A virtuoso eventually emerged from among the callers. That was Mr. Rogers, a widower who kept predominantly to himself and who we suspected was the ringleader of the bunch. He was paralyzed on one side due to a stroke a few years prior, and he was all but incontinent. Yet, while he seemed apathetic to physical therapy and regaining his motor skills, he had, apparently through sheer force of will, recovered the clarity and enunciation of his rich speaking voice. We deemed him the best not because he was the freakiest, but because he was in complete command of the conversation from start to finish.

“I bet he got laid like crazy when he could get it up,” Wally said one day, after we had listened to a particularly titillating tape.

“Not necessarily,” Angie replied. “Sometimes these guys only feel safe getting close to a woman when there’s a barrier between him and her.”

“Then we shouldn’t mention that Mr. Harris has been giving you the most delicious cunnilingus ever, should we?” Wally grinned.

“What? Please say that’s not true.”

“Oh, it’s true. You’ve been—¡ay caramba!—having the naughtiest time.”

“Wonderful. That means you’ll have to give him his shots, Walter, since I won’t be doing it.”

“What is wrong with all of you?” Unbeknownst to us, Chloe, one of the head nurses, had come into the break room. “Don’t you realize that our convalescents are human beings who have needs and feelings the same as you? If I hear of any more eavesdropping on their phone calls, disciplinary action will be taken.”

“I guess that puts an end to that,” I said after she left.

“No way, I’m not stopping,” Wally replied. “We’ll just have to be more careful.”

I spent the rest of my shift assisting wrinkled flesh in and out of bathtubs, irrigating infected bedsores, and spooning mashed potatoes into helpless mouths while in a gloomy funk because of Chloe. When Mrs. Walsh apologized for inadvertently swallowing her glass eye again, I didn’t even smile. (“I was trying to give it a clean,” the perennial excuse.)

Jill had been around. When I got home, she was sprawled in her underwear on the couch, absorbed in a romance novel.

“How can you stand that trash?” I asked.

“It’s just a bit of escapism,” she replied. “I pick them up in the airport. What’s gotten into you?”

So I told her about the phone sex, Mr. Rogers, and Chloe’s reaction. She perked up when I mentioned I had been listening to some of the tapes on my own.

“Does it turn you on?” she asked.

“No, of course not. Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly. Do you have any with you?”

“Maybe.”

“Can you play one for me?”

While I searched for a file on my laptop, she got comfy in a robe and slippers and opened a couple of beers. I queued up “Mr. Rogers Lake Boobies.” We sat listening on the couch.

MR. ROGERS: When I was young, we used to go to this beach on the lake. A friend of mine worked as a lifeguard, and we would wait until after hours when it was closed to the public, then go skinny-dipping.