©2017 By Jerry Rosendorn. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial
uses permitted by copyright law.
ISBN: 978-1-54390-677-6 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-54390-678-3 (ebook)
Contents
Chapter 1 - 1991-1992
Chapter 2 - May 1992
Chapter 3 - 1950-1962
Chapter 4
Chapter 5 - 1962-1965
Chapter 6
Chapter 7 - 1965
Chapter 8
Chapter 9 - 1965
Chapter 10
Chapter 11 - 1965-1968
Chapter 12
Chapter 13 - 1966
Chapter 14
Chapter 15 - 1966-1967
Chapter 16
Chapter 17 - 1967
Chapter 18
Chapter 19 - 1967-1971
Chapter 20
Chapter 21 - 1971-1976
Chapter 22
Chapter 23 - 1976
Chapter 24
Chapter 25 - 1978
Chapter 26
Chapter 27 - 1978-1980
Chapter 28
Chapter 29 - 1982
Chapter 30
Chapter 31 - 1985
Chapter 32
Chapter 33 - 1991
Chapter 34
Chapter 35 - 1992 to 1996
Chapter 36 - 1996-1997
Chapter 37 - February 1998
Chapter 38 - February 1998
Chapter 39 - March 1998
Chapter 40 - March 1998
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43 - April 1998
Chapter 44 - April and May 1998
Chapter 45 - May 1998
Chapter 46
Chapter 47 - May 1998
Chapter 48 - June 1998
Chapter 49 - June 1998
Chapter 50
Chapter 51 - July 1998
Chapter 52 - September 1998
Chapter 53 - September 1998
Chapter 54 - July 1999
Chapter 1
1991-1992
I caught sight of her as I walked into my client’s house. Her most striking feature appeared like two headlights in the night from a speeding car. As I saw her, my hormones shot into overdrive; I knew I wanted to meet her.
I spotted my client halfway across his crowded living room, almost shouting to get his attention, “Hey, Joe!”
As I got closer, I spoke in a grateful and inquiring voice, “Thanks for inviting me. Who’s the beautiful dirty blonde?”
Joe smiled back as though he’d answered that question before, “Hey, back to you counselor. She’s my cousin, Denise. She’s the good-looking one in my family. Let me introduce you.”
Joe led me into the den where guests were lingering over the appetizers. As he approached her from behind, Joe tapped his cousin on the shoulder, putting his right arm around her neck and his left around mine; he brought us into a huddled discussion.
“Cousin, this is my lawyer, Jake. You two have a lot in common. Jake’s smart and he’s eager to please a woman with his American Express card. And Jake, Denise loves to smile, especially when she shops.”
It was the Saturday before Christmas 1991. I’d been practicing law for sixteen years and my business was doing well enough for me to afford a ranch-style tract home in the San Fernando Valley, a lease of a brand-new Mercedes, and some savings for a rainy day. I enjoyed my bachelor life; taking advantage of every contact to pursue another woman. A beautiful woman with an inviting figure was my favorite bill of fare. The conquest was always a game for me; I enjoyed every pass as it got me closer to the goal line.
Recently, however, a change was taking root inside of me. The game was feeling tiresome, I started thinking, maybe it’s time to find Ms. Right and settle down. A tug-of-war ensued between my brain and my libido. At forty-one, my brain suggested settling down with someone special; instead of the endless game of maneuvering another woman into the bedroom. Then, like a cold slap to my face, my brain lost the battle; my thoughts returned to the present. I was motivated by Denise’s body.
Joe was one of my first clients. He ran a successful employment agency in Sherman Oaks; each year he threw a large Christmas party in his Encino home. When Joe ran into trouble, he always called me knowing I’d respond quickly. Joe was not only valuable to me for the business he generated, he also referred a lot of clients to me. Attending his parties practically guaranteed a new client or a beautiful lady.
Denise grew up in Los Angeles pursuing a career as a singer and actress. She stood short against my tall frame, but was big in four places: Two large deep blue eyes and two large round breasts. My thoughts were conflicted. Do I get her into bed as fast as I can or do I let her sing to me first? I love music, but I loved sex more.
I talked to Denise for most of the evening. I found out her mother was Greek Orthodox and her father was a New York Jew. She grew up on the Westside of Los Angeles. During her junior and senior years in high school, she starred in her school’s musical productions.
Denise and I seemed to hit it off well; by the end of the evening she gave me her phone number and I couldn’t wait to see her again.
A few days after the party, I called Denise and made a date to go out for dinner. She gave me directions to her apartment; letting me know parking was hard to find.
“Instead of driving to a restaurant, go in the alley behind my apartment building; you’ll see car port number two. The space is extra-long so you can park your car behind mine. Then, come up to my apartment; we’ll have some wine and cheese before we walk to the restaurant. There’s a great Italian place nearby; I’ll make a reservation.”
“Denise, that sounds great. I’ll bring the wine; do you like red or white?”
“You choose.”
On the night of our date, I easily found garage number two and parked behind her 300ZX Nissan sports car. From there, I took a shaky flight of wooden stairs up to her second floor apartment.
Denise answered the door in a bright yellow dress.
As she pointed to her small living room, “Jake, you look so handsome. Sit in that comfortable chair while I finish getting ready.”
She looked beautiful. My eyes were glued to the tops of her bulging freckled breasts. I think she was barefoot, but my eyes didn’t get that far.
Instead of sitting, I walked around studying her artwork and books. Her art was less than traditional; not to my taste. Her books included several titles about astrology and mysticism. As I began to pull one of the books from her shelf, she came back into the living room.
“Did you find anything interesting?”
“I’m always interested in what other people read; it’s like a window to their soul.”
Without responding, she went over to the couch, touching the space next to her. I took the hint and walked over to join her.
As I sat down, she took me by surprise when she got up and sat in my lap. I looked into her beautiful blue eyes, feeling the call of passion. Our first kiss led to another and that evening we never left her apartment.
The next morning, I woke up in her
bed to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee.
Spending a lot of time together, Denise and I struck up an intense relationship. Our relationship was fulfilling; we always ended our lovemaking on a high note of synchronized screams.
Though we spent most of our time in the bedroom, we did go out. One night, at a restaurant in West Hollywood, Denise told me she believed in astrology; I remembered seeing the books in her apartment. Even though I didn’t know much about the subject, her interest gave me an idea for a gift. I had seen an advertisement in the newspaper for a new book about love and astrology. The next day, I went to the bookstore, bought the book, and had it gift wrapped. That evening, I rushed over to her apartment with the gift in my hand. As I walked through the front door, she stripped off my clothes and we jumped into bed.
After much grabbing, caressing, and screaming, I finally caught my breath and said, “Denise, that was fantastic, but I wanted to give you a gift. I had it in my hand when you attacked me.”
“You did? You’re so wonderful. Bring it here; let me open it.”
I retrieved the bag from the living room floor; giving it to Denise who was sprawled out over the bed.
She sat up to receive the gift, savagely ripping off the wrapping and yelled, “Oh my God, I heard about this book; I wanted to buy it. Thank you, Jake.”
She grabbed me and rammed our faces together; her lips were like a tourniquet as I lost all feeling in my lips.
I had to rub my lips to get the blood flowing. “Denise, see what it says about us.”
She opened the book looking for my sign first, Gemini. The book described the sign as, “The Gemini man is a good communicator who enjoys being with people.”
She then turned to the Scorpio page to read about her sign. It described her as “being very independent and often single-minded.” Maybe that explains the intense sexual relationship we had developed. In addition, the book discussed her moods and her insecurities.
After discussing the traits of our astrological signs, the next part of the book dealt with our most and least compatible signs.
Under “The Gemini Man,” the list of best mates had no mention of Scorpio. However, under worst mates, Scorpio was highlighted. In fact, it indicated Gemini men and Scorpio women are like oil and water. The book went on to advise a Gemini man to be very cautious of becoming involved with a Scorpio woman.
Within two days, my relationship with Denise was over.
Chapter 2
May 1992
I accept it as a truism that many males are reluctant to ask for help. We are hardwired to believe we can solve problems through trial and error. Rather than ask for driving directions or take the time to read instructions to assemble something, men simply persist in the assumption they will figure it out.
I believe that this same principle applies to relationships. It’s like the television remote control. Instead of reading the manual explaining each button on the device, a man prefers to randomly push buttons until he magically discovers the right button to make it work.
I was no exception to the rule. When it came to women, I was beginning to lose confidence wondering if I would eventually stumble on the right button to have a good relationship.
Though the chase was great and the sex was usually satisfying, my brain was now nudging out my libido, driving me to find a woman of substance. Instead of going out with women like Denise, I wanted to find the right woman for me. But, who fell into that category?
As an attorney, I handled divorce cases involving issues of child custody. When the parents could not resolve their differences, the court turned the matter over to professional marriage and family counselors; they met with the parents and their children in an effort to create a plan that was “in the best interests of the children.” It was becoming obvious to me, I needed some intervention to steer me in the direction of my best interests.
In early 1990, I represented a woman regarding the dissolution of her twenty-year marriage. The couple had three children who were deeply affected when her husband announced to my client he didn’t love her any longer; he wanted a divorce. A few weeks after this devastating announcement, my client discovered her husband was having an affair with a woman ten years his junior; he had moved in with her and her two-year-old son. This chain of events was compounded when the husband abruptly stopped seeing his children.
My client was desperate for help, so she went to see a marriage and family counselor named Dr. Miriam Fox.
As a result of my client’s early action for intervention and the good work of Dr. Fox, the children started to respond to a plan of counseling which provided them with an opportunity to air their feelings by learning how to deal with their father. After several months of therapy, the children were responding well; they felt more secure knowing they were not the cause of their father’s alienation as they were coping with the changes.
Now, it was me who needed some help, so I called Dr. Fox.
Dr. Fox’s office was located near mine. I made an appointment for late in the afternoon; I didn’t want it to interfere with my work.
Her reception room was unremarkable. A few magazines were scattered across an old coffee table in front of a long couch book-ended by two wing-back chairs. There was no one else in the room and I took a seat on the couch, picking up a magazine called, “Psychology Today.” It was the current issue and the cover pictured a teenage girl with the caption: “Do You Know Where Your Child Is?” I certainly didn’t know where I was. As I put down the magazine, I started to examine the wall in front of me. There was a paper sign instructing me, “WHEN YOU ARRIVE, PUSH THE BUTTON BELOW.” Fearing something negative might happen if I failed to follow this instruction, I got up and complied.
Within minutes, the door to the main office opened and an elderly woman walked into the waiting room. She was a cross between my paternal grandmother, Ida, just a few years before she had to be put into a skilled nursing facility and my fifth grade old-maid school teacher. I noticed her glasses immediately; she wore them on a black chain around her neck. As I looked closely at her face, I noted the lack of smile lines around her mouth.
“Jake, I am Dr. Miriam Fox. Come in. You get your choice today, the soft comfortable couch or this old hard-as-a-rock straight back chair.”
I wondered what she meant by “I get my choice today.” Was this the next test after the instruction in the waiting room to push the button? If I took the couch, she might assume I was a man who needed pampering. On the other hand, if I took the hard chair, she might think she was dealing with a real man. I decided to be practical. If this was going to be my only visit with her, I figured I should at least be comfortable; I opted for the couch. Once I was seated, she pulled up the hard chair and sat down.
With a writing pad in her left hand and a cheap Bic pen in her right, she looked straight into my eyes and inquired, “Jake, what brings you here?”
Even though I knew this question was coming, I felt some pressure; I didn’t want to give her a bad first impression. My brain was moving slowly, as though I had to present a complex symphony of thoughts. My first words were very deliberate and soft as if I was fighting the urge to stutter.
“This is a little hard for me since I’ve always taken good care of myself. I figured with enough time, I could think through my problems and be successful. I’m starting to feel some anxiety about being over forty and not finding the right woman. At one time, having a family was not important to me, now, I think I’d like to settle down with someone and possibly have children. The problem is I’m not meeting the right kind of woman. I’m meeting women I’d like to jump into bed with, not a woman to call my wife. I guess I need some direction. Maybe I need a manual like when you buy a car. And Dr. Fox, I’m now ready to carefully read a manual about women.”
I felt good thinking I was so articulate in telling Dr. Fox about my issue. To me, it was straightforward. She shoul
d tell me who the right women are and she knows I am receptive to her advice.
That good feeling brought a smile to my face. Yet, I was getting a different sense from her. It seemed like she was staring me down as if there was something odd about me. Suddenly, I could feel sweat across my brow; my confidence was eroding away. What was I doing here with this Dr. Fox? Why wasn’t she saying anything? I wondered if I was supposed to say more. Then, she moved; with her right hand she put on her glasses and wrote a note on her pad. When she looked up again, I wondered if she was grading me. Did I fail?
The silence was broken and I jumped when I heard her authoritative tone.
“Jake, maybe you need a manual about yourself.”
She paused to let the words sink in. Once she knew they had, she continued in that same tone.
“It’s very hard for you to recognize the right woman if you don’t know yourself; the same applies to me. I don’t know you.”
I felt myself sinking into the couch wondering what I’d expected from her. I felt stuck as I thought about what she said. She made sense. How could she advise me when she didn’t know me? Worse, her comment made me wonder if I knew myself.
My brain was struggling; I felt like I’d put myself into a deep hole with no way out. I coyly asked, “What do you need to know about me?”
She nodded, knowing I wanted to be compliant and eased her body language saying, “Are you willing to share who you are with me?”
My focus was being redirected. It seemed the answer to her question was the new purpose in coming to see Dr. Fox. With half a nod I responded, “I think so.”
With the knowledge she was winning the initial battle against me, she continued, “If you are, then maybe you’ll find the answer to your question. But, it takes time, patience, and exploration—what I’d like to refer to as ‘digging and communication.’ You must be honest with me and honest with yourself. After some extensive digging, I hope you’ll know yourself better.”
I felt her concern; her confidence was starting to reassure me. Yet, I felt the need to explain myself before we went any further.
The Light in My Heart Page 1