By Charles Bock
Before my wife Diana died, in 2011, she told me to wait a year before dating again. This made sense, in theory. But an abstinent year was a long haul in real time, especially after two and a half years of Diana's struggle with leukemia, which, as you might guess, had been hugely sad and exhausting, and during which -- for reasons that also are apparent -- I hadn't had any sex. And before she got sick, there had been the year when Diana was pregnant with and then caring for our daughter Lily.
I'd survived six months before taking off my wedding ring, replacing it by tattooing onto my ring finger the two symbols -- an om and a heart -- that Diana had written in her final diary. Another month had passed before I ventured onto a website that not only rated sex workers but provided contact info for them. But $500 a pop, the going rate, was both prohibitive and ridiculous.
Diana and I had married before internet dating took off. Since then, I'd been like every other locked-down, married man on the spinning globe in that I'd followed the rise of this proverbial new Eden from the other side of the Plexiglas window. It was every hetero man's fantasy: click, meet a girl, have sex, click again and meet another girl. Only we'd moved beyond the realm of fantasy.
Now I was in my mid-40s, a time of life when you look in the mirror and see deterioration, when a man objectively wonders whether any real live women would be willing to get naked for him ever again. I didn't want a girlfriend; that was a no-brainer. I didn't have the time or mental energy to be seriously interested in anyone.
Diana used to indulge all my idiotic rock 'n' roll preferences, my bizarre fandoms. She'd read countless drafts of my doorstop of a novel, showed concern for me if my face was too gaunt, when I was chained too long to my desk without deodorant. She also stepped up, when she had to, and challenged me about my antisocial inclinations. At the end of the night we walked the dog together, watched rented movies on the couch, engaged in the deep conversation that comes with true emotional intimacy.
I couldn't imagine the brick-by-brick reconstruction of all that. Real talk: I was nowhere near ready. And as for introducing some imaginary girlfriend to Lily...
All of which is why, in the middle of a random weekday afternoon, I dipped my figurative toe into the pulsing, virtual cesspool known as AshleyMadison.com, a website whose members are married but are seeking sex outside that marriage. Yeah, Ashley Madison seemed tailor-made for me.
Returning from a trip to the bathroom; discreetly flipping away from my writing program's window; switching tabs and logging back in -- for a discovery. A response. Electricity shot through me. Someone was interested, and not just any someone. Late 20s, looked like. Winking profile, flirtatious. I sent what I hoped was a well-crafted greeting, one that conveyed proper enthusiasm, hopefully even a spark of cleverness: "Okay. Your photos just blew my mind straight through my brain." Within 10 minutes I got an answer -- a smiley-face emoticon -- and followed up, volleyed, worked my way into: Maybe she wanted to chat?
"URCute" was her response. "I'm def interested. Only thing. I've had problems w/ stalkers. AshMad won't do anything. For my safety, could you just register at this site." She included a link, apologized for the small sign-up fee. I stopped corresponding, kept getting follow-ups, "UR so sexy. Just register alreddy so we can have fun." At which point I realized: I was not chatting with a person but some kind of bot.
Reader, even this felt like progress -- maybe not success, not a date, but something happening, or almost happening. Fact is, the great majority of my attempts had been going straight into the ether, had been ignored, or had been brutally shot down -- by adulterers, of all people. One time I got catfished and eventually discovered I was dealing with an online prostitute, a woman who was obviously insane, on meth and out of my price range.
This still didn't stop me. I was a starving man in a dumpster, and I kept adjusting my profile, sending texts while watching my kid attempt backbends. An aging party girl kept posting shots of empty Hamptons beaches. She was couch-surfing through the offseason; we had a few great chats; I thought I had a shot. In certain terms, she let me know she was looking to land a hedge-fund hubby.
I had lunch with a lovely sad Yemeni woman, in her mid-30s, whose high-powered husband was never around. During our conversation, I reached beneath the table, touched her stockinged knee and pressed. The flash that took her, that connected us, was tangible, her desire suddenly electric. She was exotic, a platinum blonde, dark skinned. She wore a prim white jacket. Her face was just as it had been five seconds earlier; at the same time, it was transformed, near tears, simultaneously frightened and so erotic as to be paralyzing.
We still had our orders coming. Neither of us knew what was next. We kept chatting. By the time our meal ended, it was clear the moment had passed, her desires were going to stay bottled -- at least, with me.
A nice woman was stuck on Long Island, trapped in an open marriage. She'd rather have been locked down and happy, and she was pissed at hubby, looking for retribution. We exchanged a few emails, ended up walking along the High Line. Oblivious to the chilled afternoon, I asked if she wanted ice cream. Ice cream was innocent, reaching back into childhood. Ice cream also was creamy, melting on the tongue.
I bought this lovely unhappy woman a cup of chocolate mint and talked her into going to the last hourly hotel in Chelsea. Our kisses were heated. My first time having sex since my marriage. Every second felt foreign, wrong, and at the same time sacred. Afterwards, she sent an affectionate email. I replied with warmth. That was the only time we met.
Sex was a significant part of what these women were searching for. I see this now. I also understand they had not been receiving emotional intimacy from their husbands, no exciting sparks from the people in their lives, no needed embraces from the outside world. Ashley Madison promised they could be wanted, mooned over, valued as womanly, sexual beings without throwing away the lives they'd built. And they also got to embark on something new, which is always a thrill -- to define (or redefine) themselves for someone new, to flirt, be worthwhile in new eyes, explore new attractions: They got a secret.
Granted, recognizing all this, especially in retrospect, is not quantum physics. Still, when it was happening, if you'd read those previous sentences to me, I would have nodded, right. Then, boom, emotional intimacy would have been one more tool, something I had to provide, promise or feign. "The secret of success is sincerity," goes the famed quote attributed to forgotten playwright Jean Giraudoux. "Once you can fake that, you've got it made."
Charles Bock is a novelist. This essay is adapted from his new book, "I Will Do Better: A Father's Memoir of Heartbreak, Parenting, and Love," which will be published on Oct. 1 by Abrams.
(END) Dow Jones Newswires
September 27, 2024 21:00 ET (01:00 GMT)
Copyright (c) 2024 Dow Jones & Company, Inc.
Comments