being right can make U feel worse, not better . . . Friday night the phone rang . . . the timing could not have been better, or worse, depending on your perspective . . . that very afternoon i had taken an "affidavit of fraudulent use" of my credit card to be notarized . . . in fact, the guy to whom i had reported its loss had been wrong about the computer records . . . a careful look at the statement revealed that whoever stole it had been using it in Manhattan, not Brooklyn, increasing my suspicion that the Lonely Surfer had sticky fingers . . . but who knew he was stupid, too?

hey growled the unfamiliar voice . . . who is this? i asked . . . your friend from the park. are u coming tonight? . . . which friend? i persisted even though i now recognized the Lonely Surfer's New Jersey accent . . . how many friends do ya got in the park? . . . more than u know, buddy . . . how did u get my phone number? i demanded . . . u gave it to me . . . but i knew i hadn't and that he couldn't recall my first name the last time we had sex . . . i remember what street u live on he protested when i refused to remind him . . . then just call me 88 i had teased.

i called him a lot worse on the phone which probably wasn't the smartest thing to do . . . he denied stealing my wallet of course . . . i'm not a thief . . . but i didn't stay on the line long enough to argue the point with him . . . guilty way beyond a shadow of a doubt, he got my name and address from the ID in my wallet and looked me up in the phone book . . . he probably hoped the trail had gone cold in my mind after nearly three weeks and that i would invite him up to my place on a chilly, cloudy Friday night for some more of the overheated sex we'd been having.

so now what? . . . it's better knowing who victimized U but my options are limited . . . uh, u see officer, this guy pick pocketed me while we were having anonymous sex in the park. i know this because theft is the only way he could have gotten my phone number. can u help me? . . . that scenario just ain't gonna fly, even under the less homophobic Bloomberg administration . . . maybe i should just beat the shit out of Pete (supposedly his real name). . . or not, if a cooler head prevails the next time i run into him on the bench where he stalks his prey.

more worrisome, however, is what further damage Pete can still do with all my vital information . . . like steal my identity now that he has my social security number . . . yeah that's right i was foolish enough to carry my card . . . for sentimental reasons, no less . . . who gets sentimental about their first piece of ID for Christ's sake? . . . that would be yours truly: looking at my childish signature, characterized by an inconsistent slant and big loops in the upper zone, reminded me of a more innocent time . . . did someone say therapy?

even before Pete made his blunder i freaked out upon returning to my building not long ago . . . someone had rifled thru the can where we put our recyclables . . . papers were strewn everywhere, an unusual occurrence . . . did Pete find any of my financial statements, which i routinely discard in bundles of tied up newspapers? . . . remind me if he calls again to give him my pin number and my mother's maiden name.

paranoia is a much higher price to pay for great sex half a dozen times than the loss of $200 and the aggravation of replacing the contents of my wallet . . . i wonder if Continental Airlines serves Antigua? . . . u guessed it, Pete go my frequent flier cards too.