Big T's opinion flattened me, and echoed in my head like bad poetry. In 14 words and four seconds, he had managed to articulate what I feared most.

Five years later, that then-boyfriend is my present boyfriend, living in New York, visiting on weekends and humoring my harebrained column ideas ("Come on, pleeease, let me do you up the ass!"). Our relationship is better than ever, but I'm still troubled by the what if behind Big T's glib observation.

Could it be possible that this casual acquaintance, who hardly knew me and knew Andy even more superficially, had nailed his snap judgment?

Bonnie Kaye thinks so.

The relationship counselor and author has built a career on gut instincts ... specifically, validating them in others.

As the founder of ManReaders (www.manreaders.com), a Philly-based dating consultation service, Kaye warns women off emotional misfits, rotten eggs and other "broken" men. Her book, ManReaders: A Woman's Guide to Dysfunctional Men, outlines a litany of these best-dodged dirtbags, but she and her team of ManReaders also offer vis-à-vis evaluations to help assess a john's relationship potential.

Collectively, the ManReaders have weathered eight marriages and six divorces. "People think I'm psychic ... I'm not," says Kaye. "I've just been through it."

Still, I had my doubts. How could they condense five years' worth of us into 45 minutes of him? And would they tell me anything new, or just yell fire where I already smelled smoke?

There was only one way to find out.

Kaye starts with general questions. What are my values? Fears? Reservations? I tell her how much Andy and I are alike, that we rarely fight, how we' re both crazy career-driven. But the more I talk, the more I realize I'm skirting an elephant.

"I guess, sometimes, maybe, I don't know ... I worry that we're just, like, best friends ... that there' s no movie passion."

There. I said it.

"You're too young to settle for a best friend," she says, and my insides roll. I change the topic.

After setting our ManReading date at 30th Street Station, I do my best to prepare Andy: "They're gonna say you treat me like gold, but that you're clinically depressed, drink too much, work too much and that you're too effeminate."

He glares at me. I glare back.

That Saturday, we're running late. He cracks divorcee jokes and accidentally spills coffee down his shirt.

"Why can't we ever do anything fun?!" he hisses as we speed toward the ManReaders at center kiosk. I hush him quiet.

After a quick round of introductions, everyone moves toward the food court. Kaye and I hang back 20 or so paces.

"I don't think he's your type," she says.

This comes seven minutes after meeting us. Two minutes later, I'm told to get lost for an hour.

As I watch the arms on the clock drag past, I feel sick and abandoned ... like a woman who's just seen her husband of 40 years disappear into the E.R. on a blood-soaked gurney.

Is he gonna be all right? Are we gonna be all right? What will the doctors say when they round the corner, all stone-faced and unaffected? Do I really want to know? (To be continued ...)

Questions? Comments? Know a sexy idea we should steal from another city? E-mail ashlea.halpern@citypaper.net. No calls.