When you have 400+ boyfriends over a ten-year period, you start to suspect that maybe the problem is you. I had friends who'd married their first boyfriends: how had I gone through an entire army battalion without finding one dude who made me want to nest for a month or two? Sure, I'm relatively sociopathic. I don't like people. I tape Cops and then watch it backwards so all the criminals get away. But like the old cliché says, there's somebody out there for everybody, and my somebody was proving ridiculously hard to find.

I've slowly but consistently lowered my standards over these last ten years. I realize they were pretty unrealistic to start with -- I mean, I'm not sure there are any gay princes anywhere, let alone Jason Statham lookalikes -- but they're not really such a hurdle any more. Now I'll accept a fixable man: employable, with most major limbs, mild b.o. or bad breath okay.

No matter how I looked at it, though, R. J. just couldn't make the cut. On the surface he seemed terrific: he was handsome, wealthy, in terrific shape. Confident businessman, swaggered rather than walked. But there was just one small detail that trumped all these positive qualities.

He reminded me of O. J. Simpson.

R. J. had been a professional athlete, then dabbled in acting. He had two kids and an ex-wife. He loved golf and expensive watches.

And, of course, there's the name. R. J.

Plimpton.

Even Oprah believes in intuition, and my intuition said STAY FAR AWAY.

R. J. came into the club where I worked probably once or twice a month, and he always brought me a gift. Flowers, candy, CDs, DVDs. We'd chat if the place wasn't too crowded, and safely behind the bar I'd flirt with him. The man was a catch, there was no doubt about it. He easily surpassed my standards, and under other circumstances I'd have jumped at the chance to date him. But every time he asked, I just had to say no.

My friend Steve wasn't exactly a fountain of empathy. "See, that's one of the things sane people look for in boyfriends," he declared. "Consistency. The man's been after you for over a year. He's not looking for a one-night stand. He wants you for the long haul."

Reluctantly I explained the whole O. J. thing and Steve just laughed. "Roman, don't be ridiculous. Okay, there are tiny similarities. But that doesn't mean it's, like, predestined or anything. The universe isn't going to force this relationship into that exact same path."

I sighed. Okay, maybe I was being stupid. Maybe I was rejecting the man because of a ridiculous assumption rather than real intuition. But, you know, I don't think most people would date a doctor named Yeckyl. I don't think they'd accept dinner invitations from a pale, black-caped guy named Nosferaboo. I'm sorry, but ex-athletes named R. J. Plimpton would make most sensible people think twice.

"Fine," Steve said. "Die single. When there's a rich, handsome man who's interested in you."

I let Steve's words simmer for a while, and as always I eventually changed my mind. The next time R. J. asked me out I agreed. Naturally a man with his confidence had already made plans: he'd pick me at eight on Friday night, then we'd go to his house where he'd cook me dinner. This wasn't exactly my idea of a perfect date, but I felt so guilty about putting him off for so long I didn't protest.

"What a nice car!" I said as he walked me to his white Bronco. "Hey, you've got all the accessories!" I said as he struggled to pull on his driving gloves. "I guess we're headed for the nice part of town!" I all but screamed as we drove up San Vincente Boulevard and turned toward Brentwood.

R. J. deftly maneuvered the car through meandering twists and turns before we pulled into a driveway. He clicked open the wrought-iron gate and we zipped past a brightly-lit guest house to the driveway's end. He got out to open the garage door as my cellphone rang.

It was Steve.

"I can't talk," I whispered. "I'm with R. J., and we just got to his place."

And in the voice from that horror story where a psycho ax murderer keeps calling some woman and the telephone operator says, "The calls are coming from inside the house," Steve said, "Roman, I take it back. Get out of that car and run. A present or two a month, for over a year? Dude, that's a slow-speed chase."