The Boyfriend, The Witch and The Wardrobe

Only my naiveté had saved me from the psychic attack. that may or may not have originated with the now-unreachable Arcadia. It was, likewise, only my naiveté that kept me from realizing a second attack would be inevitable…and more subtle.

Holly had warned me that I was too visible, too helpful, to escape the notice of whoever wanted to keep the visitors a secret. And it was clear someone did want that secret kept; even without Arcadia's input the sheer number of abductees joining the Support Group made it clear that, if there were even the smallest shred of competence in the government, this phenomenon had to be known to them—and would be of concern.

This was quite a blow to me. I had been brought up a Kennedy Republican, a Catholic who trusted the government to do right by us, and trusted capitalism to serve the needs of mankind for its own enlightened benefit. As I grew older, I had accepted the limited use of secrets for both corporate and governmental use but had never considered that a culture of secrecy lends itself to abuse. Now, it was becoming more and more obvious that secrecy was directly responsible for the terror and pain these hundreds of abductees had endured…that I had endured. And since computers were still found in just a small minority of homes, I had to accept that, for every abductee we in the Support Group could help, there must be ten or twenty or a thousand that were unaware we even existed.

So, to try and combat this culture of secrecy, I opened the book of my life. Anyone who made it into the Support Group knew my real name, my address, my phone number, even my sexual orientation. And, yes, I realized that this exposure made me vulnerable. But I believed it to be important.

The second attack took five months to unfold, and almost a year to even identify…and several years to recover from.

It began with two events that occurred on the same day, a thousand miles apart.

It was mid-October, 1994. I had spent the previous months teaching class all around the country, helping abductees both on CompuServe and who I met, seemingly by accident, in my travels. I had again gone rafting through Grand Canyon, for just one week this time.

And I had started dating.

This was awkward for me. I had married the girl I dated in high school and been married to her for twenty years; I had zero experience with going to bars or other places where one might find a suitable companion. Add to this I am gay; and while TV shows and movies demonstrate good and bad heterosexual dating techniques, I had little idea where to find other gay men and no examples to follow on how to ask one to dinner. It finally occurred to me I might find a manual of some sort in Manchester's "alternative" (adult) book store.

I arrived on a Tuesday evening late in the month. Manchester was its usual cold, gray, slushy, mess. You couldn't help but bring some of it in with you when you entered, and so most places had an employee, mop in hand, trying to keep up. There were no other customers when I arrived at the bookstore; the clerk was cleaning the floors when I came in.

His face flushed with the effort of pushing the mop, he was six feet tall with a killer smile and lively eyes, long dark hair, a goatee and moustache. We hit it off and wound up talking for hours. His name was Steve; he had an abusive ex-boyfriend he still loved and was depressed over the situation. I was sorry to see anyone being mistreated, but happy that at least here was someone I could talk to—and who was willing to talk to me. Steve closed up shop at 11:00 and we continued to talk until after midnight.

I gave him my number. Three days later, he called me and we met for dinner. Then again. Then he came home with me.

In spite of our age difference—I was a little over forty and he was ten years my junior—over the next few months, I fell in love with him. He still lived with the ex-boyfriend, but they slept separately; Steve told me that his ex hadn't spoken a word to him in over six months. I was attentive and did all the things his ex did not. He took me to upstate New York to meet his family for Christmas.

I told him about the abductions. He had previously studied Eckankar, so was familiar with astral projection and other metaphysical concepts. That was a good sign, I thought.

Part of the gay dating ritual, I discovered, is running off to the health clinic together to be tested for HIV. While there, it makes sense to check for everything. Steve's results came back clean: he was not infected. Neither was I. However, there was a peculiarity about my test results, and the lab insisted on running them again, which of course scared me silly. The second results were the same as the first: I had no antibodies. Not to HIV (which was good) but also not to hepatitis, which I'd had a decade or so earlier; not to chickenpox or measles or mumps or anything else—and I'd had the full run of childhood diseases.

We abductees had been told that some of the implants we received, especially the ones at the base of the ear, were "inoculations." It shouldn't have surprised us that the visitors used a different technique of providing immunity to disease than did human doctors. Apparently, the visitors had given me—something—that had removed even the antibody traces of disease. And when I was subsequently exposed to a kid with measles, I didn't get them. The alien inoculations worked.

I am not usually one to ask advice of psychics (any more than I would want to pay someone to design a website for me), but for fun I asked Holly what Grandmother thought of Steve. Really, I was wondering if he might be an abductee. Instead, Grandmother told Holly that Steve was not "the one." My "soul mate" would be the one after Steve.

"Of, course," Holly added, "don't forget—a soul mate isn't neccessarily someone you'd love to be with. It's someone you share significant karma with; and working through that karma can be intense."

But there were stars in my eyes and I promptly put Grandmother's prediction out of my mind.

One morning when we awoke together, we each found an incision on our left biceps. They were about five inches long, painless but angry red, the skin puckered together as though the wounds had been glued together. Steve was horrified and I felt guilty that, apparently by his proximity to me, he'd been taken, too. Over the next three days the incisions healed and vanished without a scar, as they usually did. That mollified him somewhat.

We went to Key West together, and then Provincetown. On what seemed to be the happiest day of my life, Steve agreed to move in with me. I emptied half the drawers in my dresser, and cleared out half my wardrobe. I looked into the future and easily pictured spending the rest of my life with this man. I felt such joy I could scarcely bear it.

Then the bomb dropped.

On April 1st, 1996, the day he was supposed to arrive with his belongings—he didn't. I went to see him at the bookstore. He couldn't look me in the eye. His ex-boyfriend, realizing Steve was preparing to move out, had had a sudden change of heart. They had reconciled. Things were once again just as Steve had prayed for between them.

He hoped we could still be "friends."

I was devastated. I had never truly been in love before, even though I'd been married to a woman for twenty years. I loved her and always will, but I was never in love with her. She's the wrong gender for my biology. Steve was the first time I'd been head-over-heels, stars-in-my-eyes in love with anyone. And now, he was gone. The pain was astounding.

That alone surprised me. I'd heard, and sung, all those broken-hearted love songs; but I'd never actually believed them. I'd assumed they were just hype, like deodorant commercials. I couldn't understand how anyone who had to bear this pain didn't just kill themselves.

It sat in my gut like a stone. It felt like I'd been kicked there, and it didn't fade, not over days or weeks or months. I cried myself sick. I still had to work; my job required me to stand in front of a classroom and teach Windows programming to corporate students. I lectured, but during breaks found a place where I could have privacy and sobbed. I'm sure, seeing my reddened eyes when class resumed, that many of the students thought I'd gotten stoned.

My friends in the Support Group were as helpful as they could be. Ann invited me to her house in Connecticut for the weekend and gave me an impromptu birthday party. Her kids, both under six, hugged me and made it impossible for me to be sad, even though the pain continued unabated. My ex-boyfriend Ray insisted I visit him, and made me watch comedy videos non-stop for three days. That actually helped a little. But these were band-aids. The pain was still intense enough to make me gasp.

My Mom, who had stayed with me the previous summer, had left behind half a bottle of Scotch. I'm not a drinker, but I poured myself a short one. The buzz hit. With horror, I realized the pain had temporarily disappeared. So that's why some people drank! I put the bottle away, refusing to drink any more alcohol until the pain had been processed on its own. I knew instinctively that it had to be handled, not supressed.

My night lessons with the aliens stopped, though the contacts continued. Previously, the visitors had shown me that all matter is made of particles, which I assumed were the quantum particles Earth physicists study. These particles have a property analogous to vibration. Lighter, more ethereal substances such as air possess a higher vibration than earthier substances such as rock. Living beings possess a higher vibration than non-living substances. And happy people have a higher vibration than sad people.

A high frequency is necessary to support reliable psychic gifts. The night lessons had been conducted astrally; my frequency was now so low I could no longer astral project, even under the visitors' guidance. So the lessons stopped.

I felt as if my frequency had fallen clear to the bottom of the dial, a notch or two below mud.

I felt like I was blind.

And it just kept getting worse, with aliens and humans seeming to conspire against me.

In Provincetown, Steve had bought me a silver earring that I wore from that day on. One day my Mom and I visited her cousin in eastern New York state. While they chatted I had the urge to wander into the woods behind his house. I thought I was gone for just a few minutes, but I was missing for two hours—and when I returned, the earring was missing. I couldn't imagine what message the visitors were trying to give me. Well, I could—he's gone, you won't hear any more from him, let him go—but that wasn't a message I was willing to accept.

Friends tried to "fix me up." Straight folks generally know a few openly gay people, and when they find two who are unattached, they can't wait to pair them off. I met several men in this way with whom I had nothing whatsoever in common, other than our being gay.

One night Sharon, from the Support Group, called on the phone. She had organized an abductee convention, she explained, to be held in South Carolina, and would I like to attend? I was reluctant. I didn't have the energy. I told her I had classes both the week before and the week after her convention, neither one in South Carolina. But Sharon wasn't going to give up so easily. She had, she added, someone for me to meet. "He's gay," she announced. "He's from Atlanta," she added. "He's a hairdresser."

I couldn't really picture myself falling in love with a hairdresser, but now it seemed Sharon had gone to a lot of trouble trying to match me up with someone. And, who knew? Maybe this would be the man Grandmother had said was coming.

I arrived at the Holiday Inn where the convention was being held, late Friday night. I was supposed to meet my blind date, but I couldn't find him or Sharon anywhere. I gave up and went to my hotel room.

Out of boredom, I was idly thumbing through the Yellow Pages when I stumbled on ads for escorts. I had never noticed this category before, but there it was. I had never, never, paid for sex (unless you include my marriage). But I was so lonely, and in so much pain, that I was tempted. I called one of the establishments listed and asked if they happened to have any male escorts.

"We do have one," the woman on the phone said in a friendly voice. "Would you like us to send him over?"

"Well, what's he like?" I hesitated.

"He's about thirty," the woman said. "He has long, dark hair, a goatee and moustache; he's six feet tall and his name is Steve."

I slammed the handset on the receiver and cried myself to sleep.

Robin, the young man I was supposed to meet, was introduced to me Saturday morning. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but was not my type. He was short; he wore his hair too long; he had a particularly annoying Georgia accent melded to a whiny voice. His aura was so dim I could barely make it out, which made me wonder if he was ill. It turned out that we did have something in common: an interest in metaphysics, which of course should be expected at a UFO convention. But Robin's interest went further than most: He was, he said, studying to be a witch. "Not a Wiccan witch," he clarified. "A real witch."

Wicca is claimed to be an ancient religion, in which the Earth as Goddess is worshipped. Some of its practitioners are called witches, in the way that some practitioners of Presbyterianism are called ministers and some practitioners of Spiritualism are called mediums. But, unless Robin was referring to the Samantha Stevens' style of witchcraft as shown on Bewitched, I had no idea what he meant. "You'll see," he said gleefully, "as soon as you meet Virginia. She's very powerful."

Shortly afterwards, I did meet the woman and her husband, Clark. She was quite beautiful, with long, platinum blonde hair. For some reason, I barely remember Clark—I think he was tall—but for me to notice the wife instead of the husband gives you an idea of how compelling she was.

She did not exhibit any Samantha-like powers, just spoke at lunch of Alistair Crowley, the famous early 20^th century Satanist. Ah—that's what Robin meant by "real" witch, I thought, the smile frozen on my face. Okay, I'll be ditching these people soon. But not immediately; I didn't want to be rude and I thought it would be interesting to learn more about them.

The keyword seemed to be "power". That's what Robin kept saying that Virginia had, and he said it with great awe and envy. He was a short guy, and I began to think that maybe he had felt powerless for much of his life. Witchcraft presented a way to gain control, if only he could master the abilities Virginia was trying to teach him.

Robin and Virginia and Clark and I attended the various presentations together. I met Budd Hopkins, author of Missing Time and Intruders and even got to talk with him after his presentation. We strolled among the exhibits, and when we bumped into Sharon we congratulated her on the excellent convention she had assembled.

Then, after dinner, Virginia and Clark melted away and Robin and I were left alone. I had made it clear that I thought Robin was a nice guy but not really my type. But he began to speak of his ex-lover, an abusive man who had literally left him with bruises—and my buttons were pushed. My own wounds were so fresh, I found my eyes misting in empathy with his pain. I saw him to his room, and then we continued talking, and then we were in his bed.

And afterwards, during the night, Robin occasionally woke me with a nightmare cry; but then, realizing I was there, he held me tightly and returned to sleep.

Steve, too, had partially awakened from nightmares, and found comfort in my embrace. I did what I could for poor, frightened Robin. But what I really longed for was someone who would embrace me in the night.

In the morning, we woke together and smiled at each other; if my smile was a little sad Robin didn't seem to notice. He rose, slipped on a pair of shorts, and opened the door to the adjoining room. To my surprise, the door on the other side of it was already open. It was Virginia and Clark's room.

Virginia stepped through wearing a broad but sinister grin; however the moment she saw Robin it faded and was replaced by such a terrifyingly malevolent expression that I wondered what had happened. Robin's aura, which had been dim when we met, was glowing brightly. Did Virginia see that too? That she was upset by something was confirmed when we couldn't find her or Clark for the breakfast we were supposed to share. And, by lunchtime, Robin was gone from the convention, too. Sharon caught up with me, somewhat puzzled. "Did you and Robin have a fight?" she asked.

"No, I don't think so," I replied.

"Well, they left early," Sharon explained. "Virginia seemed angry and Robin seemed frightened."

I didn't know what had happened. I wasn't sorry that Robin was gone; I knew we would never have a long-lasting relationship. But I did feel as if God, or the Universe, or Something, was toying with me.

"I really expected Virginia to stay for the whole convention," Sharon continued, more aware of her own hurt than my dark emotions. "After all, it was her idea."

Something about that caught my attention. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. When we first met, last October. As soon as Virginia found out I was an abductee, she suggested my putting together this convention. She said she foresaw it would be a success, as it has been. But we talked about it several times, she gave me a lot of advice. After all, I've never put on any kind of convention before."

I tried to picture Sharon's meeting with Virginia. "Why did you mention you were an abductee?" I asked.

"Well…I didn't, not really. She just seemed to know. But she is a witch, after all."

I felt my pulse quicken. "You don't happen to remember when in October this happened?"

"Not offhand, but I can look it up." She opened her purse and pulled out a thick, well-worn daily planner, opened it and flipped back a few pages. "Here it is. I was in New Orleans and we met at a bookstore. October 24th. Tuesday."

"What time was it?"

Sharon closed her planner. "Well, it was evening," she said. "I'd say around eight o'clock when we met. But we talked for hours. In fact, she closed up shop and we continued to talk until around midnight."

I was gasping. "Steve and I met on October 24th," I explained. "We celebrated monthly 'anniversaries' until we broke up; since then I've thrown darts into that date on the calendar."

"What an odd coincidence!" Sharon agreed.

"I wonder," I said, not so sure it was a coincidence at all. "Tell me, when did you meet Robin?"

"Well, yesterday," Sharon admitted. "We'd never met before."

"But you told me he would be here a month ago," I pointed out.

"Yes, but we'd never met," Sharon explained. "Virginia's the one who told me about him."

"And when was that?"

Sharon turned through page after page. This took longer, as she had to glance at each entry in her notes. Finally, she said, "April 1st was the first time she mentioned him to me."

I nodded miserably. "The very day that Steve dumped me," I said, then blinked. "Why would Virginia make a point to tell you Robin was gay?"

"Well, I don't know," Sharon said in confusion. "I think she thought he and you would get along."

"He and I? How did Virginia ever hear about me?"

Sharon stared. "I have no idea," she said. "I guess I must have mentioned you."

"But you don't remember doing that."

Sharon shook her head. "No, not really."

From what I'd read of Alistair Crowley, his philosophy had been centered around psychic energy: Why you'd want it, and how to get it. He saw the primary source of this energy as being other people, and he viewed life as a struggle in which everyone attempts to steal energy from everyone else. The ones who get the most are successful, healthy, dynamic, charismatic—and these qualities draw other people to them, giving them even more of this energy.

I now understood that what Crowley called "energy" the visitors called "frequency."

Crowley described simple ways to steal small amounts of energy—for example, hogging a conversation. When people take turns speaking, each speaker gets energy—that is, attention—from the listeners. When everyone takes equal turns, no one suffers a net loss or gain. But when one person does most of the talking, he or she gains and the others lose.

Another method is to make a person feel inadequate, by insulting them or dwelling on their mistakes or abusing them physically.

But Crowley was a Satanist, and also taught psychic tricks to steal energy. Sexual manipulation was employed in many of those techniques.

"Light" and "Love" (with capital Ls) are synonyms for what the aliens called "frequency". Remember, they don't talk; but the images/feelings they used felt to me like Light and Love, with a mechanism of frequency.

I now realized that Robin's low self-esteem, which may have originated (or been exacerbated) by his abusive ex-boyfriend, had not been uplifted by his relationship with Virginia, or he wouldn't have had the dim aura I'd seen when we first met. When we had sex, I had flooded him with all the Love I longed to give Steve. Crowley didn't know about Love and neither do his followers. I learned about it when I was taught the heart meditation by my Sufi friends. When Virginia saw Robin the morning after we slept together, his aura—and frequency—had become much brighter; and she'd gotten angry. Clearly her plan, whatever it was, had been thwarted.

It wasn't too hard to imagine that Arcadia, a self-professed "full clairvoyant," having failed to kill me with her psychic heart attack, might have turned to a Satanist witch to complete the job. (And if it wasn't Arcadia, whoever had been responsible.) Unknown to Sharon, Virginia could have secretly been a member of the Support Group and, as such, would have been able to find out enough about me to determine that a disastrous love affair might be enough to bring me into her circle by turning her acolyte on me when I was at my lowest.

Except, the plan had backfired. Instead of pulling me in, I had raised Robin's frequency enough to possibly pull himself out.

Had this really been the scenario? Or was a broken heart merely spinning tales to make my pain a little more bearable?

Well, if it had been a plot, it was a failure. It didn't matter whether I had met Steve by chance or by design. I had fallen in love with him nevertheless, and now regardless of the cause I would have to recover from a broken heart the same as anyone else.

When the convention was over, I went for a walk in the woods adjacent to the hotel. I found an opening in the trees and began sobbing. "I know this is all for a reason," I cried into the air. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it. And I don't."

I firmly believe in reincarnation. Death holds no fear for me. But the idea of a lifetime of such intense pain looming ahead was more than I could bear.

I had purchased (expensive) tickets for Steve and me to go on a two-week rafting trip in Grand Canyon in August. "I want to go to Grand Canyon with a lover," I told whatever deity might be listening. "If You can't do that for me, after all I do for You…well, then. I'll go into Grand Canyon, but I won't come out."

There it was. I had threatened the Universe. I knew such a threat had to be made seriously.

My primary motivation in working with abductees had been to do good, to leave the world a better place than I had found it. I didn't imagine that the world would ever recognize my efforts but it seemed reasonable to me that the Universe might. I wasn't asking for prizes or rewards, but it now seemed as if the Universe had gone out of Its way to make me unhappy and that seemed unfair.

I have children I love, but they're grown. I have friends and relatives who would miss me. And I would miss them. But I had decided: This was my life and I was going to live it on my terms. I didn't want to be alone the rest of my life. I'd had a taste of love, and I was hooked. Stepping off a 700 foot cliff in Grand Canyon might be messy, but it would also be final; and then the Universe would just have to find someone else to do the job I'd been doing here. Or, It could find me another boyfriend. I didn't think that was too much to ask.

It sounds funny. It sounds preposterous. But I was grimly, deadly, serious.