A Short Story About My Very Big Crush on a Very Dead Guy

He was drop-dead gorgeous. Spinoza was a hunk. Unfortunately, he was “temporally unavailable” in the same way that some men are “geographically undesirable.” This is because he had been dead for over three hundred years.

It was 1992. I was thirty-two and unfortunately still single. I was taking classes at California State University, Northridge (CSUN) prepping for a doctoral program at the University of Southern California.    

It was the first day of a CSUN class. I flipped through the course text, The Great Philosophers, perusing pictures of the dead blokes I would be studying that semester. René Descartes looked like a snarky know-it-all. “Got fried” perfectly described Gottfried Leibniz’s waist-length, overly curly wig. It appeared to have been blitzed by high tension wires. But Baruch Spinoza was the handsomest man I’d ever seen (in this particular portrait on page 103). In fact, he looked a little like my first boyfriend (singer Tom Jones), except for the shoulder-length curls.

I knew nothing about these so-called seventeenth-century “rationalists,” who believed that knowledge was independent of sense experience. Plus, I was not versed on the other great thinkers pictured in the book, such as St. Augustine, Nietzsche, and Wittgenstein. But I knew the professor would be taking us on an enlightening cruise through the waters of Western philosophy.

Two months later, we had not yet studied the hunk on page 103. In fact, I no longer remembered his name when suddenly the teacher outlined a theory on the blackboard, and I became as excited as the “class” that had finally located its “struggle.” I had found my ideological soul mate, and his name was Baruch Spinoza. Like me, this Dutch philosopher argued that the universe was determined and amoral and that humans were arrogant in placing themselves above nonhumans on the Great Chain of Being. It was only a matter of minutes before I reexamined the course book to discover that the hunk and soul mate were one and the same.

“Are you dating anyone?” my gal pal, Lynn, asked that night during our usual “girl talk” phone session.

“No, but I have a crush on a philosopher born in 1632,” I joked.

“Oh, that’s really funny,” she replied. “You have a crush on a guy who died in 1677.”

It felt like I’d been zapped by Leibniz’s electrical wire. I was in shock because Spinoza did, in fact, die in 1677.

“Why did you say that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. 

Lynn had never studied philosophy or heard of Spinoza. I designated this as the first spooky experience of my life.

Before this, I’d considered paranormal experiences to be fraudulent, often the result of an overactive imagination. I’d placed great value on logic and evidence. But Lynn’s comment had changed my perspective. Suddenly I was unsure about it all. 

I vacationed in Europe a year later. I had never really fancied travel, but when I did go out of town, it was to visit someone special, such as a boyfriend or my birth parents or a particular VIP whom I didn’t yet know but hoped to befriend. I had never been one for tourist attractions or group tours. They felt like conformity traps. The error with this vacation was that I had designed it without a person in mind. It was an aimless wander from one foreign city to another. And for me, this was a recipe for boredom and restlessness. 

The good news was that when I hit Holland, I realized that I was visiting someone after all: Spinoza. He was the VIP whom I hoped to befriend. His aura infused every cobblestone street, delightful Dutch structure, and winding waterway. I suddenly believed I knew secrets about him. Somehow I’d inhaled his spirit. I was in sync. I seemed to understand the synapses in his brain. It was as if his essence was my essence. I had additional unexplainable experiences, and every clue suggested I was in the right place, at the right time, visiting the right person. 

It also felt as if I were being led from place to place not by my head, heart, or feet but rather by a mysterious ally called intuition. I came to believe that there is a secret drawer that goes ignored and untapped by most people, yet it holds powerful tools and insights. I came to believe that cause and effect operate on a more unobservable, immeasurable, and far-reaching level than I’d ever imagined. I was certain the tossing universe had secrets to which humans and science would never be privy.

After my Spinoza trip, I came to rely upon intuition. As a Realtor, I avoided two vacant houses that simply did not feel right. As a hiker, I abandoned a woodsy trail that felt dangerous. Maybe intuition saved my life. Maybe it didn’t. I will never know. My odd happenings and link to Spinoza also put me on a certain path within academia and led me to devise the unique animal rights philosophy I hold today.

Spinoza has cloaked me with a spiritual veil, forever changing the way I view things. He has shown me that while the forces toss and turn, there may be sneaky little dwarfs who whistle while they work. And he has taught me that I should have no fear, because in the end, the universe is just like Snow White: It always lives happily ever after.

“Spin”—the man I jokingly call “my husband in a future life”—has made a huge impact on this life. He will forever remain a part of my heart.
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This article appeared in Thought Catalog on June 19, 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.

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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