by Jason Starr
Then a pop-up appeared:
FUGITIVE_RED has sent you a message!
I was surprised; without a profile photo or any information about myself, I hadn’t expected someone to actually write to me. She looked pretty in her thumbnail, and I clicked, expanding it.
She had long, straight red hair and pale skin. The second photo was a wider angle of the first, a full body shot. She was casually dressed in jeans and a light-blue tank top and seemed to be in a backyard. She was thin, maybe too thin, but I liked the way her hips curved. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties, forty tops. She wasn’t smiling in the photo. She wasn’t making any expression at all really; she was simply looking at the camera.
I opened the message:
FUGITIVE_RED: Hey Rock God! Do you like music? I’m lonely tonight Wanna chat?
Ugh, what had I been thinking? NYC RockGod2 probably came off as incredibly pretentious, stupid, or both.
I clicked through her photos again. She wasn’t the prettiest woman on the site, but there was something compelling about her. She was into music—that got my attention—and the name Fugitive Red intrigued me. It sounded familiar somehow.
I checked out the rest of her profile. She listed her location as White Plains. Her status was “Attached female seeking males” and her limit was “Undecided.” Under “Preferences and encounters I am interested in” she had written: I’m unhappily married, looking for adventure. How about you?
Her list of “What really turns me on,” chosen from a checklist, included—Discretion/Secrecy, A Sense of Humor, Spontaneity, Says What They Want, and Asks What I Want. Under “What I am looking for,” she had—Extended Foreplay, Lips/Tongues, Slow Hot Oil Massage, Role Play, Satin Sheets, Wine Tastings, Romantic Walks, Long Drives, Slow Kissing.
I reread her profile, then saw the notification below her picture: online now.
My pulse pounded as I thought, But do I really want to do this?
Then I reminded myself that my marriage was effectively over, so, seriously, what exactly did I have to lose? She was going to flip out when I announced I wanted a divorce; my life was going to go down the shitter whether she caught me online or not. So, what difference did it make? Why not have a little joy in my life for a change?
I tried to send a response when a message informed me that since I was only a guest member, my messages didn’t have “priority status.” But if I became a full member I could send “elite messages,” which were much more likely to be actually read. A full membership cost, naturally, $69. As a full member I could also initiate instant messaging sessions. The catch was that in order to send elite messages, I had to purchase credits that could be used to send messages.
The whole setup seemed shady to me—designed to make money for Discreet Hookups but not to actually connect people.
But thinking, Well, I came this far, might as well go all the way, I registered as a full member. I remembered Rob boasting about how the site was secure, and we had a Visa card that Maria never used, so there didn’t seem to be much risk of her finding out.
My rationalization complete, I made the payment and also bought twenty dollars in credits. I just wanted to send this woman a message or two, get whatever was going on with me out of my system. After tonight, I’d probably realize how ridiculous all this was and never return to Discreet Hookups again.
I finished registering then returned and saw that FUGITIVE_RED was still online.
NYCRockGod2: Hey, sorry had to register Yes, love music
I waited about a minute, got no reply. She’d probably given up on me, gone on to somebody else. After all, I didn’t have a lot of information about myself on my profile and I hadn’t even posted a picture so I probably seemed like a fake profile. All she could see was my basic information, which probably wasn’t much different from everybody else’s basic information. Then I heard a loud beep and saw:
FUGITIVE_RED: Hiii
FUGITIVE_RED: nice to hear from you :) :)
Shit, the sound on my laptop was at its highest level. I immediately muted it. I listened, making sure Maria wasn’t coming, then sent:
NYCRockGod2: Hey! I know you probably get this a lot, but this is my first time doing this :) :)
Liking my message, I clicked send. It was honest anyway, and I figured honesty had to be a rarity on an extramarital dating site.
FUGITIVE_RED: yeah actually new here too :) :)
Shit, now I had a feeling my opening had been a cliché. Everyone initiating a chat session on an extramarital dating site probably claimed it was their first time, just like every convict in jail was innocent.
I wanted to respond with something clever, but my mind was blank.
FUGITIVE_RED: Love music! I used to be in a band rock/punk band in school
NYCRockGod2: Wow you’re kidding me, so did I! ? :) Do you play an instrument?
FUGITIVE_RED: Guitar, but I sing mostly
Looking at her pictures again, I imagined her onstage—in some leather getup, in a punk band. The fantasy enhanced her pics, made her seem much sexier.
NYCRockGod2: I play guitar too Love rock, punk Especially 70s/early 80s
FUGITIVE_RED: Me too!Love The Ramones, Blondie, The Clash, Sex Pistols Floyd Led Zepp
It was like a list of my inspirations.
NYCRockGod2: Wow, love ALL of those You have amazing taste! R u a musician???
I played n punk bands in high school and college Then was a studio musician and toured a little with bands
She didn’t respond right away; I feared it was because I sounded too into myself.
Then I got:
FUGITIVE_RED: Wow, you sound incredible :) :)
Whew.
NYCRockGod2: Thanks. :) How bout u? Did you sing in a band?
FUGITIVE_RED: Yes small bands Nothing you’ve heard of, but I love singing That’s the most important thing, right? Doing what you love.
NYCRockGod2: I always say the same thing!!
FUGITIVE_RED: :)
FUGITIVE_RED: How come u don’t have a profile pic?? :( :(
I’d expected her to ask this. I knew exactly which photo to use—one Maria had taken of me about six, seven years ago, on the Great Lawn in Central Park. I still had long, thick hair then, so it was sort of false advertising, but what difference did it make?
NYCRockGod2: hold on!
As I uploaded the photo, it occurred to me that this probably wasn’t such a great idea, posting a photo of myself on a website for cheaters. What if a mom or dad from Jonah’s school somehow saw it? Nah, I told myself. The odds were astronomical that anyone I knew would see the photo tonight, and if anyone did see it, that person would be cheating themselves and not be in any position to judge. Besides, I would delete the photo in a few minutes, right after I finished the chat session.
I sent:
NYCRockGod2: K its up!!
Several seconds passed, then I got:
FUGITIVE_RED: wow, amazing pic! You’re so sexxxxy!
Did the ego boost hit? You bet it did. What forty-four-year-old guy who hadn’t had sex in four and a half years didn’t desperately need an ego boost? Okay, yes, she was commenting on a particularly good picture of me that had been taken a long time ago, but so what? I’d take all the compliments I could get.
NYCRockGod2: Guess I was having a good hair day :)
FUGITIVE_RED: Hahahahahah yr funny!
I looked at her pics again. Somehow, she seemed better looking now.
NYCRockGod2: You look great in your pics too!
A pause then:
FUGITIVE_RED: You think I’m sexy?
NYCRockGod2: Very. :)
FUGITIVE_RED: Funny!My husband never tells me I’m sexy anymore
NYCRockGod2: Well that’s ridiculously
NYCRockGod2: Ridiculous that is! you look amazingly sexy too :)
Okay, so yeah, maybe “amazingly sexy” was overdoing it a little, but so what? It was fun to flirt with this woman, and I wanted to keep the high going.
<
br /> FUGITIVE_RED: I’m lonely right now Are you lonely?
NYCRockGod2: Yes.
FUGITIVE_RED: Is your wife home?
NYCRockGod2: Yes
FUGITIVE_RED: Can I ask you a personal question?
Was she going to steer the conversation toward sex? Isn’t that what inevitably happened on these sites?
NYCRockGod2: Yes.
FUGITIVE_RED: why r u on here?
Not exactly the question I’d expected.
NYCRockGod2: Why is everybody on here?
I was deflecting, or whatever the psychological term for it was, but I didn’t feel comfortable talking about myself in person, no less to a stranger on the Internet.
But she persisted:
FUGITIVE_RED: Bad marriage?
The first step is admitting you have a problem.
NYCRockGod2: Yes
FUGITIVE_RED: Me too My husband hasn’t touched me in years
NYCRockGod2: Similar situation here But wife in my case :)
FUGITIVE_RED: :) You have really sexy lips
NYCRockGod2: Thank you!
FUGITIVE_RED: I bet women always tell you that
Maria used to tell me my lips were sexy—maybe a decade ago.
NYCRockGod2: No not really
FUGITIVE_RED: I bet your a gr8 kisser :)
Maria used to tell me that, too.
NYCRockGod2: Ha thanks!
FUGITIVE_RED: Sorry if I’m embarrassing you
NYCRockGod2: No its fine im not embarrassed at al
Turned on, yes. Embarrassed, no.
My heart thumping, it was hard to think … or type.
NYCRockGod2: I’m jus not used to this thas all
FUGITIVE_RED: Me neither :)
Then the guilt hit. This had been fun and exciting to chat with a total stranger, but this wasn’t me. I wasn’t a cheater. And if I really wanted to get out of my marriage, this definitely wasn’t the way to go about it.
NYCRockGod2: Sorry have to go
FUGITIVE_RED: ?????
NYCRockGod2: sorry!!
I deleted my photo and logged out. A rush of relief hit, like I’d been dangling from a ledge and someone had pulled me to safety. Yeah, Maria and I had serious problems, but acting impulsively was a big red flag for me—I talked about this all the time at A.A. meetings—so it was hard not to feel as though I’d avoided a relapse. Chatting with a stranger was an exciting diversion, but that’s all it had been—a diversion—and this wasn’t the way I wanted my marriage to end. Getting caught on Discreet Hookups would make me look like the bad guy; was that how I wanted Jonah to think of his father for the rest of his life?
I was too hyped up to sleep. I had a snack in the kitchen—a couple spoonfuls of Jiffy—and reminded myself that there really was no danger of getting caught. The entire conversation had been anonymous; we hadn’t even exchanged actual names, and now that my laptop was off, that woman was out of my life permanently, and it was like it had never happened. As long as I didn’t make it into a big deal, it wouldn’t be a big deal.
But, there was no doubt, chatting with FUGITIVE_RED had felt invigorating, like meeting a woman and going on a great first date and becoming insanely attracted to her all at once. Of course, I knew these emotions were fake; we weren’t making an actual connection. All we’d done was exchange some flirty, flattering words. Besides, for all I knew she’d been lying about everything. Maybe she’d never been the lead singer of a band. Maybe that was just to impress me, to make me think we were connecting. Maybe she wasn’t even married, and maybe that picture wasn’t of her. Maybe I’d been chatting with a man, or even a teenage boy. Maybe he was texting his friends about it right now, laughing his ass off as he told them the story about the “horny old guy online” he’d just duped.
But I couldn’t get myself to believe that FUGITIVE_RED wasn’t a real profile.
It had to be legit.
I went into Jonah’s room to check on him. He was sleeping soundly on his back with his head turned to the side. It reminded me of the way he used to sleep when he was a baby in his crib. I gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead and then went back to the living room.
Back on my laptop, I returned to Discreet Hookups, to FUGITIVE_RED’s page. When I saw the green dot above her pic, indicating she was still active on the site, my pulse quickened. I wanted to IM with her again, feel that rush.
But then I caught myself and shut the browser before I had a chance to change my mind again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN THE MORNING, after school drop-off, I stopped at the office briefly and then headed out to meet a potential buyer, Megan Conaway. Megan was in her mid-twenties and worked in marketing at New York Magazine, and was looking for a starter apartment—a large studio or junior one. Her parents were planning to cosign for the mortgage, and they had been preapproved, so this was a prime prospect.
I had a feeling Megan would like this 77th Street one-bedroom, though. It was on the fifth floor of a walk-up, but an elevator and doorman weren’t requirements for her, and she’d told me she didn’t mind being on the fourth or fifth floor. I had the key from the owner and, as we climbed the stairs, I told her about the building’s financials. The apartment was listed for $475,000, with maintenance of $1,200, which I knew was in her ballpark.
When I opened the door, she said, “Wow, this is incredible.”
The apartment had a lot of light and a big kitchen with a nice-size balcony.
“It really is a find,” I said. “It just went on the market yesterday so you’re pretty much getting a first crack at it. And the owner will make a deal with you if you want to keep any of the furniture.”
I remained in the living room area, while she checked out the kitchen and the balcony.
“Oh my God, I really, really love it,” she said.
I was in a relaxed mood, with much more confidence than I’d had at recent showings, and I didn’t pressure her the way I might’ve yesterday or the day before. I remained near the door while she checked out the rest of the apartment.
She returned and said, “The bedroom’s great, but the bathroom’s a little small.”
“It’s true,” I agreed, “it is small.”
No pressure. If she didn’t love the place and want to make an offer, it would be no big deal. I’d show her something else.
She asked me some questions about the building’s financials and the co-op board. I answered all of them honestly and matter-of-factly.
“The co-op board isn’t easy,” I said. “They’ve rejected people in the past. That said, I think they’ll like you a lot. And you want a tough co-op board. You don’t want to live in a building that lets people do whatever they want to do to their apartments and that has Airbnb people coming and going.”
Rather than pushing for a sale, I told her she could take all the time she needed. Then, lo and behold, she suggested another appointment to take measurements and to show her parents the place. I could tell she was excited and would likely make an offer.
Later in the morning, I had two other showings and they both went well. I didn’t know if they’d lead to sales, but there was no doubt that I wasn’t nearly as stressed out about my job as I had been lately. I’d try as hard as I could to sell a few apartments, but if it didn’t work, I knew it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I could always find another job, or figure out another way to make money.
At my office, Claire and Brian were away, and Andrew was busy on the phone. I downloaded the Discreet Hookups app to my phone and went to my messages. I wasn’t actually going on to chat with FUGITIVE_RED again; I just wanted to see if her profile was still there. Well, this was what I told myself anyway.
Her profile hadn’t been removed, but she wasn’t online. After I browsed her photos—the same ones I’d seen and knew so well—I did some work. I didn’t have any more showings scheduled for today, but I had a lot of phone calls to make, and I wanted to contact the seller of the 77th Street apartment to make sure I could
schedule another showing for Megan. Throughout the day, I kept returning to FUGITIVE_RED’s page, to see if she was online. She wasn’t. I was becoming increasingly convinced I’d been played.
I went out and grabbed a slice of pepperoni pizza for lunch. I ate it NYC style—fast, standing up. Staring at a mirror above the counter, I noticed I had dark circles under my eyes and the “lines” in my forehead looked like what they actually were—wrinkles. My sideburns were too long and my eyebrows were noticeably unruly. I definitely needed to do a little grooming. Then I took another bite of pizza, I imagined all the fat going right to my stomach and love handles, and spit the mushed-up food into a napkin.
As I headed back to my office, I decided it was time to start taking better care of myself. No more pizza or deli sandwiches or Chinese takeout—I was going to eat more salad and fruit and home-cooked meals and start taking a bagged lunch to work. And I’d hit the gym more often, too. I was paying eighty-six bucks a month for a membership at New York Sports Club, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worked out. A month ago? Two months ago? I had to stick to it, lose ten or fifteen pounds. I had to start dressing better, too, paying more attention to my appearance. I’d always dressed simple, casual, but what had happened to my “look,” my sense of personal style? When I was a musician, I used to wear trendy tee shirts, funky necklaces, bracelets, and had both ears pierced. Now, as a middle-aged real estate agent on the Upper East Side, I was in clothes from H& M and the earring holes had closed up. What the hell had happened to me?
Claire was at her desk, talking to a young couple, potential buyers, and Brian and Andrew were out of the office. When Claire and the couple left, I had the office to myself.
FUGITIVE_RED still wasn’t active. I decided I’d send her a message, figuring if it was a fake page after all, the worst thing that could happen was that I wouldn’t get a response. Then I saw the green dot appear on FUGITIVE_RED’s profile.
