Men, Women & Children (8 page)

Danny, too, was comfortable with their level of sexual activity—even slightly uncomfortable with it—after having received oral sex from Brooke. He was almost certain that he didn’t actually want to have sex at this point in his life. He enjoyed the oral sex that Brooke had performed on him, but he was made uncomfortable by it at the same time. He wasn’t fully ready for it when she did it, and he wasn’t certain that he would be ready for it a second time. But now, with his father essentially giving him a free pass to have sex in his own home with a free supply of condoms, he began to imagine having sex with Brooke in his bed or in his shower.

Danny sent another text to Brooke that read, “What shud I do w/them?” to which she sent a text message that read, “Idk keep them I guess, in case.”

chapter

seven

A
fter dropping her son, Chris, off at school, Rachel Truby continued on to work. She found Monday mornings to be soothing. Her weekends at home with her family had become increasingly uncomfortable for her. The excuse she used most in order to avoid having any kind of sexual contact with her husband, Don, was that her activities during a standard day of work left her too exhausted to entertain the idea of anything outside of a warm bath and sleep when she got home. But this excuse never carried her through the course of an entire weekend.

As the curiosity about why she had come to feel this way began to drift away, her mind began to focus on the various tasks she knew would be awaiting her at the collections agency, and the Howard Stern radio show, which her husband had installed a Sirius satellite radio in the car specifically to listen to, went to commercial.

The commercial was for AshleyMadison.com, a website designed to help people who were in monogamous relationships, including marriage, find partners with whom they could engage in affairs. Despite Rachel’s waning desire to engage in any kind of sexual activity with her husband, she had never entertained the idea of seeking a sexual relationship outside of her marriage. Somehow, knowing that it could potentially be as simple as filling out a profile on a website changed that. She began to think of the logistics involved in engaging in an extramarital affair.

She thought there would be some complication with getting a night away from her husband and son. She wondered if she could do it on a lunch break, or if she could possibly take an afternoon off work by telling her employers that she had a doctor’s appointment. Maybe she could even use a visit with her sister, who lived a few hours away, as an excuse. It seemed to her that it wouldn’t be prohibitively difficult to find the time. But actually meeting the man she would have an affair with seemed strange to her. Even though she knew she was being paranoid, she had some reservation that such a man might turn out to be a serial killer or a rapist. Obviously no one would know what she was really doing, or where she was really going, when she met the person. She would be helpless if indeed this theoretical person arrived at their chosen meeting spot with nefarious intent.

When she got to work, she powered up her computer, sent a few work-related e-mails, got a cup of coffee and bagel, printed out a memo detailing the delinquent accounts she was responsible for overseeing, put that memo on her manager’s desk. Then she pulled out her personal laptop, so as to avoid being caught using her work computer for non-work-related activities, and logged on to AshleyMadison.com.

She was able to create a free profile within a few minutes. She wrote a brief paragraph describing what she was hoping to find on the site: a man to make her remember what it was like to enjoy sex. She opted to omit her picture from the profile, thinking that perhaps someone she knew might also be a member of the site. But then it occurred to her that, even if that were the case, this person would also want to keep their involvement with the site discreet, so they would have no reason ever to reveal their discovery of her account. To quell whatever anxiety she had about the issue, she took a picture of herself with the digital camera mounted in the top of her MacBook’s screen, cropped it so that her head was not visible, and posted it.

Seeing herself without a face, Rachel became painfully aware of the fact that she had gained weight. She knew that this was the case, but seeing herself like this made her question why her husband still wanted to have sex with her as frequently as he did. She thought about retaking the picture, but didn’t. She felt it was better for her potential affair partner to know exactly what to expect, were they actually to meet, and in some way she also hoped it would deter anyone from actually soliciting her. Cheating on her husband was not something she took lightly. She convinced herself that she was signing up on AshleyMadison.com more out of curiosity than anything. Even if she was to get an interested party, she would more than likely ignore him.

With that in mind, she published her profile, logged out, and told herself that she would check her account after lunch to see if anyone had sent her any indication of interest.

D
on Truby sat at his desk on that same Monday morning wondering if he would have enough time to go home and masturbate at lunch. He doubted he would, but after a weekend in which his wife verbally agreed to a sexual encounter when she was half-asleep, but never delivered, Don needed to masturbate.

He knew his supervisor wasn’t going to be in for at least another forty-five minutes to an hour, as was the case on Monday mornings, and his supervisor was the only person who might be looking for him. Don closed his office door with the intent of looking at enough vaguely erotic Internet images—images that would not be blocked by his company’s firewall or filters—to arouse him to the point that he could go into the men’s bathroom on the first floor, where there were no Northwestern Mutual employees, and masturbate quickly into the toilet.

He started at ModelMayhem.com, a website where amateur and aspiring models would post their pictures, allowing aspiring or established photographers, commercial directors, and so on, to be able to search for specific types of models for various projects. Don searched for brunettes with pale skin, something to mimic the adult film actress Stoya with whom he developed a mild obsession. He found several models fitting the description; a few had pinup-style images in their portfolios. Don found these images to be satisfying and arousing. He refined his search to display only models that had pinup-style images in their portfolios. After looking at these images for ten minutes or so, and attempting to give himself an erection by rubbing his penis through his pants, Don realized that in order to become aroused enough to be able to masturbate to completion at work, he was going to need to view legitimate hardcore pornography, which, despite his almost mind-numbing level of libidinous urge, he was unwilling to do, fearing the loss of his job.

He noticed an ad in the sidebar of ModelMayhem.com for a website called TheEroticReview.com. It was a database of reviews, compiled by the website’s users, of their encounters with prostitutes. The idea of having sex with a prostitute had been one he revisited with more and more frequency over the past six months or so, ever since his wife had begun flatly denying his requests for sexual activity. He had concerns about having sex with a prostitute, though. His first was how to even go about finding one that wasn’t an undercover police officer. TheEroticReview.com seemed to take care of this first concern.

Finding the time to get away from his wife and child for long enough to have a sexual encounter with a prostitute also seemed problematic to him, but he reasoned that he could potentially do it on a lunch break instead of going home to masturbate. He was also apprehensive about being able to find a prostitute he considered attractive enough to warrant paying for sex. If he could see pictures of the prostitutes on the website, then this problem seemed solved to him as well. He clicked on the ad and was redirected to TheEroticReview.com.

Don was surprised to find how intricate the site was. Not only was he able to read a seemingly limitless number of reviews by men who had already procured the services of the prostitutes on the site, and given honest accounts of their interactions, he was also able to search for virtually any physical type of prostitute imaginable. There were fifteen categories, each with a drop-down menu that Don was able to use to find specifically what he was looking for. For build, Don chose thin. For height, Don chose five-foot-four to five-foot-six. For age, Don chose eighteen to twenty-four. For hair color, Don chose black. For hair type, Don chose straight. For hair length, Don chose chin length. For breast size, Don chose thirty to thirty-one. For breast cup, Don chose B. For breast implants, Don chose no. For breast appearance, Don chose perky. For piercings, Don chose nipple. For tattoos, Don chose none. For pussy, Don chose shaved. For ethnicity, Don chose white. For transsexual, Don chose no. This was as close to the physical description of Stoya as Don was able to come.

His search criteria returned four results that were within twenty miles of his zip code. He began to read the reviews of each of their services and he came to understand that an entire subculture existed of men who engaged in regular sex with prostitutes and then posted reviews of their experiences. Some men, it seemed, had even become aficionados in this world of prostitution and their reviews held more weight within the community than other reviews.

Don’s mild fascination with the culture surrounding regular customers of prostitutes subsided as he came to the reviews for and images of a prostitute named Angelique Ice. Every review she had was an eight or above, many claiming that she would “go the extra mile” or that it “didn’t feel like you were paying for it” or that she was “the real deal.” Along with her flawless collection of reviews, Angelique Ice remarkably resembled Stoya. She was slightly taller and maybe a little less petite, but Don found it uncanny. He assumed that he would never have a chance in his lifetime to have sex with the real Stoya, but for what most reviews claimed was around eight hundred dollars, he could certainly have sex with a girl who looked enough like Stoya to satisfy him. Don sent himself a text message with her name, Angelique Ice, so he wouldn’t forget her.

W
hen Rachel came back from lunch, she checked her account on AshleyMadison.com and found that she had received an indication of interest from a man whose screen name was Secretluvur. In order for her to view the message he sent, Rachel had to purchase credits on the website, which gave her greater access to the site’s features, including the ability to communicate with other members. She used a separate credit card that she always paid the bill for, just in case Don was observant enough to notice the charge on the family card.

Once she was granted access, she read Secretluvur’s message. It read, “I saw your profile and it seems like we’re in need of the same thing. I’ve never done this, always been a little too scared, I guess, but I’d love to keep talking if you’re up for it and see where this goes. Sorry I didn’t post a picture. I just thought it was best if I didn’t take any chances as far as somebody I know finding out about this. I can send one to an e-mail address if you’d like, though.”

Rachel didn’t mind that Secretluvur didn’t send a picture. It actually augmented the feeling of excitement she was experiencing surrounding the interaction. It made Secretluvur seem far more mysterious than she assumed he actually was. She replied with a message that read, “Hi, I’ve never really done anything like this either. Maybe we are looking for the same thing. I’m open to talking a little more to see where this goes, too. And you don’t need to send me a picture or anything. It’s probably safer to keep our correspondence limited to this website anyway. I look forward to your next message.” She didn’t know whether she should sign the message with her real name or her username, which was Boredwife12345. She opted not to sign the message at all.

chapter

eight

P
rincipal Ligorski began the Monday morning announcements by congratulating the Olympian football team on its victory in the season opener and specifically praising Chris Truby and Danny Vance for their last-second touchdown pass that enabled the win.

Hannah Clint sat a few seats away from Chris Truby in their first-period American history class. They had not communicated with each other since the flurry of sexually explicit text messages they had engaged in two days before. At the mention of his name in the announcements, Hannah smiled at him. She felt slightly uncomfortable and wondered if Chris felt the same way. He did. He smiled back. After the announcements ended, Mrs. Rector went to the dry-erase board and wrote “9/11.” She said, “What do these numbers mean to you?” A few students raised their hands. Mrs. Rector acknowledged a student named Regina Sotts.

Regina said, “It’s September eleventh. The day that terrorists attacked the World Trade Center.”

Mrs. Rector said, “That’s correct, Regina. Other than the attack on Pearl Harbor, it was the only time a foreign force has attacked anything on U.S. soil. In each of these cases, the attitude and political policy of our country were changed. You guys are all probably a little too young to actually remember 9/11, so today I’m going to put you in groups of two, and you’re all going to have a week to interview someone who was old enough to remember it and then give a presentation on Friday. You can talk to your parents, a teacher here, anyone you want about what it was like and how it changed our country.”

Mrs. Rector spoke for a few more minutes about the assignment, and then she began pairing students off into groups. Chris and Hannah were paired together. After the pairings were made, Mrs. Rector allotted the rest of the class time for the groups of two to discuss whom they were going to interview as well as the manner and details of their presentation.

Chris pulled his desk next to Hannah’s and said, “So, I guess we should probably interview, like, one of our parents or something.”

For the entirety of the class period, Chris was unable to stop himself from taking quick glances at Hannah’s breasts, and though she was fully aware of this, she offered no protest. She found it flattering and in some way it made her feel valued and important.

Hannah said, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that seems like it would be the easiest way to go.”

Chris said, “We can just talk to my dad or my mom or something if you want.”

Hannah said, “Yeah, that sounds cool.”

Chris said, “Okay, cool.”

Hannah said, “What should our presentation be like?”

Chris said, “I don’t know, what do you think?”

Hannah said, “Uh . . . I’m pretty sure we need like some kind of poster board or something.”

Chris said, “Okay.”

Hannah said, “But not, like, with the Twin Towers blowing up or whatever or anything, you know?”

Chris said, “Yeah.”

Hannah said, “Maybe with, like, pictures of firemen and police officers and everything, you know? Like, kind of patriotic.”

Chris said, “Cool.”

They continued discussing their project and what their presentation would entail. At no point did they ever discuss the kiss Hannah gave Chris after the football game, the explicit text messages they had sent to each other, or the likelihood of any sexual activity between them.

As class came to an end, Chris told Hannah that he thought they could interview his parents that night if it offered no conflict with her schedule, which it didn’t. They agreed to meet at his house that evening after his football practice concluded and then they each proceeded in opposite directions down the main hallway of Goodrich Junior High School.

Walking to her next class, Hannah took out her phone and sent Chris a text message that read, “C U 2nite.” She was tempted to include something sexually explicit but didn’t, convincing herself that she should wait for Chris to make the next advance, which she hoped would be included in his reply. Chris read her text and was disappointed that she failed to include any indication of her sexual interest in him. He took this omission as a sign that she had lost interest over the past two days. He felt that he might have lost an opportunity to have his first sexual encounter. He wondered if he should include something in his reply to test her level of interest in explicit sexual conversation at the very least, and possibly in actual sexual activity. Instead, Chris replied to her text message with one that read, “C U 2nite 2.”

W
hen the lunch bell rang, Tim Mooney went to his locker to retrieve the lunch he had packed the night before. His father, Kent, had shirked the responsibility of buying groceries over the weekend, so Tim’s options were reduced to a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich with one piece of bread or cold turkey cutlets, which had been in the refrigerator for at least a month if Tim’s memory served him correctly. He opted for the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.

Tim walked into the cafeteria and took a seat near the back of the room toward one of the corners, away from most of the other kids. As he sat down, a few of his classmates, members of the football team, began raising their speaking voices loud enough for Tim to hear.

One of them said, “Well, I guess we didn’t need that pussy-ass bitch as middle linebacker anyway.”

The other one said, “We’re better off without that faggot.”

The other one said, “Totally.”

The other one threw an empty milk carton in Tim’s direction, which drew attention from Mr. Donnelly, who was one of the faculty monitors during that lunch period. When questioned about his motives, the student who threw the milk carton said, “I was just trying to hit a three, Mr. Donnelly,” to which Mr. Donnelly replied, “Well, why don’t we keep the basketball-playing in the gym?”

Tim had already dismissed the incident as meaningless. His gaze had wandered to Brandy Beltmeyer, who also sat alone a few tables away from him, eating her own lunch and reading
Breaking Dawn
. Tim found it slightly off-putting that she would be reading a book from the
Twilight
series, but he was still tempted to pick up his lunch and sit down at her table. He wondered what her reaction would be. Over the past week, due to his quitting the football team, Tim had taken his place as a sort of pariah at Goodrich Junior High. Given Brandy’s own lack of friends at the school, though, he assumed she wouldn’t perceive association with him as negative.

Tim thought for several minutes about what he considered to be a brazen action in the Goodrich Junior High cafeteria and eventually his thoughts began to drift to the various YouTube videos he had recently become interested in—lectures and clips from television programs hosted by or featuring Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson.

Recognize that the very molecules that make up your body, the atoms that construct the molecules are traceable to the crucibles that were once the centers of high mass stars and exploded their chemically enriched guts into the galaxy enriching pristine gas clouds with the chemistry of life. So that we’re all connected—to each other biologically, to the earth chemically, and to the rest of the universe atomically.

Tyson’s explanation of the interconnected nature of the universe made Tim feel insignificant, and in that insignificance he was able to allow himself to let go of any anxiety he might have had about approaching Brandy.

Tim thought about these predictions, that the universe would end in either a big crunch or an eventual sundering of itself from its own unstoppable and constantly increasing rate of expansion. He found comfort in this as well. In the end, he knew that nothing any human being had ever done or would ever do would mean anything, because it would all be washed away in time. He applied this inescapable truth to how he felt about Brandy Beltmeyer. If the actions of Hitler, Gandhi, Jesus Christ, anyone who had ever existed or would ever exist, were all meaningless, then surely sitting down next to Brandy Beltmeyer was equally meaningless.

As several of his classmates watched with curiosity, Tim picked up his lunch and walked fifteen feet to where Brandy was sitting. She looked up from her book and said, “Uh . . . what up?”

Tim said, “Nothing, just thought I’d sit with you if it’s cool.”

Brandy said, “Uh . . . whatevs.”

Tim sat down and said, “You’re into
Twilight
?”

Brandy said, “I guess. I started reading the first book and then I pretty much figured I should finish the whole series. It’s okay.”

Tim wanted to ask Brandy about the message he sent her on Myspace about her alter-ego, Freyja. He considered that an outright conversation about it might be too much. He knew that nothing mattered, and yet he also realized that, even in the face of that universal truth, at least to him, something about talking to Brandy did matter, and despite the philosophy that had motivated him to sit next to her, he felt he shouldn’t push the issue further. This did matter, at least to him.

They continued to talk for the rest of the lunch period about nothing in particular. Tim wanted to bring up the text message he sent over the summer but thought better of it as well. He was content to keep this first interaction of the eighth-grade year with Brandy at arm’s length. He was content to have someone to talk to about anything, someone who seemed not to mind his company.

As Brandy talked to Tim, she felt some of the old affection she had developed for him in seventh grade coming back to her. She remembered fantasizing about Tim kissing her, and she found herself returning to that fantasy as they talked. The act of sitting next to her without invitation was something she found attractive.

Brandy wondered if Tim would ask her about Freyja’s Myspace profile. It was a secret she had kept for the entirety of its existence. She was aware that Tim already knew it was her, and some part of her wanted to discuss it with him, just to have someone to talk to about it. But she didn’t mention it. Just like Tim, she was content to have someone at school to talk to.

When the electronic tone sounded, signifying the end of the lunch period, Tim said, “Thanks for letting me sit with you,” to which Brandy replied, “No prob.” They each wanted to say more but were hesitant. They each presumed this burgeoning relationship to be far more fragile than it actually was. Nonetheless, they said nothing else to each other as they left the cafeteria from separate doors, each making their way to classrooms in different parts of the building. For the rest of the day, they each thought about the other and wondered if they would be sitting together the following day at lunch. The prospect of this made them both happy.