A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Do you think you might come up sometime?” the doctor asks again.

The ads are so specific, so uncomfortably arousing, that I have to look away from the computer for a moment.

“I’ve been there,” I say, distracted. “Just the other day, I drove all the way the hell up there with his stuff and didn’t exactly have what I’d call a good experience.”

“Yes. The hope would be that a scheduled visit would go better.”

“We will see,” I say; I am a million miles away.

“We’ll talk again soon,” the doctor says.

“Sure,” I say. “Call anytime. I’m always here.”

I am in the glow of the computer, bent like an old man hunkered down for the duration. The cat and the dog come to check on me.

“Suburban Mom seeks friends for lunch, NSA.”

I mistake “NSA” for “NASA” and wonder what the hell the space program has to do with women in suburbia making dates. I Google “NSA” and find it to be an acronym for everything from the National Sawmilling Association to No Significant Abnormalities and No Strings Attached — which is apparently the most modern and intended meaning.

Somewhere between two-thirty and three in the morning, I fall asleep at the computer in mid-chat, and the woman I’m talking with asks, “Are you texting while driving?”

“No,” I type, “not asleep at the wheel but at the desk.” The woman I was chatting to was (or said she was) the wife of a cop, waiting for her husband to come home — she says she manages her anxiety about her husband’s work by Internet-sexting.

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 cock, tell me it tastes like cookie dough. You’re right. And then I bend over your desk, my breasts 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, trimming, 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 unbuttoned, shirt off, pants unbuttoned, 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 cum 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 glass 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, class 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, canapé, 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 breasts.

“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.