on me! OK! Just relax! This is a really emotional subject with me. I went to a doctor. He said I was fine. One thing led to another ... It's a long, sad story. It's was story I wanted to forget.

First, I made a list of things I wanted to do in my new single life. I summarized them into three rules: Rule number 1, do not get into any obsessive behavior; Rule number 2, save money; and Rule number 3, keep my options open.

So here I am. I have met all my goals. It's time to have some fun. My first attempt was the single bars. That went against my Rule No. 1. The next was dating services.

"Yes! I love evenings sitting by the fireplace. Oh yes! I love candlelight dinners. Absolutely! Children are no problem..." I lied on all the questions. I figured "they" would too.

My first contact was a surprise. She was Candy, a divorced mom with two kids at home.

"Hi, are you M.D.?"

"Yes," I said.

She was a petite four-foot-10. Her hair was dishwater blonde, and her eyes were hazel. She had rather thin, but cute, sexy lips. I noticed a slight accent. It was part Southern and part something else. She told me she was a Cajun woman from south of New Orleans.

Wait a moment! How can one be from "south of New Orleans"? I thought. There was nothing but mud, swamps, and ocean south of New Orleans! Well, maybe not!

We met at a coffee shop. She had a beautiful smile. I kept glancing at her body, legs, and feet. I made a date. I went out to dinner and danced. She was a poor dancer. I had two years of ballroom lessons, and she did not measure up. But then again, she had other attributes. Those red lips and a sexy body.

She came over unannounced one evening. I had just gotten out of the shower. I was dressed in a bathrobe. I poured her a glass of red wine. We sat on the couch. We exchanged little kisses. She startled me by reaching into my bathrobe and squeezing my ... It took my breath away! We started kissing and groping. We both undressed in a very short time. I laid her on the couch and spread her legs. I climbed on top. She was good at something – sex! She took my penis and guided, it into her love tunnel. She had two children, but they were delivered C-section. She had a very tight body for a thirty-something.

The next four weeks was like a whirlwind.

We spent a week in the New Orleans. We took in every night club, every jazz spot, and every dining bistro in the French Quarter. Along the way, I got in some fantastic sex. She was especially good as fellatio ... while I was driving. It was a first for me!

"I love you!" she said looking into my eyes. I knew if I said anything, I would be violating Rule No. 3. So I ditched her as soon as I could.

Then there was the very cute Latina named Marcella. I still remember those full ruby red lips. She had a svelte body and a sexy Spanish accent. She had those beautiful Latin eyes and dark lashes. We took in the usual coffee shop chat drill. We chatted on the phone. Then I asked her out.

On the first date, we met at an Italian restaurant. You know the type. They bring out a big jug of wine. They charge by the glass. She drank most of the jug. I really didn't mind paying for wine. Isn't that what a gentleman should do? Whatever...

We went to a ballroom club to dance. She was a great dancer! We danced the rhumba, the Cha-cha, the Samba, the Tango, and the Salsa. She kept drinking. She was too drunk to drive home. I had to call a taxi. Her ride home was on my dime.

Where else does a woman get falling down drunk on the first date? ... only in North Dallas. Whatever...

Then the dating service sent me Maurine. She was a cute blonde with a Southern accent. She was a secretary in a law firm. She was five-two and had very nice breasts. My guess was 36D. She had beautiful hazel eyes, and light brown hair. She had some girth.

We had two coffee shop dates. She talked a lot.

"I'm very concerned about what baggage you are carrying!" she stated it up front.

"I have no baggage other than eight kids and a huge pile of debts and I'm an alcoholic who hasn't hit bottom yet." Anyway, that's what I should have said. It turned out she carried all the "baggage".

I remember our first date. It was Saint Valentine's Day. It was supposed to mean something? I bought the dinner, and she provided all the conversation. Her talk was mostly about her ex-husband.

"Oh my god! Will she ever stop?" I thought to myself. She was obviously stuck on her exe whom she met while attending North Texas University. He was an artist and a drugged-out freak. That's my summary of her description. The walls of her home were plastered with cheap artwork. All of it painted, sketched, scratched, smeared, scrawled or scribbled by "him"!

She loved my condo and loved to drop by unexpectedly.

"You will have to take down that pornographic artwork if I bring my kids over," she said.

"Excuse me! I don't want your kids over here. This is my condo!" Well, that's what I should have told her.

So where else does a woman march into a male's condo and demand it be redecorated for her? ... only in North Dallas! Whatever...

One evening, she unexpectedly called to say she was coming over. I met her on the street. I didn't want her in my condo. She was happy and giddy.

"I just wanted to come up and see your condo again," she said giggling. She was drinking whiskey from a can.

"Oh my god! I didn't know they sold it in cans! Where did you get it? "I asked.

"I got it at a liquor store on the way." She said it like, "Doesn't everyone buy whiskey and drink it on the way home?"

She was drunk. She was slurring her words. When she climbed out of her Chrysler, she almost fell.

"Aren't you going to ask me up to your condo?"

"Well I would, but you are so drunk, I'm afraid you would fall on your ass before you got there." That is what I should have said. Instead I drove her home. She was too drunk to drive.

So where is it written that when a drunken woman comes uninvited to a male's apartment, he must drive her home and return in taxi on his dime? ... only in North Dallas! Whatever...

The dating in North Dallas was beginning to wear thin.

I discussed it with by neighbor, Bill.

"This dating is not really working out."

Bill laughed. He impressed me that he was a pro at dating in North Dallas.

"You gotta hang in there, friend. If you are in for a good time, you won't find it with the North Dallas girls."

Was that a prophesy?

Next was Sherry Lee. She was a sexy, trim bottle blonde. She had a Southern accent with a north Dallas twang. She grew up in North Dallas and knew everyone ... it seemed. She was rich. Her family was in the petroleum business. That's pronounced "the ahoyl bidness" in North Dallas. She lived alone in University Park in a palatial mansion with a manicured lawn and tall white Corinthian columns in the front. Yet, she loved my condo. I found out later that it was because I was nearer to the Galleria.

... only in North Dallas. Whatever...

She drove a blood-red Ferrari convertible. She insisted on doing all the driving on our dates.

Our first meeting was arranged by her to be in front of Neiman Marcus, an exclusive department store in the Galleria. We walked and chatted. She window-shopped. We stopped in a café by the ice rink for a latte.

On the first real date, I picked her up at her home. I met her at the door and started toward my Mercedes SL-Class.

"I want to drive my car!" she announced. I opened the door for her. She got in, letting her skirt ride high exposing her hot pink thong. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled, closed the door, and walked to the other side. As I crossed in front of her car, she started it and raced the engine. The Ferrari rocked from side to side from the powerful torque.

"Oh my god! I hope she can drive and stay sober!" I thought to myself.

She roared out of her driveway, almost hitting my Mercedes. She looked at me with that silly smile that she could do so well. I laughed.

Her skirt rode up exposing her lacy-top hose. Her red platform pumps with eight-inch micro stiletto heels were really not made to drive a Ferrari, I observed.

Then she got into traffic ... cell phone traffic that is!

"Hello Cheryl Ann! I'm off to dine at Del Frisco's. Yes ... Uh huh ... Where then? We're going to Arthur's for dancing. See you there! Bye."

Then Bobbie Sue called her.

"Hi Bobbie Sue! Yes! He's cute. Uh huh ... yes! ... at Del Frisco's. Yes ... uh huh ... We will be at Arthurs' around nine."

She called Joyce.

"Hi Joyce! Yes! He is. Well, we will see won't we..." She laughed. "Bobbie Sue told you? Yes, I am! See you at Arthur's at nine."

"Don't mind us! We were in the same sorority. We stay in touch," she said in her sing-song voice.

"That's fine with me. I enjoy listening you chat with your fiends while I pay for this date." That's what I should have said.

"Are you all divorced?" I asked.

"Yes! Joyce dumped her exe. He wasn't making enough. Bobbie Sue caught her exe with his secretary. And Cheryl Ann ... her husband was a doctor. He wasn't around very much. He was either playing golf or in surgery. She got tired of him."

Somehow based on the way she told it, I believed every word.

She pulled into Del Frisco's, an upscale restaurant north of the Galleria. It seemed her entire life was centered on the Galleria. She would not let the valet park her Ferrari. I'm sure for good reason. I'm the same way about my Mercedes. She parked, and we walked in.

We sat down, ordered, and waited for our dinner.

"Excuse me. Do you drive a red Ferrari?" It was the matre'd. Sherrie Lee's Ferrari was somehow blocking the driveway. She handed me the keys. I walked to the parking lot.

Out of the blue, someone started screaming at me.

"Hey asshole! Do you know how to park that goddamn car, asshole? Do you hear me, asshole?"

I avoided eye contact the best that I could.

The Ferrari had somehow rolled from the parking spot into the driveway, blocking about 20 cars. All the drivers were standing outside their cars glaring at me! I noticed that she did not set the parking brake. I drove back into the space and set the brake.

"Hey you! I'm talking to you, asshole!" Someone would not let up. Still avoiding eye contact, I walked as fast as I could back into Del Frisco's. The matre 'd glared at me as I sat down.

"Sir! In the future, I must ask you not to ever come back to Del Frisco's!" he snipped.

Well, If Sherry Lee was driving; there could be a long list of males who have been banned from Del Frisco's. So be it!