Chapter 5: The Other Holly

Chapter 5

The Other Holly

With Trout in bed, I helped myself to a glass of pinot grigio and went online. I had a third Percocet for the day, which I usually tried to avoid. I'd taken so many of them over the previous three months that they didn't make me sleepy anymore, quite the opposite. Another problem with Percocet at night is that it mixes poorly with alcohol. While usually I go to bed after a glass or two of wine, with a Percocet, I could have a full bottle and still be awake, sometimes craving more.

I went to SingleParent.com to look at pictures of the first Holly when I found a message from the second Holly. It read:

“I'm sorry it has taken so long to respond to your message, as I have been in Spain for the past two weeks. Your message was lovely, and I want to get to know you better. I hope you don't mind, but I did a Google search on your username and found your blog. I've been reading it all day; your choice of literature is outstanding; your insights are profound, particularly your refutation of Harold Bloom's comparison of Freud to Dickens. I'm badly jet-lagged, so I'll be in and out of bed all weekend. Message me on this site, and I'll get back to you.”

I hadn't thought of my dead wife for longer than any time all year, but then it crept up on me. It just happened. I was picturing the mischievous smile on the first Holly's face as she was about to go after me a second time, the way she cocked her head to the side, and I saw Naomi's helmeted head, bent at an unnatural angle. Dead. I washed down an Ambien with my glass of wine and went to sleep.

The other Holly and I began corresponding via the website. She was charming and wonderful. I couldn't wait to meet her, and I finally did, at a Brazilian restaurant in the Gaslamp District of San Diego. The portions were huge, and we drank too much wine.

“And then she said the worst thing you could possibly imagine,” I said recounting my date with the first Holly.

“No,” the other Holly replied, “she said the...”

“'Who's that?'” We laughed, perhaps too loudly.

“I'm asexual,” the other Holly said, suddenly deathly serious. I can't imagine what facial expression I gave her, but at least I didn't laugh. “I've had no interest in sex since I got a hysterectomy in 1990. I tried it with men and women, but nothing. I've been completely celibate for sixteen years.”

“Do you masturbate,” I asked.

“Maybe once a year,” she replied, “to relieve tension. It isn't satisfying to me.”

“Can you have an orgasm?”

“Not anymore.” She looked away. “My doctor says that I'm physically capable and that it's all psychological, but I've tried everything.”

“I'm sorry.”

She gave me another million-dollar smile. “So, do you know why I'm here? It's not for free food. I'm paying, by the way.”

I tried to imagine what it would be like, unable to connect to anyone on a sexual level. “Yeah, I guess I do,” I said.

“It's more than that,” she continued, “I do need male company, but I want more than that,” she said, repeating herself. “I want a relationship. I want a partner. I don't care where he fulfills his needs.” She looked at her napkin. “I also need someone who will go to certain social functions with me. It's unfortunate, but even in my profession, there are people who see asexuality as a disorder instead of an orientation, more so in my case because I wasn't born asexual.”

I took her hand.