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My name is Kyle. Kyle Jameson. You may laugh at me for saying this, but I was not a man who was lucky in love. I don’t like to make a braggart of myself and make egotistical claims about myself, but I at least considered myself decently good-looking. It had been years since my last bout with acne, and I had no birthmarks, rashes, or other disturbing skin afflictions to mar my image. I wasn’t an overweight, flabby-armed, fat-legged dork who spends his free time making a permanent butt-print on the living room couch watching TV. I wasn’t an over-muscled, dim-witted jerk jock who captained every sports team. I was just an average college boy, kinda skinny, a little lanky, a bit unshaven, but did that necessarily have to equal ‘unattractive’? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I haven’t tried. I’d be the biggest pessimist in the world if I just assumed I was a chick repulsor without prior experimentation. I had one tried-and-failed experience with a girl who, over the years, became