The Three-Step Persistence Plan

Would I Be Killed by a Terrorist… or Find a Husband?

“You’ll never get married. It’s more likely you’ll be killed by a terrorist!”

“There’s a better chance you’ll fall into a black hole!”

“You’re going to end up an old maid!”

“You’re too assertive and too up-front with your feelings. The man is wired to be the trapper. You’re supposed to be the fox.”

These words of discouragement came from my girlfriends during my 20s and 30s. I was unwilling to play the traditional romance game or let the man chase me. It would have felt dishonest. It would have felt alien. It would have felt un-Charlotte-like.

Plus, I was disinterested in almost every man I met. It felt like I was on the brink of asexuality. I was always one step away from an attraction to no one. Did I belong to the same phylum as bacteria, fungus, or the annelid worm? Did I not need a mate? Was there something wrong with me?

My gal pals would gush over tons of guys, from male models to movie stars and stylish chaps they met around town. Yet I’d be indifferent. They would drag me to pick-up joints, where I’d read philosophy books in the corner. They would vixen it up at singles parties, but I’d sit alone on the patio with the crickets and toads. They would flirt with “tall, dark, and handsomes” at the dog park, while I’d fawn over my neutered sheepdog as if he were the sexiest stud in the state.     

  

Thankfully, there was usually one guy who piqued my interest during those mostly-celibate years. First there was Tom (a singer), and then years later there was Jed (a teacher). Years after that, there was Eric (an engineer), then James (an executive), then Pat (a psychologist) and finally Charles (a lawyer).  

I did not pretend to be aloof and make these guys chase me because that would be deceptive and dismissive of my independent and decisive nature. In addition, “playing the game” would require waiting by the phone for my boyfriend to call. This would lead to anxiety and depression, which would lead to a lack of focus on self-improvement, which would lead to being a boring human being, which would lead to getting ditched and having to start the romance game over. Starting over did not work for me, especially as I assumed my boyfriend was the last dapper dude on the planet, the only man who could capture my heart. From past experience, I knew that I’d go through years of celibacy in order to find another “keeper”—that is, if I was lucky.

I eventually got dumped by each of these guys. Sometimes it was after years. Sometimes it was after months. I was loyal and devoted, thus I was always the dumpee. Ironically, this led to the angst and crushing misery that I was trying to avoid in the first place.

When my final boyfriend, Charles, called it quits after our three-year relationship, I changed my strategy. I invented the Three-Step Persistence Plan (TSPP).

The TSPP—which embraces a woman’s tenacious and assertive nature—is based on several assumptions: 1) If a man was once interested in you, he can be interested again, 2) It is beneficial to avoid the pain that normally accompanies a break-up, 3) Time provides a loving girlfriend with a wide array of permanent-partner options because she has more past boyfriends with whom she could be reunited. In my case, I was still in love with Charles so he was my target.  

The first step was to mark a date on the calendar at least six months in the future. This would be the day in which I would coincidentally (defined as “not so coincidentally”) run into Charles. I would have no contact with him until then. During this six-month period, I would not bury my tears in self-help books, join the all-men-are-jerks bandwagon, or eat crates of Double Stuff Oreos. The biggest benefit of the TSPP was that I was able to remain upbeat and optimistic because I had a goal. I had hope for a romantic reunion.   

Step two was to better myself and improve my life. I wanted to be the best I could be, not only for myself, but also for Charles. I exercised, dieted, was industrious in order to increase my income, and worked toward a doctorate at USC.

Step three was to show up for the reunion. I knew that in-person contact was crucial because most men are visual creatures. I could have popped into Charles’ favorite gym, pretended to visit someone at his office building, or gotten a mutual friend to invite him to a restaurant where I already happened to be. Instead I sent him an anonymous invitation for dinner at a Venice Beach apartment.   

Although I was unsure whether Charles would go to a strange place to meet a possibly even stranger person, I made the preparations. I got dolled up, cooked a tasty meal, and positioned romantic candles around the apartment. Then I waited nervously.   

To make an amusing story short, Charles showed up, surprised to find that I was the foreman behind the ploy. We rekindled our relationship that evening and a year later, he proposed marriage.   

The Three-Step Persistence Plan is the reason why I’ve been happily married for over twenty years. It is the reason why I no longer pour over philosophy books at pick-up bars. And it is the reason why I feel like a stronger and more self-sufficient woman.  

This strategy will increase your chance of finding a permanent partner, allow you to embrace your assertive nature, and reduce the odds of being killed by a terrorist. (Well, maybe not that last part.)

____

Published in Thrive Global on July 15, 2019.

Tom Jones was my first boyfriend; we dated for three years

Some people call me the “Erin Brockovich of revenge porn” because I fought a misogynistic website and help victims remove their humiliating, nude photos from the Internet. But prior to my clash with cyber-crime, I was a rebel in romance.  

I’ve never embraced pop culture’s philosophy about traditional dating roles and the need for game-playing. I don’t believe women are designed to be passive and weak—essentially prey—while male suitors boldly select the gazelles of their choice. I support gender equality and encourage women to persevere, be fierce and actively pursue their romantic dreams, even when those dreams seem outlandish. 

I had my own outlandish dream at the age of nine. I hoped to date—when I was older, of course—Welsh superstar and sex symbol, Tom Jones. Naturally, I did not believe this could happen. 

Although Tom was twenty years my senior and lived nowhere near my home state of Georgia, I foolishly announced to family and friends that I was in love with him. Mockery, teasing and insults followed. My fourth grade classmates called my crush, “stupid.” They stuck gushy poems (which they signed, “Love, Tom Jones”) into my desk at school and erupted in laughter when I found them.  

Home meant more embarrassment. My brother caught me kissing the TV set during Tom’s weekly variety show in 1969 and taunted me, “You’ve got a boyfriend. His name is Sony. Don’t you think he’s a little square?” and “You got mononucleosis from the boob tube. Eww, gross. That’s obscene.”

At sixteen, my romantic feelings for Tom had not vanished and neither had the criticism. My father—who had always described show business folks as “low class and inferior”—seemed to think his own daughter was more inferior. He stared at me and asked, “Why would he [Tom Jones] want to go out with you?” 

I did not condemn family and friends for this abject pessimism because I thought they were right. Self-esteem was like the unicorn in my bathtub. It did not exist. My bedroom mirror convinced me that I was ten pounds overweight and not-so-pretty. I was an inferiority complex embedded within an imperfect body, trapped within a community of naysayers. 

My life changed drastically that summer. 

It was the night of my first concert. This was not a Tom Jones show; the entertainer was Jerry Lee Lewis, known for the songs, “Great Balls of Fire” and “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On.” Following the performance, I was plucked from the audience, invited backstage and asked to join Jerry Lee for dinner. I declined. However, what ensued was a heart-to-heart chat with Jerry Lee’s friend, JD. This white-haired man infused me with much-needed confidence. He was the Santa Claus of compliments; and I found myself embracing the “I think I can” mindset. JD treated me like his pupil, convincing me that I could land a date with Tom.     

“You could go out with him, young lady,” JD said and added a sprinkle of logic. “Of course he’d be interested. After all, Jerry Lee is interested, isn’t he?” 

It made perfect sense. If Jerry Lee was interested, maybe Tom would be as well. For the first time, I felt pretty. I was able to embrace my inner peacock. I thanked JD and scurried from the concert hall, ready for my new adventure. 

Strategizing seemed integral to success. A person cannot normally approach a celebrity, brush aside gigantic security guards, casually say, “Hey, how about a date?” and expect a favorable response. So, I plotted. And I schemed. And I plotted some more. I even took Welsh lessons, unaware that Tom did not know the language. Months later, when I was seventeen, I flew to Las Vegas where Tom was headlining at Caesars Palace. 

Charlotte Laws and Tom Jones in 2010

I spent a full week in tenacity mode. I was like a heat-seeking missile. I sat ringside at Tom’s show. I bribed a bellman to give me Tom’s suite number. I met Tom’s mother. I gave flowers to his parents. I crept through secret passageways in an effort to finagle myself backstage. I sat on the floor outside Tom’s suite, waiting for him. I phoned the dressing room to ask if I could drop by. I even donned a provocative showgirl costume with a feather headdress and “coincidentally” ran into Tom in the hallway. We chatted for five minutes. Unfortunately, all of my carefully contrived schemes crashed to the ground like broken kites, and I returned to Atlanta.  

Although I had failed, I was not discouraged because the most important component for success—persistence—was wholly intact. I believed—or at least hoped—I was the “little Atlanta girl who could” go out with my dream man... eventually. I restarted the shenanigans a year and a half later when I was eighteen. Tom was scheduled to perform in Fort Lauderdale. So, like before, I strategized ferociously. I fasted for seventeen days on nothing but water in order to lose weight. I snagged a ringside seat at his show, pretending to be the winner of a beauty pageant. I secured a hotel room adjacent to Tom’s suite. I procured backstage invitations from the theater manager and two musicians. But, this time my plans did not fail. Instead, they were unnecessary because Tom, in fact, had his own plan.    

He saw me sitting ringside at his show, remembered me from Vegas and asked his publicist to invite me backstage. I fidgeted on a velvet couch in his dressing room while I waited for him to emerge from the back room. I had waited almost ten years for this very moment. Insecurity pulsed through my veins. Would I blow it? Would he like me? Maybe I was ugly. Or fat. Perhaps I should have fasted for eighteen days or nineteen. I felt like that nine year old child who had been told, “stop dreaming,” more times than there are days in a year. 

Tom eventually joined me on the couch, and he recalled what I’d told him in Vegas. I was astonished. He remembered my name, my hobbies and details about my parents. He had truly noticed me at Caesars Palace, and I suddenly realized that my perceived “failures” were not failures at all. They were stepping stones to my fantasy date. They were pivotal moments, lifting me closer to love. 

I thought I was in love with Tom at age nine, but I knew I was in love with him that evening. There was never one second of disappointment. Tom was exactly as I’d always imagined. We had dinner in the dressing room, and then a limousine took us to the discothèque, Studio 51.  

At Studio 51, Tom snuggled up beside me. His arm caressed my shoulder, and his fingers played with my long curls. He sipped Dom Perignon, and we chatted. I was euphoric, and I felt like a princess until… panic hit me. I suddenly realized I would have to make a decision that night about whether or not to stay with Tom. I had never had sex and had no idea what I would do when he made a pass at me. It was not a question of “if.” I was certain it was “when.” This was a big step in my life. Would I say yes? Or no? I wondered how “maybe” would play. I wished I could phone a friend, but that was impossible. I glanced at the shadowy ceiling of the nightclub, longing for guidance from the universe. My brain was in shambles. It was experiencing ecstasy, followed by “freak out,” followed by more ecstasy, followed by another round of “freak out.”  

Tom and I left Studio 51 and ended up in his hotel suite. I still had no clue what to do. Tom nibbled on grapes in the dining room, while I retreated to a couch in the darkened living room, staring at a blank wall and hoping for a miracle. Finally, I stood and walked slowly towards Tom, repeating in my head, “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?” 

When I reached him, he asked, “Are you going to stay tonight?” I suddenly knew the answer.

And the rest is history as detailed in my memoir, Rebel in High Heels.

___

Charlotte Laws, Ph.D. is the author of the tell-all memoir Rebel in High Heels, which details Laws’ romance with Sir Tom Jones, her dangerous battle against “the most hated man on the Internet,” and her other outrageous adventures. Laws—known throughout the world as the Erin Brockovich of revenge porn—has been an NBC commentator, California politician, private investigator, FBI lecturer, and magazine covergirl. You can follow her on Twitter @CharlotteLaws