May We Be Forgiven

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?”

    I n 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.
    “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