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The letters became intimate and erotic. When we finally met for a drink, I was surprised to discover that, although we had such a consummate connection on the page, there was no chemistry between us. Later he would explain, "It was easier to indulge in all those sexy fantasies as long as you were abstract. But when you no longer were, it made me uncomfortable." For my part, I was willing to give chemistry a chance; his literary persona had endeared him to me. But his position was clear: "I'd like to be friends, whatever that means—but not if it will raise your hopes about something else happening." I told him it would probably be too hard to squeeze in a new friendship at my age, but thanked him for "raising the bar."

Despite the fact that my profile specified that I was looking for a serious relationship with someone who lived within five miles of my zip code, I soon fell into a heated, erotic correspondence with a man who lived 3,591 miles away—an American-born journalist living in Spain. After two weeks of regular emails in which we shared our personal histories and love of good grammar, we turned our attention to sexual fantasies. There was something about the forbidden quality of the relationship—the fact that we knew we couldn't be together— that made these letters especially arousing. Our inboxes became intensely intimate spaces. When he suddenly announced that he was coming to New York on a business trip, I was excited by the idea of meeting someone who knew exactly, in detail, what I desired.

When we met at his hotel, I immediately knew that I wasn't attracted to him. As we sat in the lobby bar trying to gloss over reality with a few stiff drinks, he suddenly seemed like the stranger he actually was. I replayed scenes and sentiments from our 78 emails, trying to remind myself why I trusted him. Despite our obvious lack of chemistry, the idea of acting out our sexual fantasies was irresistible. We proceeded to his 40th floor hotel aerie to play out an awkward reenactment of some of our more memorable email moments. Looking through the room's rain-streaked windows, I became entranced by a blinking neon sign glowing from a building two blocks away. The view provided one of those rarefied New York perspectives one is seldom privy to. I was grateful, at least, for that.

The driving rains of spring gave over to the dog days of summer. My attire became skimpier and my expectations more relaxed. When I met a sexy economist who said he was attracted to me but not interested in "seriously relating," I realized that I was not as adverse to "play" as I had previously assumed. In May I had turned 38 and soon my "adorable 2-year-old daughter" would become my "adorable 3-year-old daughter." I realized that I was in the catbird seat: I had acted on my overwhelming procreative urge in my mid-thirties. If I fell into a serious relationship, there was still time to have another child. If I didn't, that would be OK too. I arranged a play date for my daughter then went out to meet the economist for a "play" date.