Six weeks and a day had passed, and now Dr. Arnold Freeberg was seated behind his desk at ten minutes to two in the afternoon waiting for the last of his group meetings to begin shortly. Looking out the window, he could see that this day in mid-July was overcast, somewhat bleak, and he wished the sun were shining, because he felt sunny inside. The grueling training period had been a complete success. He had a team of bright, warm sex surrogates, and he was eager to get them on the road.
As he waited in his office for the arrival of his surrogates at two o'clock, he thought about what he had accomplished in the morning. He had reviewed the tapes of his first four patients referred to him by colleagues. The patients had all been dysfunctional men. There had been no female patient set for Paul Brandon yet, but he knew that several were being considered by psychiatrists for referral, so Brandon would soon be busy, too. Freeberg had given Suzy the tapes to transcribe on her word processor.
Following that, Freeberg had met with Gayle Miller, his original surrogate, who had finally arrived from Tucson a week ago, after graduating from the University of Arizona and winding up her affairs there. He had not seen much of her during the week—except for one visit she'd made to his clinic when he had introduced her to his surrogate trainees —because she had been busy finding and settling into a bungalow in Hillsdale. She had also been busy preparing her application for graduate school at UCLA—seeking admission to the doctoral program in psychology—and her request for a fellowship or financial aid. She had delivered all this along with her University of Arizona transcript and three letters of recommendation to the university.
When she had come in this morning, to assist him with his send-off ceremony, Freeberg had been so delighted to see her, so reassured by her confident professional presence, that he had invited her to the Market Grill next door, the coffee and sandwich shop where they might lunch together. Following Gayle out of the clinic, and then into the street toward the grill, he had realized that she was certainly the most attractive of his surrogates.
As they seated themselves in a booth, Freeberg noticed once more how graceful and beautiful Gayle was, attired in a pink silk blouse, nipped at her waist by a yellow leather belt, and below the belt, a pleated silk skirt that clung to her thighs when she walked. Watching her, as she studied the menu, Freeberg enjoyed Gayle's pretty face. She had dark glossy hair trimmed in a gamine bob, encasing a countenance that resembled the features of an Oriental porcelain doll—behind her big lavender sunglasses were widespread green almond eyes, and beneath the glasses, a pert nose and a generous mouth with a full lower lip. The rest of her person, he recollected, was equally arresting. He had seen her nude several times six years ago in Tucson during her own surrogate training period. Printed indelibly on his memory were her smooth sloping alabaster shoulders; her protruding firm full breasts with their large brown nipples; her small supple waist, narrow hips, and ample thighs (one with a beauty mark); and her shapely legs. He tried to remember . . . She must have been, must be now, five foot four or five. And dim in his memory, there had been some kind of tragedy in her case record, something that had motivated her to undertake the surrogate work for him.
The important things about Gayle Miller, he reminded himself, were not physical. She had proved to be intelligent, adaptable, forthright, articulate, and possessed of a sweet and giving personality. The fact remained that she had enabled him to have total success with his most disturbed and seemingly hopeless patients.
At lunch, he had gone along with her in ordering a salad and a hamburger, and he had glowed at the realization that this experienced twenty-seven-year-old woman was the leader of his team.
But that had been earlier. Now, at his desk, Freeberg saw that it was two o'clock, and his new surrogates were beginning to arrive. He greeted each of them as they came in and informally took their places on the sofa before him and in the pull-up chairs. He shuffled his notes, deciding he would speak very briefly and then bring Gayle Miller in from Suzy's office, introduce her, and let her give them one last word of reassurance.
Freeberg did not stand up. He eased back into his leather swivel chair and surveyed his group.
"Welcome," he said to them. "You all had yesterday off, and I hope you've recovered from your training period. Actually, I missed you. We've been so close in the last six weeks that I feel we've become a family. I'm not here to address you once more. You got enough of that the day before the training began and during every workday of the six weeks we trained. I feel that you know your job now, and that each of you is dedicated to it and will do well. Just keep one thing in mind. With each of you, I've tried to build a bridge, a human bridge to help troubled people cross over from a place where they are—a bad place—to a better place where they want to be, a place that will make them whole again and alive, not only sexually but in their careers and in their personal lives.
"Remember this, the men who are coming to you want to learn something. They want to learn how to be loving human beings. They are coming to you with their disorders and their quiet desperation. They are in effect pleading with you, trying to say to you, 'Here I am, and I don't know what to do about my disabling problem. Please help me.' To them, you are their last resort.
"Anyway, tomorrow we begin. I've drawn up a schedule for meeting with you and your patients tomorrow morning and afternoon. The day after that, you will each be largely on your own, except for your continuing reports to me. Before you leave, I will meet privately with each of you to discuss your first assignments.
"Enough from me. I'm now going to bring in Gayle Miller. She was the one surrogate I used, in Tucson, before I trained you. You each met her the last week of training, when she came by to say hello. But you had no chance to talk to her. I thought it might be useful if Gayle spoke to you briefly about her own experiences and gave you a chance to ask any more questions that come to mind. Now let me get Gayle Miller."
Just before leaving Suzy's secretarial office for Freeberg's more imposing office, Gayle had hesitated to speak to the therapist once more.
"What do I do?" Gayle had asked.
Freeberg had smiled. "Stage fright? You just go in there and do whatever comes naturally. Sit down behind my desk or stand next to it, as you prefer. Chat with them casually about your work. They're waiting there, friendly but apprehensive. Whatever I've told them is one thing. But to them, I'm somewhat removed from the main scene. Whatever comes from you comes from someone who's been in the field. It'll make them feel more comfortable. Give them a few minutes from the voice of experience, and if they have any questions, simply answer them candidly. You can do it, Gayle. Good luck."
Once in Freeberg's office, Gayle decided to stand behind Freeberg's desk and talk to them. The five new surrogates appeared alert, eager, receptive, and a bit curious, too.
"You all know the procedures," Gayle began. "I can only tell you of my own experience in working with Dr. Freeberg on five cases in Tucson. Two were cases where the men suffered an inability either to get an erection or to maintain one. Two were cases where the men suffered premature ejaculation. One was a case of terrible shyness and lack of knowledge—I mean, for him the problem was not in bringing a woman home with him but, once he had her home, how to take the next step, how to get her from the living room or kitchen to the bedroom, then what to say, what to do. All these cases, I am happy to tell you, were resolved satisfactorily."
Janet Schneider interrupted. "Did you make love with all of them, Gayle?"
"Of course," Gayle replied. "You mean sexual intercourse? Yes, I eventually had it with each one. Therapists like to say that intercourse isn't the goal of the treatment. They like to say that teaching someone to get in touch with his feelings, learn to be intimate, learn to handle sex naturally is the goal. All of that is true. But the ultimate goal is successful intercourse. If a man who has been unable to complete intercourse does arrive at the point where he can do that and do it as well as almost any other man, then I feel the main goal has been achieved."
Janet Schneider's hand was up again. "One more thing," she said. "What about the transmission of the AIDS virus in our work? How much are we endangered?"
"Let me say frankly, you're in a high-risk job," Gayle answered. "The AIDS virus, as far as we know, is transmitted through bodily fluids or from the blood of an infected person. You can be infected with the virus through sexual intercourse or intravenous injection. You can't get AIDS merely by touching another person. The virus does not survive long in open air or after sterilization. But, I repeat, it can survive in your body fluids and bloodstream. Risky as your work is, there are things you can do to protect yourself. At a surrogates meeting in New York concerning AIDS, I joined a group that worked out a way of practicing safer sex. First, no deep kissing with patients—no exchange of fluids at any time. Second, permit no penetration without use of a condom by the patient. And let the surrogate doubly protect herself by using a spermicide." Gayle lowered her voice. "Confidentially, I don't insist on my patients using a condom, once I know they've had a blood test for AIDS and it's negative. To me, condoms are just too inhibiting for already inhibited people. Many therapists demand that a surrogate have a test after every penetration. That's a little antsy, and Dr. Freeberg agrees. He requires his surrogates to be tested only once every three months. Anyway, follow the safe sex suggestions I've made, and the odds are strongly in your favor that you won't have anything to fear."
Before Gayle could resume, there was another question, this time from Lila Van Patten. "I'm wondering about something else. How would you, as a surrogate, define a successful erection?"
Gayle nodded and replied, "The best definition was given by Masters and Johnson, and Dr. Freeberg concurs. If, after your treatment, a formerly impotent man can get an erection and keep it up in three out of four encounters, then he's okay, he's made it." Her eyes fell on the man in the group, Paul Brandon, and she said, "As for non-orgasmic female patients, we agree with Masters and Johnson who felt that two orgasms out of every four encounters was a sign of success."
Searching the others for more questions, Gayle heard none, so she went on.
"I've always told my patients that I am not a teacher. I am a partner . . . but a partner who knows a little more than they know and wants to help them. Some of my patients have been lawyers and computer experts. I've told them that if I had a legal problem or had to know something about computers, I'd go to someone knowledgeable to find out what I need to know. But my own specialty is sex, so if they have a problem in that area, it's reasonable that they should employ me to find out more about it."
"Have they always trusted you?" someone called out.
"Not always. Sometimes they resented me, because they needed help and felt dependent on me. Also, they often resented hiring a temporary partner they had to pay. They know they're paying Dr. Freeberg five thousand dollars for the course of treatment. They know that from that fee, he will be paying each of us seventy-five dollars an hour or one hundred and fifty dollars for a two-hour session. Sometimes patients don't like that aspect of it. One of my patients once said to me, 'You're on the payroll, Gayle. I can't see myself relating to you as a caring person.' But eventually he did, and so did the others. I learned that if they trusted Dr. Freeberg, they invariably soon trusted me. It's really not a big problem."
Then she went on again.
"The big problem is the inadequate male's attitude. Once he's had trouble, with every new encounter, he takes on the role of spectator during his own sexual act, with no spontaneity, just waiting to observe if anything will happen, if he can make it work. That's the real problem. As Dr. Masters said, 'An impotent male is traumatized infinitely more above the neck than he is below the belt.'
"I found out that most disorders began when the patient was young, perhaps in his teens. At that time, the young man realized he didn't need to give or receive any touching or caressing because he could get aroused quickly and could go right at it. He was usually able to find a willing partner who thought that was what sex was all about and was ready to reinforce his bad habits. But as our young man grew older, no longer nineteen but now forty-nine, he found that his poor training in foreplay was working against him. A woman's bare breasts no longer turned him on as they once did. Arousal and erection were more difficult to attain. Because he never depended on touching, only on what he saw and wanted, he ceased being turned on as fast. He began to panic. He began to look for younger and sexier women, and when that stimulus also ceased to work, the man's entire sexual system broke down. He became dysfunctional.
"All this can be changed, through the exercises, by getting the patient in touch with his feelings, so he enjoys the pleasures of intimacy. At no time are the exercises enough. You will learn, as I have learned, that you must communicate with the patient steadily—not as a technician but as a human being, through constant caressing, cuddling, and being sensual."
She searched her mind to see if there was more to say. There did not seem to be. From now on, for the surrogates, there remained the relationships and their actions.
"Tonight," said Gayle, "I will undertake my first case in Hillsdale. It will not be an easy one. Mine involves an adult young man who has a problem involving impotency that naturally is affecting his work. The patient's impotency, I am told, grows from an obsessive self-concern that his penis is too small."
"Is it?" Paul Brandon asked from the group of surrogates.
For an instant, Gayle stopped, startled. Her eyes held on the speaker, the one male in the surrogate group. She spoke to him directly, trying to keep her tone even. "Mr. Brandon, there is no such thing as too small. Certainly you know that. I'm sure my patient will, eventually, do as well as anyone—as even yourself."
Still annoyed, Gayle turned away from him to conclude with the others.
"Tomorrow, you all begin. I hope you derive as much happiness from what you will be doing as I have. Dr. Freeberg has already wished you luck. To that I can only add, I wish you success."
At promptly three thirty in the afternoon, Suzy ushered Adam Demski into Dr. Freeberg's office.
Freeberg shook hands with the first patient who had come to his Hillsdale clinic several days earlier. He greeted the man cordially and pointed him to a comfortable chair across from his desk.
Returning to his own swivel chair, Freeberg was secretly pleased that Demski had arrived at all today, let alone promptly. After their first meeting, Freeberg had wondered if this patient, referred by a Chicago psychoanalyst, would go through with it and actually show up. In their first confidential meeting, Demski had been diffident, nervous to the point of being almost inarticulate, and only after the most artful questioning had Freeberg been able to learn the details of his patient's impotency.
At the end of the initial meeting, Freeberg had packed Demski off to get a physical examination from Dr. Stan Lopez, the general physician he trusted and intended to use in all his cases. The purpose had been to learn if Demski's condition was organic or the result of psychological factors. Demski's personal physician in Chicago had indicated that he had found no organic problems during earlier examinations. Still, Freeberg had to be doubly certain of this and had requested Dr. Lopez to reexamine the patient. If the problem did have some organic cause, Dr. Freeberg had expected to divert Demski to physicians who would treat his sexual dysfunction from a medical view. If, on the other hand, his visitor's problem were psychological, Freeberg planned to go ahead and apply sex therapy with the use of his most experienced sex surrogate.
This afternoon's second meeting was for the purpose of reviewing Dr. Lopez's report on Demski's physical condition and then introducing him to Gayle Miller and discussing with him the procedure that would be followed in surrogate treatment.
Through the thick lens of his spectacles, Freeberg could see that Demski was again exceedingly apprehensive. Demski, rather anemic in appearance, sat uneasily in his chair, his lanky frame fidgeting as he kept his gaze fixed on the carpet.
Running his fingers through his bristly, unruly dark hair, Dr. Freeberg then stroked his short graying beard as he once more scrutinized the results of Dr. Lopez's physical report.
Wearing his most engaging smile, Freeberg said, "Well, Mr. Demski, I think I can reassure you about one thing. Your disorder has no organic basis. That is something to be grateful for." He tapped the report on his desk. "Dr. Lopez seems to have done a very thorough job. I see he even had an excellent urologist, Dr. Gerald Clark, look you over."
Demski nodded. Then he said, "Yes."
"All right," Freeberg went on, "let's consider Dr. Lopez's findings together, just to be sure I've not overlooked anything."
Demski nodded unhappily. Somehow, Freeberg could see, his patient did not feel reassured.
Freeberg brought the physician's report up closer to his myopic vision. "I see you were tested for the possibility of undiagnosed diabetes. Such a condition could hurt your blood vessels and possibly make normal physical response difficult. But Dr. Lopez tells us you are not a diabetic. So we can rule that out. Next"—Freeberg's eyes ran down Dr. Lopez's report—"he looked into your vascular condition."
"Vascular?" asked Demski, puzzled.
"Like hardening of the arteries—the penile arteries—which would slow down the blood flow to the genital area and could obstruct an erection." Freeberg shook his head. "Not a thing wrong in that area. The urologist, Dr. Clark, confirmed that by testing the blood pressure of your legs and penis."
Demski nodded unhappily, apparently remembering with embarrassment that genital test.
Freeberg rattled the two sheets in his hand. "Everything else seems clear. You take no antidepressants or tranquilizers. You do not drink to excess. No mood-altering drugs, like cocaine. No amphetamines, barbiturates. No prostate or bladder surgery. No damage at any time to your pelvic area, genitals, or spinal cord." Freeberg paused. "Testosterone level, fine. You are in your forties, aren't you?"
"Forty-two."
"So your libido has not been affected at all. I see here that the urologist did not think a prosthetic implant was called for."
"No."
Freeberg dropped the report on his desk and gazed at the patient squarely. "Plainly, Mr. Demski, your condition does not evolve from an organic impairment."
"It—it comes from something."
"Certainly it does. But not from any physical cause. That has now been confirmed. Your problem, it appears, is a psychological one that continues despite your psychotherapy. Probably after your first failure, there were more failures and an inability to focus on your sensations. This is something I can likely reverse and normalize through diminishing your anxiety. It requires only your full cooperation every step of the way."
"I came here," mumbled Demski.
"You did, and that means you can be helped. As you know, insight or talk therapy can be useful, but often it is not enough. After you had such therapy in Chicago, it proved to be not quite enough. That is why your analyst recommended that you come to California to see me. I will work with you almost daily, of course, but I won't be alone. I will be assisted by a sexual surrogate, a trained woman who will guide you and teach you under my close direction. You know about these partner surrogates from what you learned at home and what you heard from me. You know the functions of a sexual surrogate, don't you?"
"I—I think so, yes," Demski said in a small voice.
"Very well. I've assigned my very best and most experienced sexual surrogate to you. Her name is Gayle Miller, a young lady you should find most agreeable and useful. She's prepared to begin your exercises with you."
"W—when?"
"This evening at seven o'clock at her residence."
Demski looked pale and stricken. "Tonight?"
"Yes. You're ready to start. Now I want you to meet Gayle Miller. She knows your case, of course. She's read the transcript of our first meeting, and I've elaborated upon it personally with her. She will join us; sit in on the rest of our meeting, as I explain to you precisely the program laid out for you and the exact exercises you will undergo with Miss Miller."
Freeberg picked up his receiver, pressed down the intercom button, and said, "Suzy, please send Gayle Miller into my office. We are ready for her now."
The afternoon had waned, and the surrogates, including Gayle Miller, had left for their homes. The Freeberg Clinic was all but empty, except for Freeberg himself, putting away his papers, and Suzy Edwards next door proofing the pages of case histories that she had transcribed from tapes.
Dr. Freeberg, his briefcase in hand, poked his head into his secretary's office. "How goes it, Suzy?"
She lifted her head from her pages, pushing the stray strands of red hair away from her forehead. "Almost done, Doctor. Just catching a few typos. I hear it went well with the surrogates."
"Very well, I think."
Suzy fingered the sheaf of pages on the desk before her. "I must tell you, Doctor, even though I knew what you were doing, I had no idea how difficult and fascinating your cases would be."
"I agree with you. They are fascinating. I never get tired of the human maze, the confusion, the conflict, even the suspense. Yes, they are difficult, every one of them, but I'm confident they'll all make out."
"I'm sure they will."
"Well, I'm off to dinner. When you've finished, leave the transcripts on my desk. Before you leave, be sure to turn on the alarm and lock up. See you tomorrow, Suzy."
"Tomorrow," she said.
After he'd gone, Suzy stared at the door he had closed. Tomorrow, she thought. Why wait? There was still tonight, a long tonight, ahead. Quickly, concentrating, she finished her proofing and checked her pages to see that they were in order. Then, without hesitation, she reached for her telephone.
The decision to call Chet had come to her while she had been proofing. Only when her hand was on the receiver did she hesitate. She considered the call she was about to make and tried to imagine how he might react, not merely to her call but to what could follow.
She thought about Chet Hunter, her new boyfriend, her best, and pictured him as he'd been the first moment she had met him. It had been a month ago, in the Hillsdale Main Public Library. She had been at a reading table, going through some medical magazines to see if she could learn more about Dr. Arnold Freeberg, her new boss. This fellow, probably in his thirties, surely no more than five years older than she, was carrying some books from the shelves, and the only spot open was the chair next to hers. Apologetically, he eased into the chair tight against her own. She had been taken by him at once. He was of medium build, receding neat brown hair, high forehead, soulful brown eyes highlighted by steel-framed spectacles set near the tip of a pug nose, his manner reserved but obviously an intellectual type.
They had exchanged occasional whispered talk, mostly bookish talk, and at closing time, he had accompanied her out of the library, casting sidelong glances at her and, as they were about to part, suddenly asking if she'd like to have a cup of coffee with him. She had wanted to, indeed, and they'd sipped their coffees and become acquainted.
His work had been unclear to her—and in a way, still was. Two years ago he had founded, and still ran, something called the Acme Research Bureau. He was a full-time researcher, he had explained, digging up facts from countless sources for freelance writers, graduate students, magazines, newspapers. He worked on an hourly pay basis, poor pay, set barely at subsistence level, earning just enough to keep him in food, clothing, and a three-room apartment. She wondered what he researched and for whom. Just everything imaginable—who the only bachelor U.S. president was, for a political candidate; what the second highest mountain in the world was, for a travel writer; how advanced the process of cloning was, for a medical magazine; how many reported rapes there had been in Hillsdale and Los Angeles last year, for a Hillsdale attorney . . . She asked how he found his answers, and he explained that he did so by checking books in the library, corresponding with experts, interviewing specialists—why, he had even studied and trained to become a police reservist in the Hillsdale Police Force, to get closer to law enforcement material for many of his clients.
"A police reservist?" Suzy had wondered. "Whatever is that?"
"A part-time auxiliary policeman, a reserve police officer, the way a National Guardsman is a part-time soldier," Hunter had explained. "The police force needs added manpower. They take volunteers. Not easy to become a reservist. You're tested by a physician, then a psychiatrist, and if accepted you go to the Hillsdale Police Academy three nights a week for almost five months. Only two out of fifty of us graduated. At first I was a technical reservist, doing indoor work like taking reports at the police station. Then I studied for the line reserve and was trained in everything from use of firearms to criminal law. I wound up with a blue uniform and badge, a .38 Smith & Wesson pistol, handcuffs, and the rest. I work two eight-hour shifts a month and get fifteen dollars a month as pay. But I don't care about the pay. It's the firsthand research I'm interested in."
"You did all that for research?"
Hunter had considered Suzy's question. "Actually, there was another reason I went through it," Hunter had told her. "You see, this researching is only a stopgap, to keep me going until I can get what I want."
"What do you want, Chet?"
"I'm a born journalist, and I want to be one full-time. My one ambition now is to be a staff reporter on the Hillsdale Daily Chronicle. That's what I really want, really dream about. In fact, that's why I went through the whole heavy business of becoming a police reservist, to help get a lead on a big story and recognize it when it comes along. Otto Ferguson, he's the editor in chief at the Chronicle, he's not sure I'm ready yet. He feels I have to prove myself. So I keep trying and waiting, hoping for that big one. If I ever get it, I'm positive Ferguson will take me on." At this point, he had halted, embarrassed. "Forgive me, Suzy, for running off at the mouth like this. I haven't even asked you what you do. Are you an actress or something like that?"
She had blushed. "Of course not. I just took a job as a medical secretary."
"You could be, an actress, I mean."
Two nights later they had dated more formally. Suzy really liked him. He was the most interesting and darling man she had ever met. She had suspected he liked her, too. The night after that, after dinner, she had asked to see some examples of his work. She had gone up to his three-room apartment, and after two vodkas on the rocks, she had gone to bed with him.
In fact, since then she had gone to bed with him twice more, most recently last night.
She had definitely fallen in love with him, but there was also definitely a problem.
She felt more certain than ever that it could be overcome. She lifted the phone and dialed his number, hoping he was in.
He answered the phone. "Hello . . ."
"Hi, Chet. It's Suzy."
"Suzy, why I—"
"Chet," she said quickly, "if you're free tonight, I'd like to come over and see you for a little while."
"You mean that? Of course I'm free. Gee, Suzy, I guess I didn't expect to hear from you again after last night. You know how much I want to see you."
"Don't be silly. I want to see you, too. Can I come over to your place after dinner? Say, maybe between nine and nine thirty?"
"I can't wait, Suzy. I'll be looking forward."
After hanging up, she sat there staring at the phone. She thought, I'll be looking forward too. Tonight was important, really important. Her whole future was at stake.
Gayle Miller, her legs tucked under her, sat on the couch she had shipped from Tucson and sewed a button on her blue cashmere sweater.
The electric clock, set on the mantel of the fireplace across the small but cozy living room of her newly leased bungalow in Hillsdale, registered a few minutes before seven o'clock in the evening.
If he weren't too frightened, Adam Demski, her very first patient in Hillsdale, should be arriving in a few minutes.
Her mind held only the vaguest picture of him, although she had met with him and with Dr. Freeberg for nearly an hour after the surrogate meeting this afternoon. She retained the impression of a slender, tallish, slightly hunched man, maybe forty, with a hangdog expression, a cadaver type of narrow, sunken countenance, a tentative person in every way, with his concern over a small penis. Two women, a new girlfriend and then a prostitute, had mocked him for it. So he had been unable to get it up after that. Not up at all. He had buried himself in his work, accountancy in Chicago, and avoided women socially. Had tried dating a few who were kinder, but that hadn't helped. His penis had remained flaccid. And recently, his work, or rather his attitude toward it, had become flaccid, too. It was then that he had consulted a psychoanalyst, but verbalizing had not solved his erectile problem. Determined to help him, the psychoanalyst had referred Adam to Dr. Freeberg. Now Adam Demski was in Hillsdale to be resurrected among the living.
The doorbell rang.
Hastily, Gayle gathered her sweater and sewing kit together, stuffed them into the drawer of the end table beside the sofa, then stood up and appraised herself in the wall mirror. She fluffed her hair a little, otherwise, everything was in place.
She went to the front door and opened it.
A pale youngish man, somewhat taller than she remembered, and thinner, stood there under the yellow porch light. "I—I'm Adam Demski," he said, his voice constricted. "I don't know if you remember."
"Of course I remember." Cheerfully, she put out her hand. "And in case you forgot, I'm Gayle Miller. We have a date. I hoped you wouldn't stand me up."
"I wouldn't," he muttered, pausing there, staring at her, not yet taking her hand.
Gayle was used to this, the standing and staring, because it had happened to her before. This happened, she guessed, because the patients had formed their own mental image of what a sex surrogate would look like. In Dr. Freeberg's office, Demski had scarcely looked at her. Probably he expected someone more hardened and professional, and least of all a fresh, clean, soft all-American girl, one who might actually be a date.
She pushed forward her hand again, and this time he took it in a brief handshake. Her hand went up to the sleeve covering his forearm. "Come in. Do come in," she said, drawing him into the living room. "It's so good to see you."
He stood in the middle of the living room, a bit bewildered. What had he expected? she wondered. A red satin bordello?
"It's—it's very nice," he said. "Homey."
"Oh, it's not really decorated yet," she said. "I just rented it and arranged some of my own furniture that came from Arizona—the sofa, the chairs, and the bed are old pieces. But I've been shopping. More will be coming in next week. Look, make yourself comfortable. You can take off your jacket, loosen your tie if you'd like." She gestured toward the couch. "Have a seat. I was about to heat up some water for my tea. Would you like a cup? Or maybe coffee or a soft drink?"
"Whatever you're having, Miss—Miss Miller."
"Gayle," she said. "Let's be friends, Adam. I'm Gayle from now on."
Awkwardly, he sat down, then remembered to loosen his tie as she went into the kitchen.
Minutes later she emerged with a tray bearing two cups of tea and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. He had taken off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the couch. He was thumbing the pages of the latest Vogue disinterestedly.
Gayle settled down on the couch, not too close to him, and handed him his cup of tea. She noticed his hand trembled as he took it.
"You're from Chicago, I recall," she said.
"Born there," he told her.
"Where in Chicago? I've been there a few times."
"North side."
"You live alone?"
"Yes. I have an apartment."
"You have many women friends?"
He shook his head. "No. Not now. I'm very busy."
Gayle sipped her tea. "What do you do when you're not busy, Adam?"
"I don't know. Catch up on my reading. Catch up on movies. I belong to a videotape club. On Sundays, in season, I sometimes go to football games with some fellows from the office."
She considered how much she could push him. "Do you have any time for a social life, Adam?"
He blinked at her. "I—I don't know what you mean. You mean girls?"
"Do you go to parties? Meet women? See women for dinner?"
He gulped his tea and put down his empty cup. "I used to. Not much. I hardly do that at all anymore." He looked at Gayle sideways, tried to hold on her. "You—you know I have a problem. You were there when Dr. Freeberg discussed it. You know my problem."
She nodded. "Of course. Maybe half the men in this country have problems in that area; only they repress them, won't face them." She wasn't sure of her statistics, but it sounded right.
"Really?" he said. "Well, I guess I wouldn't discuss it either, for a long time. But when I realized it was affecting my work—I wasn't concentrating on my regular accounts, not going after new ones—I thought maybe there was a connection."
"You were right, Adam. There is a connection. If you are having sexual difficulties, it affects not only your love life but your entire life, the way you relate to people and to your career."
"I was having more—more trouble," he said. "I was having trouble sleeping. But I was too ashamed to try to get help until a fellow in the office mentioned a great analyst he was sending his son to. Well, I went, and this analyst, he helped me open up, speak about the problem, and finally recommended I go to California for a month to see Dr. Freeberg." He gave a shrug. "So here I am. I—I'm not sure anything can be done."
"Well, you were smart and gutsy enough to try. And, Adam, I assure you something can be done. If you work with Dr. Freeberg and me, go along with us, and don't get discouraged, I'm certain you won't know your old self in a month—less than a month. You'll be a brand-new person. You'll be wanting women all the time, and they'll be wanting you, again and again."
"It's hard to believe. You've done it for other men?"
"A number of times. With patients far worse off than you. Dr. Freeberg and I have never failed."
"When do we get started?" Demski blurted out, his chalky pallor more evident.
"Now. Right now if you feel relaxed."
"I guess I'm as relaxed as I'll ever be." There was a slight tic beside his right eye. He swallowed. "Do I—do I undress now?"
"No, Adam," she said seriously. "That would be rushing it. In due time, when we're ready, we'll both undress. Right now, some simple exercises, fully clothed, but important exercises. One is called the hand caress. The other, the face caress. We can start with the hand caress."
"Hand caress," he said. "What's that?"
"Exactly what the name implies. I'm going to focus on your two hands, focus on touching them, rubbing them, feeling them, to give you relaxation, a sense of pleasure, a minimal sense of intimacy. Adam, I'd like to sit closer to you to start this. Do you mind?"
"Of course not. Whatever you have to do, just do it."
Gayle lifted herself off the couch, narrowed the gap between them, and eased onto a cushion beside him, her thigh barely touching his. "It's a two-way thing, Adam. I'll take your hands first, because I want to demonstrate the exercise. I'll ask you not to talk, and I won't talk, either. I'll ask you to keep your eyes closed. I don't want any visual input confusing you."
Demski was clearly puzzled. "Visual input confusing me? How could that happen?"
Gayle thought of how she might explain the necessity for him to keep his eyes shut. Then she remembered something. "I think I can give you an example of what I mean," she said. "When I was in training in Tucson, learning to become a surrogate, Dr. Freeberg found me a male partner to work with while Dr. Freeberg guided me. Well, the first time my partner and I were nude, I was struck by how handsome and well built my partner was. Although Dr. Freeberg was trying to show me the point of sensate focus —concentrating on a back caress—I paid little attention because I wouldn't shut my eyes but kept staring at my good-looking partner, or at least what I could see of him. Dr. Freeberg noticed what I was doing. Immediately, he pulled out his large handkerchief, folded it, and blindfolded me so that I would stop focusing on the wrong thing and get in touch with my feelings about the caressing. Dr. Freeberg succeeded in doing that by shutting my eyes for me. Now you can realize the importance of that, Adam, can't you?"
"I—I think so."
"Something else to know. When I start touching you, it'll be for my own pleasure. When I'm doing that, I'm doing it for my own sake and therefore not putting pressure on you or on me to perform. I'm doing it for pleasure rather than performance. The effect of the touching is that it feels good, first for me, then for you. Good lovemaking is first loving yourself and then learning to share that love with another. Once you can learn to share your love for yourself, then you're on your way. Does that make any sense?"
"I'm not sure."
She realized further talk, at this stage, would do little good. Only through demonstration would she be able to define better what she had been trying to explain. "I think that as we proceed, it will become clearer to you and will make sense. The place to begin, I repeat, is the hand caress.
"Right now, I want you to sit back and be comfortable and let me take your hands. When I'm through, I'll tell you, and then I want you to do exactly the same thing to me. You understand?"
"Yes."
"Sit back now, go limp, shut your eyes, give me your hands."
Demski did as he was told, shifting toward her slightly, extending his hands, which were trembling once more. Gayle took his hands and placed them in her lap. His fingers were long, knobby, the nails manicured. She released his left hand and cupped his entire right hand in her own.
"In your mind, just focus on the temperature of my hands on yours and how it feels when I stroke you. Now we'll be quiet."
Softly, her warm fingers stroked upward across his fingers and the smooth back of his hand to the hairs at his wrist. Gradually, she stroked downward, between the crevice separating his thumb and forefinger, between his bony fingers, then she slowly kneaded his entire hand. Slowly, she turned his hand over, palm upward, and resumed her light stroking and caresses.
Not until his right hand was limp and warm did she take his left hand in hers and begin to massage it on both sides.
Then she took both his hands together inside her own and cupped them warmly, moving her fingers, rubbing, stroking, kneading.
After perhaps twenty minutes she lowered his hands to her lap and released them.
"All right, Adam, you can open your eyes now, and we can talk a little." She met his eyes. "How was that—how did it feel?"
"I don't know exactly. What can I say? It felt sort of good."
Gayle moved her fingers over his left hand. "Were you aware of the different feelings when I touched your hand in different places? Did you feel pressures here on this bump, there on that crevice?"
"Sure, it was nice."
Gayle slipped one of her hands under his. "Okay, do the same hand caress to me. Close your eyes, and I'll close mine, and you do it to me the way I did it to you. For as long as you wish."
After a brief hesitation, Demski began to rub and squeeze her hands. He continued to do so with more and more intensity.
Nearly ten minutes had gone by when Gayle laced her fingers between his and stopped him. "Okay, Adam, that's fine. You can look at me. How did it feel? Did you get any special feeling from it?"
"Well, I guess so. It was sort of—sort of—" He couldn't find the right word.
Gayle tried to find it for him.
"Sensuous, maybe?"
"Yes, that's it."
"There was more," Gayle said professionally. "Did my hands feel soft or weak or firm to you? Did you notice I had even the tiniest callus? Were you conscious of my fingernails, that they're not too long but they have nail polish on them? And the backs of my hands—were they smooth or chapped? To most people a hand is a hand is a hand, something to eat with, write with, shake with. But there's a lot more there. The purpose of this exercise, Adam, is to develop and heighten your sense of discrimination and focus. I want you to know more about your body, and my own. I want you to know shape and texture. Because if you do, you'll start creating pictures in your head, and the more sensual pictures you create, the more alive you're going to feel."
"I had sensual pictures doing it."
"Excellent," said Gayle. "The ridges of our hands, the smoothness of them, their texture, that can make you aware of yourself and of me as human beings. We get too accustomed to ourselves and others. But as we do more touching, you'll realize the richness and variations about your body and mine. You'll know how different it is when you touch the hairline of my neck, then the hairline of my groin. You'll stop being turned off from your body, and you'll become more alert and awake to every sensuous experience. Like the face caress. That should be next, and we have time."
"What is it?" Demski asked worriedly.
"Just touching each other's faces, the various parts of our faces in different ways, feeling the bone structure, the skin, the fuzz. I've always thought the face caress an exquisite experience. Some patients have told me it reminds them of when they were children, the tender way they were touched then, but they haven't been touched that way by anyone since. Let's try it, Adam. First, me to you, then you to me. Now shut your eyes."
He did so, and Gayle moved more closely to him, then reached up and began to massage his forehead softly, soon running the tips of her fingers over his nose and across his cheeks, flitting them across his quivering lips and down his chin.
She repeated this several times and finally finished by cupping his face in her hands. "All right, Adam." When he opened his eyes, she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. "Well, Adam, what did you feel?"
At first he was unable to speak, then he whispered, "Like I—I wanted to kiss you."
She stared at him. "Why not? Go ahead."
He pushed his face toward hers and brushed his lips against her lips.
"Was that what you wanted to do?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Or did you want to kiss me in different ways?"
"I—I don't know what ways."
"A woman likes to be kissed in other ways, too. On the eyelids, tip of the nose, cleft of the chin, hollow of the throat, and on her earlobes, in her ears, behind her ears. Have you ever done that?"
"No."
"Do it now, to me. Kissing can be almost as intimate as intercourse. Start with my eyelids."
She closed her eyes and felt his nervous lips flutter at them, then waited as he made small pecks at her ears, cheeks, nose, chin. She was tempted to grab him, press his mouth against her own, open his mouth and her own, and give him a tongue kiss. Just to loosen him up. But she didn't succumb to it. That would be going too fast, pushing it too hard.
When he was done, she said, "Now it's your turn to give me a face caress."
His fingers went over her face, tentatively exploring and rubbing every feature, for many minutes.
At last, she opened her eyes. "How was it, Adam?" He smiled with less effort. "I liked it."
"So did I."
"Sort of—uh—sensuous," he added.
"That's what I thought." She sat back. "Well, there you are. First two exercises behind you. And nothing scary at all. Maybe you even found it fun."
"It was fun, I admit." He wriggled forward, reaching for his jacket behind him. "I guess I should go." He paused. "What—what do we do at the next session?"
"Footbath. Then"—Gayle was thinking—"maybe we'll move right into body imaging."
"Body imaging?"
"We both stand in front of a full-length mirror and tell what we like and don't like about our own bodies. We'll both be nude."
His expression did not hide his concern. "We'll undress? I thought you said that would come later?"
"Usually it does. A little later. But I was just thinking it would make it easier for both of us, definitely show more progress, if we were able to work together without anything on." She searched his face. "How do you feel about that, Adam?"
"I—I'm not sure."
"Well, let me discuss it with Dr. Freeberg first."
"If we do that . . . how will it help me?"
Gayle smiled enigmatically. "You'll see."
In the quiet of his computerized modern rectory in the rear of his Church of the Resurrection—actually a suite of rooms where the Reverend Mr. Josh Scrafield both lived and worked—Darlene Young efficiently continued to go through the routine of preparing her employer for his weekly television broadcast.
As she secured Scrafield's clerical collar to his starched white shirt, and helped him into the coat of his conservative dark suit, Darlene was again conscious of her employer's size and strength, which by now she knew all too well. Scrafield was a powerful man physically, over six feet tall and muscular, who considered his body a temple and who worked out with barbells four times a week with a local exercise coach. She knew, for he had told her so many times, that his temple must be cleansed and strengthened regularly, so that he could stand as an inspiration to the weak and frail of his ever-expanding flock of followers. Scrafield liked to say that he perceived the fears and lusts of his followers, and it was only to understand their temptations fully that he brought himself—forced himself, as he put it—at least once a week, to yield to her tender ministrations.
When she had applied for the job as Scrafield's secretary, and been hired, her double role of servicing had been understood from the start. Nor had Darlene minded. Scrafield had been single, and Darlene herself long divorced. In her late thirties, Darlene had wanted a man. Scrafield had not been unattractive. His thick eyebrows over oddly Mongolian eyes, fierce riveting black eyes, his pinched nose, jutting jaw, and mesmerizing voice (a grandiloquence of speech) had proved utterly seductive. She had been devoted to him, and to his generosity, and she had shown qualities of cleverness that matched his own, and this had gained her a promotion to publicist and television producer and allowed her to hire a secretary for herself. By then, she had become less enchanted with him, had tried to overlook his vanity, cunning, and what she suspected was a certain insincerity about his calling. Scrafield's real religion, she guessed, was his ambition to be somebody.
Now that she had him neatly dressed, except for his trousers, she began to remove his trousers from the hanger.
"Not yet," he said, waving them aside. "You know I like to keep them pressed until the last minute."
With that, she knew what she had known the last several months. She knew what was in store for her.
Dressed, but still in his boxer shorts, Scrafield was walking to his gargantuan desk, large enough to satisfy a Mussolini.
"I want to run through the script for tonight one more time," he was saying as he lowered himself behind the desk, took up the script, and wheeled his chair toward her. "Do you mind listening?"
"I look forward to it," said Darlene.
"If any of it sounds wrong, you let me know."
"Absolutely."
"All right," said Scrafield, clearing his throat, "let's run through it."
She sat on an ottoman, near him, as he began to read aloud from the script in his deepened and more theatrical voice.
"Brothers and Sisters," the Reverend Mr. Scrafield began, "once more I have come upon new information about the latest threat that is quietly but inexorably setting about to destroy our families and the very foundations of the American way of life.
"This insidious and cancerous growth that has invaded the schools of our youngest—the schools our children attend, namely, grammar schools and high schools—is known as sex education. This blatant and provocative teaching is being pressed on our young and unformed heirs.
"Speak to anyone who favors sex education in our classrooms instead of in our homes, and more often than not you will find yourself talking to someone who also favors unrestricted abortion, dangerous gay rights, atheism, and Communism.
"Tonight, my Brothers and Sisters, I want you to listen to some facts—actual facts—that have come to light on the matter of sex education.
"According to the latest available statistics, for youngsters between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, there were over one million pregnancies in a single year—roughly half of them leading to abortions and half to births.
"Obviously, these unwanted pregnancies were provoked by the kind of sex education going on throughout the states of America—the teachings, by untrained or ill-trained instructors, on every sexual subject from the use of contraceptives to sexual techniques to orgasms. This, in the face of the facts produced by a recent Yankelovich, Skelly, White survey that eighty-four percent of parents of teenagers polled feel that it is up to them to inform their children about sexual matters, a responsibility that should be borne only by caring families and not by politicized schools.
"Let me reveal to you a horror story that has recently been exposed in our own backyard. In the high school of San Marcos, California, over twenty percent of the young girl students were found to be pregnant by the year 1984. When the school board learned that fact, the members were quick to reassess the school's sex education program and modify it sharply.
"When you learn the shocking statistic that forty-eight percent of the states have no guideline policies on sex teachings, and leave policy-making up to local school boards, then you realize that you must have a voice in the decision making by letting your school board know you have an eye on it and will hold its members accountable for sinful behavior they promote under the guise of education.
"We must all act in concert with The Women's Committee for Responsible Government, which has already sued the state of California for spending public money on subversive sex education in our schools. We must join hand in hand to stop this systematic corruption of the innocent. We, too, must become the God-fearing, God-loving moral majority of this wonderful nation."
Scrafield droned on and on, and Darlene Young dutifully and attentively listened.
When he had concluded, Scrafield set his script aside and looked up. "What do you think, Darlene?"
"Very good, very frightening," she said. "Are those statistics actually true?"
"True blue, you bet. You ought to know. You hired that researcher, Chet Hunter, to research it for me. He's got a reputation for accuracy."
"Yes, he's good."
Scrafield studied his wristwatch. "We've still got fifteen minutes or more before the limo comes by to take us to the television studio. I could use a little relaxation, I guess, before going on the air. You up to it, baby?"
She nodded with fake enthusiasm. "You know I am."
As Scrafield reached down to the fly of his shorts, she wondered fleetingly why this change had taken place a few months ago. It had always been his habit, in times before, and always before he went on the air, to take her to bed. He had claimed he needed loosening up. He would take her to bed for a quickie.
But lately, there was no more bed. There was only this. She wondered if, turning forty, she had become less attractive to him. Her blond hair bleached brighter, her face puffier, her large breasts drooping further, and a bit thicker around the waistline and hips. Or was it simply that he had tired of her somewhat, become more impatient, and had aged himself and wanted to be relieved more easily without having to work for it?
She could see that he had opened his shorts and bared himself for her pleasure.
Without hesitation, and with a set smile, she had come off the ottoman to her knees before him. She took his flaccid organ in one hand. As she did so, he muttered his favorite non sequitur she had heard from him before. "Like W. C. Fields used to say, 'I never drink water because fish fuck in it.'" Then he chuckled.
Skillfully, with one hand, she was arousing him. He responded quickly. She saw him close his eyes and lie back as she lowered her head between his legs.
In five minutes, he made a throaty sound and then exhaled a great puff of air.
Later, seated across from him once more, Darlene waited for him to fully recover. Scrafield reached out and patted her on the head. "Good, very good, baby. How was I?"
"Wonderful. I love to go down on you."
Scrafield frowned darkly. "You know I don't like that expression. I'm against that kind of talk."
She felt defiant. "Well, it's something. What is it?"
"Just loosening me up before the big show, that's all. It's just diddling, just diddling around."
"Sounds okay by me, whatever the name."
They both came to their feet. "Now, help me with my trousers," he said. "Car should be here for us in five minutes." He picked up his script. "You don't think I sounded like I was against sex, do you?"
"Oh, no, Josh," she said. "Your speech was healthy. It was clearly just against immoral sex. Let me get your trousers."
When Suzy Edwards arrived at Chet Hunter's apartment door, he admitted her at once, welcoming her with an enthusiastic kiss.
She could see that he had the television set on and was eager to get back to it. "Make yourself at home, Suzy." He indicated the television. "I have to watch the end of this. It's almost over."
Unbuttoning her leather jacket, Suzy wondered what had riveted Chet to the television set. He was planted before it once more in his wide broken-down armchair. Throwing her jacket aside, she strolled over to see what he was watching. He patted a narrow place next to him on the seat, and she eased into it close to him.
Filling the television screen was a handsome man in his early fifties, with the beefy face of a Roman senator, broad shoulders, heavy arms, and wearing a clergyman's collar and a dark blue suit. Now he was pausing to take up a glass of water from a table at the side of the pulpit.
Suzy recognized him as the Reverend Josh Scrafield, the most popular evangelist on the West Coast, and immediately she scowled. "Chet, what are you doing wasting your time listening to that bigot?" she complained. "He's awful. I saw him once, by accident, and I turned him right off. He was doing a terrible number against sex education in the schools."
"That's just his usual routine," said Hunter, watching the television screen.
"But you don't have to spend your time—"
"Business," said Hunter. "He's one of my research customers. He assigns me to do an occasional poll for him when he's looking for issues to discuss on his weekly broadcasts."
Scrafield's booming voice began to fill the small room again, and Suzy wriggled out of the chair, jumped up, and shut off the television set. "I can't stand this any longer," she said. "We have more important things to do."
Hunter had begun to protest, but when Suzy returned and fell back into the big chair beside him, he shrugged, then smiled and wrapped his arms around her. "This suits me fine," he said. "I'm sure glad you came over."
Hunter's hand moved across Suzy's blouse, curving around her full-blown breasts. He began to undo her blouse. Suzy tried to stay his hand. "Listen, Chet, I wanted to talk to you about something first."
But his hand was already under her brassiere, his fingers searching for one of her nipples. "Make it second," he said. "I've got something else that's first."
"Chet, I'm serious . . ." Her voice drifted off as she felt her nipples harden and allowed him to pull her atop him. "Chet . . ." Then she felt his erection against her thigh and emitted a little moan.
He was taking off her blouse. "We can talk later, honey. I want to go to bed. This time we'll be great. Come on, honey."
Her resistance had gone, along with her blouse. Her brassiere came loose and she staggered to her feet, unzipping her dirndl skirt. As her skirt dropped to the floor, she whispered, "All right, darling. Let's."
She rolled down her panty hose as he quickly undressed.
A minute later she was on the bed, on her back, her legs wide apart. She watched as he knelt on the bed beside her. She could see that he was ready and her excitement grew.
She reached up for him, and he moved quickly between her fleshy thighs.
"Put it in, darling," she called up breathlessly.
He was bending over her, feeling for the mark, and then he found it and she groaned again.
He began to enter her when suddenly he choked, almost convulsively, and began to have an orgasm.
"Oh, God!" he exclaimed.
Suzy lay there, helplessly, her eyes fixed on his tortured face.
Premature ejaculation.
Again.
A minute later he fell back on his haunches ready to weep. Suzy crawled off the bed, rubbed his head, and walked out of the room. He heard the sound of the shower, and when she returned she settled down near him.
"Jesus, I'm sorry," he croaked. "I'm real sorry. I apologize. I'm as sick of myself as you must be of me."
She placed an arm around his hunched naked shoulders. "I'm not sick of you, darling. I love you as much as ever."
"How can you?" He shook his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Maybe I do," she said, trying to console him. "Maybe I know what's wrong. I know somebody who knows what can be done–somebody who can help. That's really why I came over tonight. To tell you I have somebody who can help us both."
He met her eyes, discouraged. "How? How can anyone?"
"Please hear me out, Chet. You know I took a new job as a secretary a short time ago—a medical secretary . . ."
"Of course."
"Maybe I told you who it was with or maybe I didn't because of confidentiality. Anyway, the man I went to work for is Dr. Arnold Freeberg. Ring a bell?"
"Faintly. Seems like I read—"
"He opened the Freeberg Clinic downtown not long ago. He's a bona fide sex therapist. He's trained six sex surrogates to start working for him, with him."
Hunter wrinkled his brow. "Sex surrogates? You mean the ones who pitch in to help men—men in—in trouble?"
"Exactly. Dr. Freeberg has just accepted four or five patients. He and his surrogates are going to try to cure them. I know all about it. I was transcribing the patients' case histories today."
She began to tell Hunter about the cases, one in particular with a problem precisely like Chet Hunter's own.
"Premature ejaculation," Suzy said. "Dr. Freeberg told the surrogate who will work on it, 'That should be easy. Those are the easiest to set right.' His surrogate is going to put the patient through exercises that should cure him."
For the first time, Hunter had straightened up on the bed. "Sex surrogates," he murmured, "right here in Hillsdale, actual sex surrogates in sweet little Hillsdale."
Suzy was puzzled. "What's so unusual about that?"
Hunter reacted surprised. Obviously, his mind was racing. "Don't you see, honey? Your run-of-the-mill conservative American family city doesn't have sex surrogates on its premises. It just doesn't. That's unheard of."
"I still don't understand."
Hunter jumped off the bed and began to pull on his shorts. "Suzy, it's a story, a big story. If I gave Otto Ferguson at the Chronicle a tip like this, he could put me on the story. And it could lead to my big break, to the job on the newspaper I've always wanted."
Suzy was on her feet. "Forget it, that angle of it, Chet. That's confidential stuff. Even if I broke my word for you, I'm still Dr. Freeberg's confidential secretary."
"I know. Not to worry."
She went to him and placed an arm around his waist. "I told you all this because I want to help us. I can get you to Dr. Freeberg. He'd take you as a patient. He'd set you right, and there'd be no more problem."
Hunter nodded, kissing her. "Of course, Suzy. You're a doll. I'll see your Freeberg . . . I sure will. If he takes me on, everything will be rosy. Of course, I don't know if I have enough money for that kind of treatment."
"Never mind, Chet. I can loan you enough."
"No, thanks. I can get the money on my own. Leave it to me."
She started to dress. "But you will see Dr. Freeberg? I mean, as soon as possible?"
"You know I will. I already promised it, didn't I? You can depend on me. Now, let's have a drink to it. You and me together, making it, making out very soon."
Having completed her first session with her first patient in Hillsdale, Gayle Miller returned to the Freeberg Clinic in midevening, locked herself in one of the three soundproof small rooms downstairs reserved for taping reports, and dictated into the cassette machine all that had transpired with Adam Demski. After that, she left the tape on Dr. Freeberg's desk, so that he could listen to it in the morning, and then she went next door to the Market Grill for a cup of coffee and a cheese croissant.
Now, seating herself at the only free table along the picture window overlooking the street, she recognized a familiar figure enter and search for a place to sit. The five stools at the counter were occupied, and the rest of the tables in the room were also filled. Observing Paul Brandon hunting for a table, Gayle was not certain that she wanted him to sit across from her, remembering his annoying remark to her this morning. Then, watching him cool his heels, she softened. For one thing, he was a fellow sex surrogate. For another, he was damned attractive—about five eleven, she guessed, well-built but lean, with dark mussed hair in need of a trim, and a gaunt angular face. Good chin, shaven. He was wearing a gray blazer over an open-collared checked sport shirt, and faded denims.
Seeing him coming nearer, as he cast about to learn if any place would soon be free, she lifted one hand and signaled to him. When he saw this, she pointed to the empty chair across from her.
Realizing who she was, he smiled, nodded, and gave his order to a passing waitress.
As Brandon came up to her, she indicated the vacant chair again. "If you like," Gayle said.
"I like," Brandon said. "Thanks, Gayle. I wasn't sure you'd want me here, after our little exchange this afternoon."
"Oh, that. Forget it."
Brandon shrugged. "Well, you put me down, and I deserved it." He waited until the waitress had delivered his black coffee and spoon. "Anyway, I apologize for being a smart ass. It's not my style. I think I just wanted to get your attention."
She sipped her coffee. "Why? Actually, I had a feeling you somehow disapproved of me."
His eyes on her, he shook his head vigorously. "No, not at all. In fact, quite the opposite. I approve of you very much. For one thing, you were speaking mostly to the women, and I wanted you to know I was there and aware of you." He hesitated. "For another, I just . . . Well, observing you, I couldn't see how a girl as lovely as you, as desirable, was . . . I don't know—"
"Going to bed with different men?"
"I suppose that's it. I know that's foolish, after all my training."
"Yes. And you did work side by side with all our other female surrogates."
"Not the same. They're a nice group, but I found you younger, fresher, and just an unlikely surrogate. So when you mentioned that you had a patient tonight, I senselessly wanted to get your attention—maybe unconsciously I wanted to keep you from being involved with another man."
"Well, Paul, whatever your good intentions, I simply have no problem seeing and working with men. I do it because I feel that I'm accomplishing something, doing some good, making another human being whole."
He drank his coffee. "Okay, if you want me to feel ashamed, you've succeeded."
"I only want you to understand my motivation."
Brandon nodded. "I do, I think. I've thrown in the towel. By the way, how did it go with your patient tonight?"
"Routinely well. We did both the hand caress and the face caress. He's very shy, so I'm trying to get on some trusting basis with him. I just finished filing my first report for Dr. Freeberg." She nibbled at her croissant and sipped more of her coffee. "By the way, what are you doing here at this hour? You don't have a patient yet, do you?"
"No. And I don't have an apartment yet, either. I'm still staying in a fleabag hotel. I came over to the clinic to go through a list of rooming prospects Suzy had left for me, and then I got involved in reading a psychology book in the clinic library."
"Psychology book?" Gayle said with interest. "Psychology is my subject and goal. Is it yours?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe psychology. Maybe sex education. Right now it's a toss-up. Are you telling me your surrogate work isn't your goal?"
"That's not it, Paul. I've been in it a while, and I wouldn't mind going on and on. But there's a lot of stress in the work, as you'll find out, and I figure I'd better have a fallback position once I'm a burnt-out case. Sex psychology would be perfect, if I can get a graduate degree and do it while I continue my surrogate work. I could go for a long time with the surrogate work, knowing I'm doing something necessary."
"You're making me feel more unworthy than ever."
"I'm only telling you how I feel," she said seriously.
"And I believe you." Brandon pushed aside his coffee and extracted his pipe. He held it up. "Mind?"
"Not a bit. There's something both contemplative and mature about a pipe."
Brandon laughed. "That's the point." He filled his pipe bowl and ran his flaming lighter over the top. He studied her. "I'm curious, Gayle. How did a cheerleader type like yourself become a sex surrogate?"
She smiled. "Lucky, I guess. No, I don't mind telling you the truth. You have an open face. In college, I had a few light affairs. I couldn't get going. I blamed it on myself and worried because I was nonorgasmic. So I heard of Dr. Freeberg, who'd just moved to Tucson. I went to him, and we talked it out. He directed me to try masturbation. I'd never tried that since childhood. Maybe I thought it was sinful. It wasn't. It was wonderful. It seemed to break the ice. In my next two sexual encounters, I was very orgasmic. No problem. Am I boring you?"
"I'm entranced."
"Then I fell in love with a classmate, a young introvert and history major named . . . My God, have I forgotten his name already? Oh . . . it was Ted, Ted whatever . . . He was as smart as could be—but a brooder. A very disturbed young man, but I didn't know to what extent at the time. He fell for me, too. We made it to bed, but that's all. No further. He couldn't perform at all. Another mother's victim. I tried my best with him. I think we went to bed six, seven, ten times. He couldn't get it up once. Anyway—I don't want to go into detail—one morning they found him dead. He'd overdosed. A suicide at twenty. I can't tell you how it shook me up. Anyway, I went back to Dr. Freeberg and poured out my feelings. Finally, I realized it hadn't been my fault, and I got on my feet again. Meantime, between that episode and my visits to Dr. Freeberg, a resolve began to form in my mind. I told myself that what had happened to Ted must never happen to anyone else again, if it could be prevented. I wanted to be useful, to assist in the recovery of other men who were sexually disabled. Dr. Freeberg had once mentioned the words 'sex surrogate' to me, and I asked him to tell me more. And he did. Then he told me he had been considering using a sex surrogate himself. He had some seemingly hopeless cases, and he felt working with a sex surrogate might repair them. He wondered if I was interested. I certainly was. So he trained me, and then I went to work for him. It was exhilarating—but it was also illegal. When this was found out, Dr. Freeberg was forced to leave Arizona for California. I was eager to follow him. He'll do well here. So will I. How's that for a long story?"
"Not long enough," said Brandon earnestly. "Some evening, when you have time, I'd like to hear more. You're an interesting lady."
Gayle ignored his verbal pass. She stared at him. "What about you? Why are you here?"
"You really want to know?"
"Everything. Like what were you doing and where were you doing it when you decided to move to Hillsdale?"
"I'll try to make it a short short story," said Brandon. "I graduated from the University of Oregon in Eugene. I took a B.S. in biology. I'd also taken some classes in sex education. After that, because of an involvement with someone, I spent a brief interlude in Los Angeles. Then I scurried back to Oregon and put in some time as a substitute science teacher at the secondary school level, all this while trying to determine what to do with myself. When I heard of Dr. Freeberg's need for a male sex surrogate, I applied. But I knew I couldn't make a living at that. So at the same time, I applied to the Hillsdale School District for a job as a substitute science teacher. I took and passed the California Basic Educational Skills Test. I've been teaching off and on since I got here, going through my surrogate training, and waiting for an assignment from Dr. Freeberg. There you have it, Gayle."
"Not quite," said Gayle, who had been listening intently. "I've told you why I'm in surrogate work. But you still haven't told me why you're in it. Why are you in it, Paul?"
He gave her a crooked smile. "Is this the honest hour?"
"Absolutely. I prefer you to be honest. Why are you a sex surrogate?"
He let out his breath, then said, "Money. I have a little savings. I didn't want it to drain away. I needed something to supplement my teaching salary. Sex surrogate sounded just right. It could help me make a living temporarily at what comes naturally. I mean, while having fun."
"Well, it's not always fun, as you'll find out when you get involved. Only money?"
"Only money," he repeated.
"You are honest."
Brandon forced another smile. "Right now I wish I weren't. I wish I had a loftier motive."
"No, you are what you are," she said. "It is just hard for me to see it the way you do. I really think I'm doing some good."
"And you are," he said, knocking the ash out of his pipe. "Your patients are very lucky. They're getting a very beautiful young woman . . . and a very devoted one."
Gayle gathered up her purse and check. Standing, she momentarily stared at him once more. "You know what, Paul? I'm not sure I believe you entirely, that you're doing this only for money, I mean. After all, you went into teaching, and that's a low-paying profession. You must want to teach for reasons other than money. Maybe because you also want to help young people. Which led you into surrogate work for the same reason." She looked at him questioningly. "Yes, I suspect there's more to you than meets the eye."
Rising, he grinned. "There's only one way to find out. See me again." He reached over and quickly pulled away her check. "If you pay for yourself, this is only an encounter. If I pay, it's our first date. What about our second?"
She came up beside him. "Call me up when you can. Suzy has my number. Then we'll see." She shook her head. "Two sex surrogates on their own time together? Sounds awfully kinky to me." She touched his hand. "But why not?" And then she walked out of the cafe.