A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“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 sex,” 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 cock 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 cock in her mouth and honestly I never thought it could be this easy. Claire never wanted to suck my cock, she said my balls smelled damp.

And then — the front door slams. “Hi, Mom.”

Her mouth comes off my cock, 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 passes.

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 décor 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 …”

“Prostitution,” 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.

“God knows,” I write back. “But I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

I arrive at the house, a modern glass-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 pass 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 Mitchell.”

“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?”

“Yes.”

“My mom’s in the city. She and my dad are having lunch to see if they can work it out.”

“Okay, then,” I say, backing up, preparing to go.

“And so”—she pauses for effect—“my brother and I decided to play our version of that TV show Predator . My dad says it’s amazing how dumb people can be. And we knew my mom was up to something, but didn’t know what.”

And with that the little brother comes out of the powder room, where he’s been hiding, and gets my hands behind my back — slapping the cuffs on.

“Look,” I say, “first off, you’re doing it wrong, I’ve committed no crime. And, secondly, you’ve got the handcuffs on incorrectly — if you cut off my circulation, you’ve got nothing. You’ve got to make them looser.” The kid doesn’t blink.

I wiggle my hands. “The cuffs are too tight, they hurt.”

“I think that’s a good thing,” the kid says. “They should hurt.”

“Looser, please,” I say. And the kid shakes his head. “Looser.”

He doesn’t budge.

I consider falling to my knees, pretending to foam at the mouth, or simulating a heart attack. I wonder how much it would be dramatic play and how much would be real, because I’m actually having a panic attack. I consider falling, but look down at the hard slate floor and calculate the possibility of broken kneecaps as too great a risk.

“How old are you?” I ask, attempting to distract myself.

“Thirteen,” the girl says. “And he’s almost eleven.”

“Didn’t your parents tell you not to let strangers in — how do you know I’m not some monstrous, dangerous person?”

“My mom wouldn’t have lunch with a dangerous person,” the boy says.

“I don’t know your mom very well.”

“Look at you,” the girl says. “You’re not exactly scary.”

“Do we need more restraints?” the boy asks his sister. “Should I tie up his legs? I have bungee cords.”

“No,” she says. “He’s not going anywhere.”

The boy yanks my arm, hard. “Sit down,” he says, pushing me, and I’m surprised by his strength.

“Hey,” I say. “Go easy.”

Once I’m seated on the living-room couch, if you can call it seated with your arms locked behind your body, the two kids stand in front of me, as if expecting me to say something. I take the cue.

“Okay,” I say, “so how’s this gonna work? Is there, like, a hidden camera?”

“We have a camera,” the boy says. “But no battery.”

The living room is all white — white sofa, white walls, the only color two bright-red womb chairs. “So — what’s the story?” I ask.