My childhood neighbor taught me my first lessons about girls.

He was two or three years older than I, so he assumed himself the maestro—and me, the faithful apprentice.

I was about eight years old, and he 11, when he gave me the full rundown.

He told me how to talk to girls, how to impress them, and he even drew detailed diagrams of the female anatomy. (Apparently, women had something called a “click”–and I called it that for years.)

In spite of his great “insight and wisdom,” my neighbor also introduced me to a concept about women that would haunt me for years.

We were in the midst of one of our lessons/discussions and he mentioned a girl from our neighborhood. I told him I thought the girl was pretty, to which he said, “Man, she’ll drown you.”

“She’ll what?”

“You can’t handle her … she’ll drown you.”

“What’s drown?” I said.

He explained that drowning is when a man is too sexually “inadequate” (in size, technique, or experience) to satisfy a particular woman. The woman is said to have “drowned” the man, and she will in turn tell everyone that she drowned him–forever embarrassing him.

Drowning sounded horrible. I didn’t want to be drowned, but I didn’t know how to determine if a woman would drown me.

My neighbor was no help.

We were having a discussion about music one day, which led him to say, “Man, Janet Jackson would drown you.”

Janet Jackson? But she seemed so nice; why would she want to drown me?

My neighbor was emphatic about his claim–and he always said it as if the woman would drown me, but not him.

Fast forward to four or five years later:

I was attending my middle school’s summer league basketball program and was resting on some side bleachers, away from the court.

Boys mostly filled the gym, but neighborhood girls would sometimes visit to play ping pong in the lobby or just to be seen.

An older neighborhood girl and her friend entered the gym and approached me on the bleachers. “Hey, boy,” the neighborhood girl said. “You got a quarter?”

“Uh, yeah, I have a quarter,” I said. I reached down into my sweaty sock (where I kept my money while I played ball), fished out a quarter that was pressed against my ankle, and handed it to the girl. “Here.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Hey, don’t you go to this school?”

“Yeah, I go here,” I said.

“He’s the one who be wearing those nice clothes,” said the friend. “He hangs out with (neighborhood guy’s name) little brother.”

“Oh yeah, I know you,” said the neighborhood girl. “What’s your name?”

“Donnie.”

“Yeah, Donnie, you’re cute. You got a girlfriend?”

“Um, no.”

“No? Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are really cute,” said the neighborhood girl. “You got another quarter?”

“Uh, yeah, I have another one.”

“Can I have it?”

“Um, yeah, you can have it.” I reached into my sock and pulled out another quarter that had slid under my foot, and handed it to the girl. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Donnie … you are so cute.” The girl and her friend walked away and left me sitting on the bleachers—“quarter-less.”

Now, I realize the neighborhood girl wasn’t interested in me and was only interested in my quarters.

I’m mentioning this story because for the entire time she was talking to me, I was thinking, “She’ll drown me, she’ll drown me, she’ll drown me, she’ll drown me, she’ll drown me, she’ll drown me, she’ll drown me, she’ll drown me,” which distracted me just enough for me to give up both my d*mn quarters.

I took drowning seriously.

The concept was so intimidating that it postponed the loss of my virginity for two or three years.

Fortunately, I wasn’t drowned on my first ‘experience,’ or I might have shaved my head and joined a monastery at the age of 16, and spent the rest of my life drawing pictures of the ocean.

So I would like to thank my old neighbor, and big homie, for giving me advice about women, and for afflicting me with a temporarily debilitating complex—and to let him know that he owes me 50 cents.

Lesson learned: Let her drown you first … then give her the 50 cents.