For info on the Shy Man's Guide to Success with Women (or any of Terry Heggy's other writing), please visit www.shyperson.com.

This story takes place in the year 0002 BD (Before Dating). I was about 20 years old, and still completely clueless about what sorts of wonders were available to those lucky men who actually had the nerve to ask women for dates. Oh, sure, I had looked at Playboy, so I had some idea what delights were available to satisfy one's lust -- but was still a long way from any personal experience in that area.

Needless to say, no women had ever seen me naked.

Well, they were about to get their chance.

It was the summer of "streaking". It had become somewhat fashionable to run around naked, preferably at well-attended public events. Woodstock and free love were still fresh enough in people's memory to give a modicum of legitimacy to this pastime -- but I think everybody really knew what it was really about... disrupting events and making a spectacle of yourself. Some sort of such behavior has always been the moral obligation of young adults everywhere. The Ray Stevens song had not been released yet, so the "sport" still had a bit of life left in it.

Well, I may have been nerdish, socially-impaired, and clueless about women, but I knew an opportunity when I saw one. No one would ever know who I was, but by performing a streak, I could somehow make a statement about my uniqueness, creativity, and individuality. (How? Don't ask me...but it seemed to make sense at the time.) Who knows? Perhaps by making this bold gesture, it would somehow set me on a trail toward social legitimacy. Perhaps being seen naked by a horde of bystanders would propel me toward a life which could even include successful dating. Perhaps I'd feel so empowered by my courageous public display that I'd overcome my deadly fears of women, and might even ask one to go out with me.

Hey, a guy can dream, can't he?

Well, after weeks of planning, I had my streak planned down to the last detail. The KU Women's Synchronized Swim Team was giving their annual water show at Robinson Natatorium. It was "Parents' Weekend" for the sororities, which meant that the house would be packed with proud moms and pops who'd come to watch their lovely daughters perform. For a $2.00 admission fee, you could watch girls with slicked-back hair and noseplugs gracefully submerge in time with Perry Como songs, and then burst upside-down from the water to wave their pointed feet in the air. It was very beautiful, very athletic. There were colored lights and everything.

There was even one number where the young ladies would be assisted by the stalwart young men of the swim team. The boys didn't have to be graceful; they just had to do an occasional Vanna White waving gesture, and then lift the girls up at the proper moment when the music crescendoed.

"Wait a minute, Terry," you must be asking..."Weren't you on the swim team? Why didn't you participate in the water show?" Ah, if you had known me then, you would not have needed to ask. Not only was I socially impaired, but I wasn't all that great in the "feats of strength" department. Oh, sure, I could swim reasonably well, but all I had to do was pull my own skinny frame through the water. While the thought of putting my hands on a sexy woman's hips and lifting her over my head was indeed an appealing proposition, alas, it was not meant to be. I might have been able to lift a six-year-old, but sadly, there were none on the college synchro team. Sigh.

So perhaps I harbored some sort of grudge because I was unable to participate. Perhaps I chose that venue because I knew a lot of the people there, and could therefore count on multiple reports of the impact I made. Perhaps it was because the pool was right next door to the dorm I was living in, and I could get home quickly if something went wrong.

The day before the show, I spoke with the guy who'd be running the spotlight. Pat was a great breaststroker, and was easily strong enough to have participated in the water show, but he had chosen to help behind the scenes. "Dude," I said, "right when they start the Frog Prince number, shine the spotlight at the side door."

"Whafor?" he asked. "You'll see, man. You'll see." He still looked puzzled. "Just do it, man," I said. He nodded, in that sort of goofy way that breaststrokers do when they're still trying to figure out what the hell you're talking about.

The fateful night arrived. I grabbed my streaking gear, a spare pair of shorts and an extra T-shirt and then headed over to the pool. I stowed the extra clothes under a bush near the pool exit door, where they'd be easy to grab and put on after my performance. Then I walked around to the other side of the building and proceeded to wait until the proper musical cue could be heard from within the pool.

I was nervous. I couldn't see very well. (My eyesight was pitiful, but I'd left my glasses in the dorm room, cuz I didn't want to have to mess with them during my run.) I put on my face-covering stocking mask first, so no one would know who I was when I started stripping. It was a classic red and black ski mask, with eyeholes and a mouthhole. I suppose it was designed to keep you warmer by keeping your nose covered, but on a warm evening like this, all it did was make everything smell like wool. And even though it had eyeholes, they weren't quite big enough -- so I had no peripheral vision at all.

I stripped off my shirt and dropped my shorts. That's when I heard a noise behind me. I turned around and saw a guy and a girl, probably just walking home from a late class together. "Far out," the guy said, "are you a streaker?"

"Yeah," I replied. "And I kinda need to get going."

"Far out," they both said in unison.

It was time. As soon as I heard the Frog Prince music, I yanked open the pool door and did a dramatic leap onto the pool deck. Pat was alert and immediately hit me with the spotlight. I could hear the collective intake of breath from all those scandalized moms, and a few "lookitthat's" from the guys in the crowd. The watershow stopped dead.

I jogged as casually as I could, trotting from one end of the pool to the other. I waved at the crowd, and even took a moment for a kind of shuffling bow. As I reached the far door, I even heard a smattering of applause from somewhere in the crowd. I pulled open the door and sprinted outside.

Though I had done a leisurely jog across the pool deck, I was hauling ass as soon as I got out the door. Next -- rip the stocking cap off. Under the bush for the clothes (shorts on first, naturally), then blast around the building to pick up the clothing I'd shed at the start. Then, since there seemed to be no panic, no alarm, and no police sirens, I turned and walked slowly back toward the dorm. My heart was pounding at about 200 bpm, but my pace resembled an average joe out for an evening stroll. No one watching would have any clue that I had been the masked streaker who had scandalize the oh-so-proper water show.

I later learned that after a few minutes of murmuring within the pool area, the music was re-started and the show continued as planned. No other disruptions happened, although one of the guys did muff a lift. I guess it was pretty comical, since he dropped the girl onto the next guy, who then dropped his girl and started a domino effect all the way down the line. I was sorry I missed it.

About two hours later, I did saunter over to the "wrap" party. All the swimmers were there, as well as a goodly number of the parents. I was curious to hear the gossip about the mysterious stranger who ruined their show. I figured I'd spend the evening lurking around and eavesdropping, with a possible knowing snicker thrown in here and there.

But it didn't work out that way. As soon as I walked in the door, everyone turned toward me and started clapping and making catcalls. "Good job, streaker dude", someone said. "Hey, where's your mask, butthead?", said another. "What the hell's wrong with you, Heggy?", etc.

Wha? How'd they know? I asked one of my buddies. "C'mon, man," he said, "we've all seen you run during our dryland workouts. You got that weird, bowlegged, spazzy hand nerd shuffle. Nobody else runs like that." Uh, gee, thanks for the thoughtful form analysis.

Needless to say, I left the party quite early. The good news is that I received no disciplinary action for my little deed. And, in fact, it probably did serve to enhance my popularity, at least briefly. No dates resulted...but at least none of the girls made fun of my anatomy either. I'm not sure if there was any lasting impact on my life as a result of my well-viewed public nudity, but at least it gives me something I can tell the grandkids, eh?

I think we're all glad that fad's over, aren't we? Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted.

But next time you attend a water show on parents' weekend, think of me for a little bit, OK? Thanks.
Enjoy! Terry