A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“It’s a wig,” she says.

As we’re crossing the parking lot, I begin, “In the interest of full disclosure. …”

“Don’t,” she says, and I stop. “Is it really important?” she then asks.

“Not really,” I say.

“It can wait,” she says, half a question.

I nod — it can.

“I’m a little nervous,” she says.

“What about?”

“I’ve never been to one of these things before.” She pauses. “In the interest of full disclosure,” she says, almost mocking me, “I probably should have told you over the phone, but …”

“What?”

“I’m not sure if everyone will be clothed,” she says, not missing a beat.

“What?” I stop; a car pulling in brushes past me, nearly taking me down.

“I’m just saying …”

“That it’s, like, a nudist party? And somehow you didn’t want to tell me until now?”

“I didn’t want you to be nervous,” she lies.

“You didn’t want me to say no.”

She says nothing.

“Is nudity required?” I ask.

“Optional.”

“Are you going to get naked?” I ask.

She shrugs. “First I want to see what it’s like.”

There’s a handwritten sign taped to the door—“Closed for Private Party.” A table in front of the ticket booth is decorated with a banner that reads “Welcome OurFriendsandNeighbors. org.”

“May I help you?” a guy in polo shirt and khakis asks.

“I signed up for the event,” Cheryl says.

“May I have your name?”

“Cheryl Stevens.”

He finds her name on the list, smiles, and says, “And I see you’ve brought a friend.”

“Is that all right?”

“Of course, the more the merrier,” he says, handing me forms to fill out.

“We are a private membership club — ten dollars to join and thirty for tonight’s event.” I take the papers.

“While you’re working on those, I’ll go over the parameters and give you some information on our upcoming potluck.”

Working on the form, I initially skip the name and address parts and fill out my e-mail and cell-phone number.

The man in the polo shirt notices the blanks.

“Not sure who you want to be tonight?” he asks.

I say nothing.

“Come as yourself,” he says, “it keeps things simple. Once, we had a guy who bumped his head at a roller rink, and it took three days to figure out who he was.”

I leave the blanks open.

“Okay, the parameters … As you know, this is a public facility that we’ve rented for the occasion, so we want to reiterate that, while we are a clothing-optional gathering, it’s not a free-for-all,” he says, winking. “And …” He pauses. “This one we take seriously: no means no. We’re rigorous about that. We may be a private club, but there’s basic mutual respect — take your lead from the ladies.” And then he looks up at me. “Our privacy statement — we are highly confidential — I urge you to use first names only. We do not sell, give, or tell any of our membership list or use it for anything other than to provide discreet invitations to our events.”

I nod.

“Have you ever played laser tag before?”

“Nope,” we both say.

“There are small lockers just inside the entryway for any personal items, and referees who will review the rules of the game and instruct you on use of the vests and the guns. It’s open bar — your thirty dollars covers that — and if you need to take a rest, there are a few private rooms to the back of the facility: make a left in front of the mirrored mountain. We also have private parties every other week — that’s when the fun stuff happens, but it’s behind closed doors, private houses, invitation only. Tonight is more of a meet-and-greet, a good opportunity to get to know us and have us get to know you.” He smiles. “How did you hear of us?”

“A woman in my Pilates class kept saying she thought I was ripe for adventure and hinting at something.”

“Was it Doreen?”

“It was. How did you know?”

“My wife,” the guy says happily. “She’s not here tonight — the little one had an ear infection. I’ll tell her you were here; she’ll be thrilled. We always need more women. Lots of guys, never enough girls.” He laughs. “But that’s just my perspective.”

As we’re walking down the black-lit hallway into the “chamber,” Cheryl says, “I took my son here for a couple of birthday parties — he liked it.”

“You brought him here?”

“Not this event,” she says, “this place. What Doreen told me is that once a month they rent it out — they pay double the asking rate and provide their own staff. The volunteer decorating team comes in midafternoon and makes some special changes.

“I think we should suit up in laser gear,” she says. “It’ll help us relax and blend in.”

We don the outfit — a chest pack with gun attached on a kind of stretchy leash. One of the referees explains, “Your gun won’t fire for fifteen seconds after you’ve been hit — a hit in effect turns you off. Twenty-five hits and you’re off for five minutes.” He goes on to illustrate how you can use the mirrors to ricochet a shot towards someone — so you don’t always have to stalk your prey. “You guys are good to go. Just remember, no running, no pushing.”

As we’re heading in, we pass the bar, where a woman in a yellow sports bra with laser gear on top is drinking white wine from a paper cup while two shirtless men, one with a shaved chest, chug an assortment of hard and soft beverages.

I am expecting both more and less. I have in my mind’s eye images from 1970s sex clubs where half-bald or toupeed men fondle sexually liberated women right, left, and center. By comparison, this seems hairier, fleshier, and more juvenile — it may be the laser tag that brings it down. Here sweaty men run around in BVDs with toy guns, in a cracked reenactment of games played at home when they were nine, ten, and eleven, but now the games have been pushed to a newly awkward edge. The men range from late thirties to mid-fifties, and their behavior is made creepier by a plethora of body hair, fat, and the occasional tattoo. Not that I came here as a critic, but I am amazed at how unattractive the people are, and how unashamed — one somehow thinks of only those who have the body to do it as exposing themselves like this. And, further, it would seem as though the men gave no forethought to the idea that they’d be running around half naked — they’ve made no effort in the fashion department and are wearing the most standard white BVDs and semi-saggy boxers, their plump junk visibly flipping from side to side as they scurry around shooting at each other. The women have tried a little harder. Some of them wear arty lingerie or some version of hooker-hostess costumes; others look like they’re about to take off on a bike ride — sports bras and tight shorts, one with the ass cheeks cut away. All of it reads like porn gone wrong and gives me a new appreciation for the professionals versus the amateurs.

“I see someone I know,” Cheryl says.

“Where?”

“Over there, at the three o’clock position, the guy and his wife.”

I look. At the two-thirty spot I see a group of men watching two women kiss. I’ve never entirely understood why men like watching two women, or having two women at once. To me it just seems potentially confusing: four breasts, two whoosits, a lot of work to do. … I imagine blacking out from overload.

“I remember hearing about them,” Cheryl says.

“Hearing what?”

“Something like this — that they did things like this — but I didn’t think it was true. I thought I was the only one.”

“Clearly there’s never just one — there’s always some sort of a need.”