May We Be Forgiven Part 14

The next night I am at it again, craving something, thinking it would be nice to have someone to share my wonton soup with.

I post a listing of my own. There is a corporate headshot of George on his computer, taken a few years ago, when his hair was better, when he was thinner. I upload it as my own. "Home Alone-Westchester Man Seeks Play Mate; tired soul craving nourishment-meet me for a smoothie, my treat. NSA."

A minute after I post it, a woman e-mails, "I know you."

"Doubtful."

"No, really," she says.

"Happy to chat, but trust me no one knows me."

"Photo for photo," she says.

"Okay," I say, and it feels like a game of cards-Go Fish. I search George's computer and find a photo of him on vacation, fishing pole in hand. I upload it.

She sends a photo of her shaved crotch.

"I don't think we're on the same page," I type back.

"George," she writes, terrifying me.

"?," I type.

"I used to work for you. I heard about the accident."

"I don't follow," I type, full well knowing exactly what she's talking about.

"I'm Daddy's little girl. We pretend Mommy's gone out. You ask to check my homework. I bring it to your office 18th Floor 30 Rockefeller Plaza. I do whatever you tell me to-I never disobey Daddy. You ask me to suck your c.o.c.k, tell me it tastes like cookie dough. You're right. And then I bend over your desk, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s sweeping pens off your blotter while you have me from behind. The office door is open, you like the possibility that someone might walk in."

"Tell me more," I type.

"Oh come on George, it's okay. I'm not with the network anymore. I quit. I got a better job. My new boss is a lesbian."

"I'm not George," I type.

"Your photo," she writes.

"I'm the brother."

"You don't have a brother, you're an only child," she types. "That's what you told everyone, you were an only child, the apple of your mother's eye."

"Not true."

"Whatever," she types. "Goodbye and good luck, George."

In George's home office, I find a small digital camera, shoot some pictures of myself, upload them, and see how bad I look-I had no idea. Retreating to the upstairs bathroom, I give myself an ersatz makeover, combing, shaving, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, using Jane's hair gel to coif my chest hair, which has recently turned a kind of steel gray. I put on one of George's pressed shirts and take photos again, progressively undressing myself, shirt unb.u.t.toned, shirt off, pants unb.u.t.toned, unzipped, naked to the underwear line. I upload the photos-create a profile, "Ever heard of the Lonely Professor?"

In the morning, I wonder if any of it really happened or if it's all some warped wet dream. I shower, make breakfast, walk the dog. I stay away from George's office until nine-thirty.

I've got mail: "In the interest of full disclosure, I am someone in the process of transitioning." I'm thinking it's from a woman who lost her job, or is getting a divorce, but no. "For thirty-five years I lived as a man, but for the last three I've been a woman. I think of myself as a regular girl looking to meet a regular guy. If you're not interested-a polite no thanks will do."

"Soccer mom with time between games. Lets meet in my minivan. I'll c.u.m to you."

"I'm miserable," the next one writes. "Don't even ask for details. Last week I increased my medication which gave me the energy to write this. Now, I'd like to get laid. Happy to host or meet for a BLT. Lets have lunch!"

I e-mail back, "What's a BLT?"

"Bacon lettuce tomato? Duh."

"Sorry, all the online acronyms are getting to me."

"What do you like for lunch?"

"I'm easy," I type. "A can of soup is fine."

She sends directions. "Don't be weird, okay."

"Okay," I write back. I can't believe I'm doing this. The woman lives seven miles from George's house. I get there, nervously park behind her car in the driveway, ring the bell. A perfectly normal woman answers. "Are you you?" I ask.

"Come in," she says. We sit in her kitchen. She pours me a gla.s.s of wine. We chat as she's taking things out of the refrigerator. I find myself staring at a large dry-erase board with a multicolored chart/schedule. The names Brad, Tad, Lad, Ed, and ME are written down the left side, and Monday, Tuesday...across the top. Each name has its schedule-football, tutoring, cla.s.s trip, yoga, potluck-in a matching color, Ed in red, ME in yellow.

"Do you run a small business?"

"Just the family," she says.

"Cheryl, is that your real name?"

"Yes," she says "Not like your online name?"

"I only have one name," she says. "More than that and I'd get confused. Is Harold your real name, or code for Hairy Old Codger?"

"I was named after my father's father," I offer. "He walked here from Russia."

"Shall we go into the dining room?" Cheryl leads me to her dining room, where the table is set. She brings out dish after dish, canape, beef stew, salmon tart.

"I didn't make it just for you," she says. "My friend is a caterer, and I helped her with an event last night-these were leftovers."

"This is really good," I say, stuffing my mouth. "It's been a long time since I had anything other than Chinese food." Part of me wants to ask, "Do you do this often?" but if she says yes, I'll feel disgusting and compelled to leave, and the thing is, I don't want to go, so I don't ask.

"Should I feel sorry for you?" she wants to know.

"No," I say.

"You have kids?" I ask, to distract from my second helping of the stew.

"Three boys; Tad, Brad, Lad. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen. Can you imagine? Do I look like I had three babies?" She lifts up her shirt, flashing me her flat stomach, the curve of the bottom of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"You look very nice," I say, suddenly breathless.

"Would you like coffee?" she asks.

"Please," I say.

She goes into the kitchen. I hear the usual coffee-making sounds. She returns, coffee cup in hand-nude.

"Oh," I say. "I really just came to meet you, to talk, we don't have to, you know..."

"But I want to."

"Yes, but..."

"But what? I've never heard of a man who doesn't want free s.e.x," she says, indignant. She hands me the coffee. I drink quickly, scalding my throat.

"I'm just not..."

"Not what? You better figure it out, buster, or there's going to be some hurty feelings around here."

"I've never done this before."

She softens. "Well, there's a first time for everything." She takes my hand and leads me upstairs. "Would you like me to tie you up? Some people can't relax unless they're restrained."

"Thanks, I'm okay," I say. "I prefer to be free."

Upstairs, she asks if I want a dough job; I'm thinking money, but then she's got both hands greased up and on either side of my c.o.c.k and she's telling me that she's going to knead it like dough. It's vaguely medical at first but not unpleasant and then she's got my c.o.c.k in her mouth and honestly I never thought it could be this easy. Claire never wanted to suck my c.o.c.k, she said my b.a.l.l.s smelled damp.

And then-the front door slams. "Hi, Mom."

Her mouth comes off my c.o.c.k, but her hand clutches me firmly, as if refusing to let the blood recede.

"Tad?" she calls out.

"Brad," the kid answers, slightly put out.

"Hi there, kiddo, everything okay?" she calls downstairs.

"Yeah, I forgot my hockey stick."

"Okay, see you later," she says. "I made brownies-they're on the counter, help yourself."

"Bye, Mom."

And the door slams closed.

For a moment I think I may have a heart attack, but when her good work resumes, the feeling quickly pa.s.ses.

I go home, take a long nap, and start thinking about tomorrow. I finally have a calling, a way to spend my time. I am going to do this every day. I'll get up early, work on Nixon from 6 a.m. until noon, go out for lunch with a different woman each day, get home, take Tessie for a walk, and get a good night's sleep.

A single session, once a day. I contemplate trying for two times a day, a lunch and a dinner, on the days I'm not teaching, but it seems too much-better to pace myself, to manage it like an athlete in training.

"How far will you go?" a woman asks.

"In what way?"

"Mileage," she writes.

It's a delicate balance-on the one hand, I don't want to stay too close to the house, in case I run into someone; on the other, I am suddenly mindful of time-I have things to do and don't want to spend the day driving. It's fascinating, everything from the real estate involved to the women themselves, the variations in decor and desire. Twenty-five miles at most; that seems reasonable. As I'm leaving, one woman tries to pay me. "Oh no," I say. "It was my pleasure."

"I insist," she says.

"I can't. That makes it like a work for hire, like..."

"Prost.i.tution," she says. "That's what I'm looking for, a man who can accept money for it, who can feel both the pleasure and the degradation."

"I can't," I say. "I did it for myself, for my pleasure."

"Yes," she says, "but for my pleasure I need to pay you."

Twenty bucks is forced on me. Twenty bucks-is that all I'm worth? I would have thought more. Maybe that's her point?

After that, from each house, each woman, I take something. Nothing big, nothing of value, but like a trinket, something as small as a single sock, a little something that catches my eye.

On one particular Wednesday, I am especially looking forward to an early lunch because my pen pal is so spirited and funny. "What is this all about? Why do you do these things?" she writes.

"G.o.d knows," I write back. "But I'm looking forward to meeting you."

I arrive at the house, a modern gla.s.s-walled structure from the early 1960s nestled in the curve of a cul-de-sac. I can see into the house-highly stylized, like a film set, a place that people pa.s.s through, more along the lines of an airport or a museum than a cozy family home. I ring the doorbell and watch as a young girl of about nine or ten unexpectedly appears at the far end of the house and then crosses from room to room, window to window, carpet to carpet, until she reaches the front door.

"Is your mother home?" I ask as she opens the door.

"What's it to you?" she asks.

"She and I were going to have an early lunch?"

"Oh, you're the guy. Come in."

I step into the house. "Everything okay-shouldn't you be in school or something?"

"I should be but I'm not."

The foyer is a cube within the cube-I can see into the kitchen, the living room, dining room, and out into the backyard.

"So is your mom here? Maybe I should leave; tell her John came by, John Mitch.e.l.l."

"I can make you lunch," the girl says, "like a grilled cheese or something."

"No offense, but I don't think you should be using the stove if your mom's not home."

The girl puts her hands on her hips. "You want the truth?"