For Paul Brandon it was an afternoon of firsts.
First patient interview, first therapy session, and first day in his just-rented three-room apartment.
Brandon had suspected from the moment he had met Nan Whitcomb and listened to her case history with Dr. Freeberg in the therapist's office that it might be a struggle all the way. Brandon's immediate concern before meeting his patient was that she might be too fat. All fat women turned him off.
To his relief, Brandon had found Nan Whitcomb, despite her plainness, not unattractive. She had long chestnut hair held in place with a barrette, and hazel eyes. Rather than given to fat, she had appeared somewhat thin, with a skeletal figure, except for prominent helicoid breasts and broad hips. But Brandon's relief had once more turned to concern as he had heard her shyly recount her sex history, her relationship with Tony Zecca, and her vaginal problem. She had barely given Brandon so much as a glance as she had addressed herself to Freeberg in a voice a little above a whisper.
Trying to hear her, Brandon's initial concern about being able to perform sexually with her ultimately had evaporated. The difficulty here, he had seen, was one of trust. She had been so badly misused by one male that she might be resistant to responding to any male, especially a stranger, and unable to allow any rapport or closeness between them.
Definitely, Brandon had told himself, it would be an uphill struggle.
On the other hand, Dr. Freeberg had shown no lack of confidence and had been totally reassuring. "I've seen Dr. Lopez's medical report," Freeberg had told her, "and there is nothing organically wrong with you. This is certainly an episode of vaginismus, which I've already explained to you. This is something, given time, that we can treat successfully."
"Doctor, as I tried to tell you, I don't have that much time. If I come here too often, Tony will get suspicious."
"So you still feel it would be better to put you on an intensive treatment program?"
"Yes, two to three weeks at the most."
"Well, that can be done, I'm sure." He had swiveled toward Brandon. "Don't you agree, Paul?"
Brandon had tried to be reassuring before her. "Absolutely."
But he had still continued to worry that it might not be as easy as it sounded.
"All right, settled," Freeberg had said. "Let's begin treatment tomorrow. Let's say tomorrow evening after dinner at Paul's place, around eight—"
Nan had interrupted. "No, I can't."
Freeberg's brow had knitted.
"Evenings are impossible," Nan had gone on. "Tony wouldn't let me get away. Besides, how would I explain seeing an ordinary doctor at night?"
Freeberg had nodded understandingly. "You're right." Once more he had turned to Brandon. "Can you make it at three tomorrow afternoon, Paul?"
"Perfect."
But it had not been perfect from the instant of Nan Whitcomb's tentative entrance into Brandon's living room.
He had held out his hands to take her coat, and she had shed it slowly, then stood there in her white blouse and beige skirt, furtively taking in the room.
Brandon had seated her on his couch and made it a point to sit several feet from her.
He had tried to make small talk, put her at her ease, but essentially she had been non-communicative.
"What are we going to do?" she asked suddenly.
"Hand caress and facial caress."
He had described the two exercises and the reasons why they could be helpful.
"Is that all there is to it?" she had asked.
"That's all, Nan. Really, very simple."
"Whatever you say. Okay, let's do them."
Sitting closer to her, Brandon had gently caressed both her hands, although they were rigid. Then, in turn, he had encouraged her to caress his hands. After that, he had stroked her face with his fingertips and glided his palms across her chin and cheeks and forehead. Her face had been tight, as if she'd had it fashioned into a mask. Once he had finished, he had closed his eyes and requested her to do the same to him.
Upon beginning, her fingers had pressed rather hard in and around his features, but gradually her hands had relaxed and massaged his countenance lightly.
He had opened his eyes. "Good, very good."
"That's all there is to it?"
"That's all, Nan."
"I guess there was nothing to be afraid of."
"Of course not."
"Will we do anything else?"
He had noted the time. They had used up only an hour and fifteen minutes of the two-hour treatment session. There had still been three quarters of an hour left to them. He had wondered how to make the best use of it. Once again he might try to talk to her. Often, with women, conversation was the most relaxing and effective approach.
Now, on the sofa, he said, "Why don't we talk a little?"
He made no effort to move away from her. "I'd like to know more about you, if you don't mind."
She seemed relieved, even met his eyes. "I don't mind."
"I'm curious about how you're going to handle your boyfriend."
"You mean Tony?"
"Yes, Tony Zecca. What are you going to tell him you're up to? I mean, if he asks?"
"He'll ask, all right. While we're having dinner."
"What are you going to tell him?"
"Not that I saw you or Dr. Freeberg. You can be sure of that. Dr. Freeberg already advised me how to handle it."
"How, Nan?"
"I'm going to tell him I'm seeing my gynecologist for a series of shots; to overcome a hormone deficiency."
"What if Tony wants to know the name of your gynecologist?"
"I'm to tell him it is Dr. Lopez, the one who examined me for Dr. Freeberg."
"What if Tony tries to check your story with Dr. Lopez?" Nan gave the ghost of a smile. "Already taken care of. Dr. Freeberg alerted Dr. Lopez."
"Nice and neat," said Brandon, smiling back at her, sensing a few inches gained, the slightest start of establishing rapport. He became serious again. "Only one thing troubles me."
"What's that, Paul?"
"He might want sex with you tonight. Think you can deal with him?"
"If I follow Dr. Freeberg's instructions. No sex tonight or any night while I'm working with both of you. I'm to tell him I must finish the series of shots before—before we go to bed again."
"What if Tony insists on sex?"
She laughed for the first time. "Oh, he will—you can bet on that. But I won't let him. I'm to be very firm about saying no. Which will be easy, believe me."
"Maybe he'll force himself." To his surprise, Brandon found himself feeling some apprehension for her well-being.
"You mean, like rape me? Let him try. You know my condition. He won't get anywhere."
"But one day, when you can, he will . . ." He wanted to ask her something, considered if he should, and then did. "Nan, have you ever thought of solving part of your problem by leaving him?"
"I've thought of it."
"Well?"
Her voice was almost plaintive. "Where would I go, Paul?"
"I see."
He was feeling sympathy for her, and sensing that she was more comfortable with him, he had an urge to make this initial session as intensive as it could be. He wanted her to progress quickly, so that she could feel safe.
Instinct told him what the next best step should be in their relationship. They should disrobe together, then stand naked with each other. If successful, this would eliminate her inhibitions, bond their relationship, and make everything that followed easier and warmer.
He looked at the wall clock. They still had twenty-five minutes left. So there was time enough to get something more intimate started. Dare he suggest it?
He cast an eye inward at his instinct signals. No green light showed. But there was something that resembled a yellow light, a yellow light that said, You can go, but go easy.
Try it, but slowly.
Body imaging—but she'd be much too frightened to strip and stand before the mirror. She was still a timid creature, not as timid as she had been when she had entered his apartment, but still a member of the walking wounded, the psychically wounded, and she would be afraid to strip totally before one more man, a man who might blur in her mind into another potential Tony Zecca. To reveal herself so totally might lose everything that had been gained this afternoon.
Then Brandon, drawing on his training, remembered Freeberg speaking of compromises that had to be made and could be made on the spot. If a patient was too inhibited, do what you have to do gradually.
Go slowly, Brandon reminded himself again.
He turned his head to look at her and found to his pleasant surprise that Nan had been watching him.
"You seemed lost in thought," she said.
"I was, Nan. I was thinking of something else we could do that would make the next sessions easier."
"What's that?" she wanted to know.
"Trying a back caress. Just to get it started. We can do it more fully next time."
"A back caress? How do you do it?"
"I'd like to take off my shirt. Not my trousers, just my shirt."
"I don't mind. I've seen men without shirts on the beach all the time."
"And I'd like you to take off your blouse."
"Take off my blouse?" The earlier fright appeared on her face. "I'm wearing a brassiere underneath. What about that?"
Yellow light. Careful. He was relying on his instinct completely—that and his little knowledge of her.
"Never mind about your bra," he said casually. "Leave it on. Just your blouse off and my shirt off. We'll stand up. I'll stand behind you. You'll shut your eyes and let me rub your back."
"Nothing else?"
"Just that."
He began removing his shirt as he watched her fumble to open and release her blouse.
He was bare chested, on his feet, waiting for her.
She was having trouble with her white blouse, but finally she pulled it off and stood up. She was stiff, self-conscious about the protrusion of the obviously new lace brassiere. "How's that?" she said, almost defiantly.
"Excellent. Stand in front of me, Nan, with your back to me."
She stepped in front of him, then turned her back to him. From the rise of her square shoulders, he could see that she was breathing faster.
"What else am I to do?"
"Not a thing, Nan, except relax, if you can. I'll only caress your back, just rub and massage it."
"If you think it'll do any good."
"It'll help. Now, close your eyes. No more talk. Listen to my fingers. Feel my fingers."
He applied his fingertips to the curve of her back, above the brassiere band and below it, as if they were butterflies. Then more pressure, more friction. Minute by minute, her muscular constriction began to ease. Soon, she was almost relaxing, absorbing and enjoying the circular movements of his hands.
As he continued to caress her back, he could hear sounds, soft sounds of pleasure, that she was involuntarily emitting.
Then in a whisper, she spoke. "Feels wonderful, wonderful."
He did not reply. His hands spoke on her flesh, his fingers and palm now gliding upward, gliding downward. For twenty minutes.
"All right, Nan," he said.
Her hands came back behind her. He thought she was reaching behind to touch his hands. But no, her fingers had darted to the hooks on her brassiere. She undid the hooks, let the bra come free, and then turned around and looked up at him.
She pulled off her brassiere and allowed her straight, high conical breasts to be revealed. He could not help staring at them. The ruby nipples were pointed. They were hard.
"I just wanted you to know," she said, "I'm not a prude and I'm not a sickie. Even though I've never had an orgasm with anyone, I'm sure I could be all right in the right hands."
"Thank you, Nan."
She looked down at her breasts, shook them a little, then looked up at him. "Not bad for somebody my age."
"They're lovely, Nan."
She began to cover them again with her brassiere, fastening the hooks on the band behind her. "That—that's for starters," she said, reaching for her blouse. "Next time, if you're just as gentle, you can see what goes with it."
Early that evening, Adam Demski sat on the edge of the living room sofa, with Gayle Miller completing his footbath exercise. Demski was in shirt sleeves and trousers, but his trousers were rolled up just below his knees, and his feet were immersed in a large square plastic dishpan filled with soapy tepid water.
Gayle, her hands in the water, finished rubbing and caressing his feet and then told him that he could take his feet out of the water and set them on a bath mat beside it.
"How was that, Adam?" Gayle wanted to know, picking up a velour towel and beginning to dry one of his feet.
"Pleasant, of course," he answered, wiggling his toes. He appeared considerably less tense than he had been at the outset of the exercise.
"It can be a delightful experience," said Gayle. "It actually gives you a good feeling about an often neglected but sensual part of your body. It puts you in closer touch with yourself. Unfortunately, most of my patients don't want to bother about doing it."
"Why not?"
Gayle continued to busy herself wiping his feet. "Because they are not interested in their feet. Each patient, I assure you, is interested only in his penis. He tells himself, 'It's my penis that's in trouble, not my feet. Besides, my feet aren't all that attractive. In fact, they're rather ugly, so why waste time on them?'" She peered up at him. "Did you feel that way, Adam?"
"Well, maybe I was wondering that a little, wondering if it wasn't a waste of time, sort of."
"It wasn't, Adam. Take my word for it. Feet can be surprisingly erotic. Also, caressing them gives us a chance to continue building a relationship. I mean, we get a chance to know each other a little better before we try to get closer."
"Okay, I let you do it." As she cast her towel aside, he added, "What do I do next? Do I do it to you?"
"We'll skip that."
"Should I put my socks and shoes back on?"
"No."
She had given the next step careful consideration. In fact, she had discussed it with Dr. Freeberg just before lunch. Gayle had speculated on going into body imaging during the last half of her second session with Adam Demski.
"Do you think he's ready for total nudity yet?" she pondered aloud.
Freeberg, who had been leafing through a transcript of Demski's case history, and then Gayle's report on their opening session, sat back to reflect on this.
"You seem to have made some real progress with him, Gayle."
"I believe I have. He was much more relaxed when the first session ended. More comfortable. Almost not scared of me at all."
"Though he may be reluctant about full nudity. Remember, once he takes his clothes off, you are going to see what he perceives as his real problem. He will be scared, feel threatened. On the other hand, from his talks with me, while he is not pressing to rush along, he really wants to get to his problem, focus on it. Despite his outward appearance of resistance, I have a gut feeling that he's ready to do anything, no matter how difficult for him, to overcome his problem. I sense he's determined. Yes, Gayle, I think you can undertake body imaging with him tonight"—Freeberg had hesitated briefly—"but be careful."
"What do you mean 'be careful'?"
"Don't hurry him. Talk him along. Chat about nude experiences. Ease him into it."
"No problem with that."
Freeberg had sat up. "Where do you intend to do the body imaging? In your bedroom this time?"
"God, no," she had said emphatically. "I still feel the same way I did in Tucson. My bedroom is my private retreat, never part of my surrogate work. I remember something you told me: once you ask a man to take his clothes off, if he's dysfunctional, his anxiety goes sky-high. He associates undressing with having to perform. Taking him into my bedroom would mean the same thing. I stopped using a bedroom with my first case, as you advised. I have my therapy room down the hallway of my new house. It looks like an office. I shipped everything from Tucson. A full-length three-sided mirror on one wall. A desk and file cabinet on another. Across from the mirror wall, a rather firm oversized couch with a pull-up armchair on either side. The floor's covered with a thick mat the size of a double bed. We'll do the exercises there. Except for the mat, the atmosphere is fairly austere and clinical, and that's where we'll work."
Dr. Freeberg had smiled his approval. "Good girl. Then go ahead. Do it."
So now, seated near Demski, she realized that she was at the brink of a crucial step.
She heard Demski speaking, a bit confused. "You said no? I'm not to put my shoes on?"
"No, don't bother," she repeated, springing up. She held out her hand to Demski, wanting him to rise. Once he was beside her, she added cheerfully, "As long as you have your shoes and socks off, I thought we might just go on from there."
"You mean undress?" He sounded as if he had a frog in his throat.
"Why not?" Still cheerful. "We'll want to do that sooner or later. Why not sooner? It's necessary for body imaging, and it's healthy. I promise you, Adam, it's a big, big step."
"Did—did you talk to Dr. Freeberg about it?"
"I certainly did. I told him I thought you were ready for it. He agreed. He approves."
"You think I'm ready?"
"I do." She took him by the hand. "Come on, let's go in the back."
Demski resisted. "Where to? Your bedroom?"
"Oh, no, that's way down the line, if we use it at all. I'm taking you to a cozy room I have in the rear that I use as a part-time office. It has a special mirror I want to show you." She tightened her hold on Demski's hand. "Come along. Follow me."
She led him into the hallway.
"What's body imaging?" he wanted to know, his voice hoarse.
"I'll demonstrate it for you," she promised. As she walked ahead of him she went on. "You know, nudity is a very common experience. At one time or another, everyone is nude. When you were a baby, you were nude while your sister or mother diapered you. Around the country many kids go swimming naked in some cove on a lake. Or maybe they swim naked at the YMCA. Did you?"
"At the Y—once."
"You must have undressed in the locker room at high school before gym class."
"Yes, of course."
"You strip down whenever you have a checkup at your doctor's. Maybe sometimes, there is a female nurse present."
"That's true, but it's different."
Ignoring his remark, Gayle went on. "I remember that on some of your later dates, you tried to make love to women. I'm sure you undressed completely."
"I did. But I didn't like it."
They were standing before Gayle's therapy room, and she opened the door and waved him inside. The overhead fluorescent lights were already on. They were direct, businesslike, clearly not illumination that was low and seductive.
"You'll find this easier, much easier," Gayle said. She swung a hand at the furniture. "Sit down wherever you like, Adam."
He sat edgily in the nearest pull-up chair.
Gayle had gone to the full-length mirror to consider herself. She had purposely dressed down for this occasion. No turn-on clothes, not any garment that might be regarded as sexy. No see-through blouse or half bra or clinging skirt or sheer nylon stockings or boots. She was wearing a loose-fitting pullover sweater with a modest V neck, a light wool skirt, no stockings, and low-heeled shoes. It was a sexless uniform that could be discarded without much delay.
Still dressed, she pivoted from the long mirror to confront Demski.
"Let me tell you what body imaging is, Adam."
Then she explained the technique of body imaging to him.
When she had finished, Demski repeated, "Stand in front of the mirror?"
"With nothing on. Nude. And go through the same drill I've just done. Pointing to your various body parts and relating to me how you feel about them."
"Well, maybe I won't know how. I mean, I've never tried that."
"You'll know," Gayle assured him. "I'm not saying it's exactly the same when women and men body image. Women are likely to spend more time talking about their faces. Women are much more into makeup, cosmetics, and worrying about how they look to outsiders. Men are most often ready to skip their faces and go to what counts for them. A man may go straight to his penis and want to talk about that. Because his penis is all he's interested in talking about. But frequently, men will go from head to toe and go past their genitals without mentioning them. If they do that, I mention it afterward, then tell them they forgot their genitals and ask them how they feel about them. I'm not interested in asking why they skipped that area, because I don't need to know, and I have no judgments to make. But I do want them to get back to that area and talk about it. I mean, that's basically what this is all about. Do you understand the procedure, Adam?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe I do."
"Well, just imitate me. When it's your turn, do what I've done. You can do it, I'm sure."
"If you think so."
Gayle offered Demski a warm smile and said softly, "Now, you stand up, Adam, and let's both take off our clothes."
"At the same time?"
"Doesn't matter. Let's just undress." As he wobbled to his feet, she added in a kindly tone, "Undressing, Adam, doesn't mean you have to get an erection and jump into bed and make it with me. It means only what I've explained —we are undressing so that you can get in touch with how you feel about your whole body, because you've never thought about it that much, and to give me some information about your body and how you feel about it, and most of all, to give us an easier and closer relationship. Okay?"
"Okay," he said glumly.
She half turned away, as she began to pull her sweater over her head, and did not fix on his own fumbling efforts to undress so as not to inhibit further what he was trying to do.
She had her sweater off, then reached behind to unfasten her brassiere and tossed it on a chair, then unzipped her skirt, let it drop to the carpet, kicking it aside, along with her shoes. She could see, from the mirror, that she was naked except for her tight nylon panties. She slipped them down and stepped out of them. In the mirror, she could observe Demski undressing at last. His shirt was off, and his trousers. He was lingering over his polka-dot jock shorts.
"You can sit down again when you're through," she called out.
When she turned fully toward him, he was seated once more. She could not see his penis. Somehow he had covered it with his bare arms crossed over his bare thighs.
Not wishing to make him more self-conscious, she pivoted back to the mirror but could see him from an angle with his eyes wide and fastened on her entire person reflected in the glass.
Well, that was all right, she told herself. He had probably never before seen a young woman naked in a bright light for so long. It might relax him a little. What surely would relax him more would be her own performance before the mirror. If she did it well, he would become engrossed in watching her and would soon forget that he himself was sitting there naked. He would, if she succeeded, become so entranced by her cool manner while analyzing herself that he would lose any sense of shame. And when his turn came, he might be less petrified.
But now it was her turn, her cue to start this off.
"All right, Adam, this is our body-imaging exercise," she began, facing the full-length mirror squarely.
"My hair," she said, fluffing the short bob. "I rather like it this way, and I like being a brunette. I never wanted to be a real blond and have that kind of pubic hair. There's something insubstantial, lightweight, about being a blond. A nice, cute brunette like me . . . you can always trust someone like me. Remember that, Adam."
In the mirror, she detected the tiniest flicker of amusement about his mouth.
Her forefinger went down to her nose. "Not bad, but not great either. The upturned nose has its point. Pun, Adam, get it? But in truth, it is a little too wide for my own taste. A narrower nose could be more appealing."
Her forefinger moved down to her mouth. "In romance novels, these are called generous lips. And they are. Men seem to like them, like their cushiony softness when they kiss, so I shouldn't complain. As long as you like them, Adam."
"I do, Gayle."
She placed her hands under her breasts. "How about these, without a bra to hold them up more firmly? What do you make of them?"
"They're beautiful," Demski said, a choke in his voice.
Gayle considered her breasts briefly in the mirror. "I don't know. I'm not sure. I always remember when I was a youngster, during puberty, and I had practically no breasts at all. I thought they'd never grow, and I'd be like boys, and boys would never care for me. Well, they finally came along, all right, and there was no question I was a girl, but I was never sure if young men expected and wanted more. I know breasts much smaller than mine look great on fashion models in the fancier women's magazines. But men are not interested in those shapes. They like what they see in men's magazines, the big boobs, the thirty-eights. Well, that's not me, and I'm not sure I'm happy."
"They're beautiful, Gayle," Demski repeated, "to me. Just right."
Her fingers patted her flat, firm stomach.
"No complaints here," she said. "My weight's fine, and I don't even have to diet."
Her hand went lazily down to her thatch of dark pubic hair. "Okay, my vaginal mound and my triangle of pubic hair. I'm somewhat ambivalent about it all, aesthetically. It's full and downy and soft, and I'm frankly pleased about that. Some women I've seen have pubic hair that seems as prickly as steel wool. Mine feels like a tiny pillow of the softest wee feathers. So why am I ambivalent about what I see? I'll tell you why. Maybe you can't see it very well now, but you will certainly see it when you're up closer to me. While my pubic hair seems thick enough all around, it isn't down the middle. It seems to thin out, and therefore you can see—anyway, I can see—my clitoris and, below it, the lips of my outer labia and vulva. I suppose there's not much wrong with it, their being exposed, but somehow I often think I'd like those vital parts kept hidden until someone has the fun of finding them."
Gayle glanced up at the mirror. She could see Demski hypnotized, swallowing, unable to speak.
She reached behind her and tried to grasp her buttocks in both hands.
"Definitely too much of a good thing. Nature was overabundant here. I don't like to wear a girdle or have any restraints, so my ass is always out there wiggling in the wind. I don't like it. I'm unhappy with it."
After that, Gayle went to her hips, her thighs, her knees, her calves, right down to her toes, doing a commentary all the while.
Done, she wheeled slowly to confront Demski. "Do you have any remarks to make, Adam?"
"Well, I—" His voice sank out of hearing.
"Come on, Adam . . . Well, what? Give me a break. Speak the truth."
"Uh, I think you have a lovely ass."
"You do?"
"It's not too big. Uh, and the rest—"
"The rest of what?" She could see where his eyes were focused. "You mean my vagina?"
He nodded vigorously. "You—you were being overly critical. You look good to me."
She smiled, pleased. "You're giving me close to a rave review."
"A real rave review," Demski said.
She clapped her hands with undisguised pleasure and walked right up to him. "You're a gentleman, Adam, a gentleman and a scholar." And she bent over him, one breast brushing his face, and kissed him on the forehead. "I thank you."
Then she reached down and gripped both his forearms hard, uncrossing his arms, lifting them away from his crotch, and pulling him to his feet. He recoiled a little, tried to twist away from her, but she held on to him, making him stand directly before her.
"Now, it's your turn to do the body image for me," she said.
Trying to escape her eyes, he half ran nakedly to the full-length mirror, as if to hide in the looking glass away from her, only his unprotected back to her.
Then, trembling, he stood erect before the mirror, and he could see that she had sunk down in his chair, her eyes on the reflection of him in the glass. His arms hung helpless at his sides. There was no hiding from her anymore.
Gayle settled back, never pretending not to look, her green eyes holding on the reflection of him in the mirror.
Not half bad, she thought. Rather tall, too bony and skinny, his ribs showing. Smooth thighs, knobby knees, sturdy legs. But the place she could not help focusing on was the understandable source of his trouble and fear. It was small. An inch and a half maybe. What made it seem even smaller were his balls, the bags hanging low and full, like an oversized frame on a mere miniature.
Yet, she felt challenged. It was not impossible, she knew. She was certain that she could make that miniature stand straight up to be counted, one day a source of pride, not shame, to him. She knew that it could happen. He had come to her with what he thought was a toothpick. If she succeeded, he would leave her thinking he was carrying a telephone pole. Yes, if she succeeded. She would try her damnedest to save him.
She hoped she could do it. Starting tonight. Oh, God, she would try.
"Okay, Adam, you saw me body imaging. Please do the same in the mirror for me, starting with the hair on your head."
Demski nodded but remained motionless as he considered himself in the mirror, and the reflection of Gayle in it off to one side. Almost imperceptibly, he changed his stance, leaning more on his left leg, then placing his legs apart. It was as if he were ignoring his shame ever so slightly.
Observing this, Gayle perceived what was on his mind. His attitude of relaxation had come as a sort of surrender. He was utterly naked; he could be seen from head to toe; his problem could be seen. There was nothing to hide anymore. She knew. Yet her expression was noncritical, perfectly accepting.
Exhaling, Demski reached for his upper hairline, patted his pompadour, and mumbled something about the fact that at least he had a head of hair. Maybe this was good because it was aesthetically pleasing; at the same time, it was bad because his hair probably deceived some members of the opposite sex into thinking he was virile.
He had no patience for discussing his various facial features, his rather pigeon-breasted chest, his flat but soft abdomen. He mumbled a short sentence or two about each of those areas, and then he did what Gayle had seen other men do when they had his condition. He went straight to the trouble zone.
He pointed down at his penis while watching himself unhappily in the mirror.
"Then there's this," he said a bit loudly. "You can see—no use kidding ourselves—it's too small."
Gayle sat up. "I don't think it's too small," she said decisively. "There's no such thing as too small. Tell me, Adam, tell me exactly what bothers you about it?"
"Like I said, it's too small. Fortunately, it's mostly hidden. I don't want any women to see it. They might laugh at me—or make some cracks about it." Before she could speak, he added, "You know it happened twice."
"I know. But those were exceptional reactions. The two women were expressing their anger against men in general. If one hundred women had seen your penis, I am sure ninety-eight would not have reacted adversely, would have been ready to go ahead with lovemaking."
"I don't think so."
She wanted to shake him. "Adam, you must believe me. I'm a young woman. I've had some experience with different kinds of men. If we undressed together to make love, I would not care if your penis were one inch long or two inches or ten. Anyway, it would more than double or triple in size once you're aroused. You must have seen that when you masturbated. Your size simply wouldn't matter. I would just want to hold you and know it would be all right and know what followed would be pleasurable."
"How could you, when you've seen—"
"Seen what?" she interrupted sarcastically. "I know what's bugging you, and I know you've been completely misled. When you were a kid in grammar school, junior high, high school, even college, wherever, and had to undress with other young men, you were conscious of the difference between your body and theirs. In your eyes, you were frail, puny, and your penis too small, and by contrast, all the others were muscular, hairy, and they all had big penises. And after that, whenever you went to a porno movie or peeled through a men's girlie magazine, all the men that were shown frontally nude had big penises, just as the nude women had big breasts. Because the idiots who cast those characters suspect that most of the ignorant male population equates a large penis with great sex. When, actually, one has nothing to do with the other."
"Doesn't it?" Demski said uncertainly. "Doesn't a female —doesn't she think something big inside her can be—can gratify her more than something small?"
"Adam, the female vagina is built to accommodate almost any size and get pleasure from it. You could put your little finger in my vagina, and my folds would close around your little finger, encompass it, and eventually lubricate it as I enjoy its movement. In the same way, the vagina can absorb and encompass four or five of your fingers. The vagina accommodates all sizes. After all, the vagina makes room for a nine-pound baby to emerge from it and be born. The vagina can handle any size penis and get equal pleasure from it. I speak from my own experiences."
Demski stared at himself in the mirror. "You mean, if I could get it up, it could make a woman happy?" He blinked at her reflection in the mirror. "It could make you happy?"
She smiled. "We'll prove it."
He appeared to be somewhat soothed but not ready yet to leave the subject of his penis and go to the remaining parts of his anatomy.
He wanted to be reassured once more. Gayle was willing. They discussed his penis, his dysfunction, the possibilities of sexual pleasure, for almost ten more minutes.
Gayle wound up by summarizing her thoughts about girlie magazines and their stories again. "Those sexy stories are great for erotic fantasy, but they give you a terrible sex education. In those stories, not only do the heroes have abnormally oversized penises, but once inside a woman, they can keep going all night. An impressionable and uncertain young man reading that nonsense believes it's the truth, and when he tries to emulate those heroes, he can't. So he begins to develop anxiety. I'm sure that's one of the negative things that happened to you."
"I guess maybe it did."
Now, somewhat satisfied, Demski turned back to the full-length mirror and went on to discuss his hips and legs and feet.
After he had finished, he still gave his attention to his penis. She thought that he was regarding it less as an abomination, more as a friendly part of himself.
Gayle came to her feet. "All right," she said. She walked toward him as he turned around to meet her. She knew that he was considering taking hold of her, but she kept her distance.
"Do you want to get dressed now?" she said nicely.
"Not especially." He laughed. His first outright laugh. "Of course, I will," he said, to prove he had been joking.
My God, she thought, handing him his jock shorts, he sounds like a human being at last. Not like a frightened rabbit.
My God.
She wanted to sing.
After Demski had left, somewhat jauntily, Gayle dressed carefully and went outside to her Honda in the driveway.
A half hour later, she had parked in the area allotted them next to the Market Grill, walked cheerfully to the clinic, and was surprised to find the lights on downstairs and upstairs and the front door still open.
Even though the reception desk was unoccupied, Gayle was sure that Freeberg and Suzy Edwards were still at work upstairs. But Gayle's mind was on completing her evening's assignment. She entered one of the recording rooms, removed her jacket, and sat down to prepare a tape for Freeberg on her second session with Adam Demski.
She dictated for twenty minutes and had just finished when the soundproof padded door behind her was pushed open.
Her visitor was Suzy Edwards. "If you're still working . . ." she said apologetically.
"All done," said Gayle.
"Well, if you don't mind, if you have time, Dr. Freeberg wondered if you could come by and see him."
"Only too happy to. One sec, Suzy. Let me reverse this tape and label it. You can transcribe it in the morning."
After Gayle had given the tape cassette to Suzy, she preceded her up the staircase to Dr. Freeberg's office.
It was as if Freeberg had been eagerly awaiting her. He sat tapping the end of a pencil on his desk blotter while he welcomed her with a cheerful hello and gestured her to a chair.
"Let me tell you what this is all about," Freeberg began. "It's about the possibility of your taking on a second patient right now. I know you're busy enough with Mr. Demski, but I wonder if you could take on another patient simultaneously? I could turn this over to one of our new surrogates, but the new case I have in mind is a premature ejaculation one. The very kind of case you had such success with when we were in Arizona. If it's not too much . . ."
Gayle had already made up her mind. She had great pride in her ability to retard premature ejaculation. It would be gratifying to get another lost soul on his feet. And the extra money would help toward her expenses if she were accepted by the Psychology Department at UCLA.
"It's not too much at all," she said briskly. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow, if possible. It's to be an intensive program. The patient has limited time."
"I'm clear tomorrow afternoon."
"Good. We can have a preliminary meeting with him at nine in the morning. How's that?"
"I'll be here. Can you tell me anything now?"
Freeberg took a sheaf of papers from his desk and shoved it across to Gayle. "There's the case history. You can review it tonight." As she folded the papers and stuffed them into her purse, Freeberg went on. "He's a young writer, a magazine freelancer named Chet Hunter."
"I don't recognize the name."
"He's still struggling. His dysfunction may be an obstruction to his work."
"I hope I can help. Is he a good writer?"
Freeberg shrugged. "I'd say this one needs some rewriting." More seriously, Freeberg said, "He's a little too fast and anxious. He even wants to hurry through our program, which is not unexpected. While you might move him along at a steady pace, still it wouldn't hurt to slow him down."
"If I can, I'll do it," said Gayle.
"I'm confident," said Freeberg. "At nine o'clock in the morning, Chet Hunter and I will be waiting."
Passing the Market Grill on her way to the parking lot, Gayle decided that she wanted a cup of coffee.
Inside, the restaurant was almost empty. She was about to sit at the counter when she saw someone waving from a booth. Then she recognized that the man signaling her was Paul Brandon. He looked as attractive as he had the last time she had seen him here—in fact, better in his sport jacket and turtleneck sweater—and she made up her mind to join him.
After calling out her coffee order, she strode over to Brandon's booth and slid in across from him.
"How are you, Gayle?" he asked.
"Never better. Busy. Hey, I hear tell that you're busy, too. Freeberg got you a patient?"
"Oh, yes. A local lady. Very interesting."
The waitress delivered Gayle's coffee, and Gayle busied herself sweetening it.
Without looking up, Gayle said, "So she's interesting? Well, that's lucky." Gayle paused. "Is she pretty?"
"Not Miss America, but attractive in a plain way. She's rather shy, which lends her a certain charm."
"I see. Have you helped her overcome her shyness?"
"A little, I think." He appeared reluctant to discuss his case. "What about you, Gayle? How's it going with you? I know you have a case."
"Two, in fact." She sipped her coffee.
"Two?" He grimaced. "Isn't that a bit of a load?"
"No, not at all. I can manage. The first one, as you know, is impotency, the tougher of the pair, but we're well on our way. The new one is premature ejaculation. I'm rather good at curing that, if I do say so."
"Two of them?" Brandon repeated. "But how . . . ?"
She laughed. "Not together, silly. I'm going to do them alternately, if possible. There is some pressure, but it's a challenge."
He shook his head. "You're something. I'm barely able to make it with one. But two . . . I don't think I could . . ."
"You're a man," she said. "Ultimately, you have to get it up. So more than one would be asking a lot of you. With women, with me, it's not the same problem."
Brandon had become uncommunicative. Gayle sipped her coffee and tried to guess what was on his mind. Her mention of two male patients had upset him. Was he disapproving? Was he a competitive male before he was a trained surrogate? Could he be regarding her as some kind of chippy? No, that was impossible. Still, men were incredible in their expectations of a woman.
Another thought occurred to her. Could he be jealous? That was impossible. He hardly knew her. He could not be remotely possessive.
Still, who could tell?
Taking him in once more, Gayle reaffirmed that he was attractive and that she was drawn to him. She wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms. To be embraced by him when both of them were naked.
This was ridiculous, she decided, and too quickly she changed the subject, launching into an account of her application to UCLA for a scholarship. Then she asked him how he was doing subbing as a science teacher.
"Well enough to keep my head above water," he replied.
"You may drown if most of your teaching has to do with sex education classes in the secondary schools. Does it?"
"It does. What do you mean by saying I may go under?"
"There's an evangelist here in Hillsdale—I think his name is Scrafield—who's been on television weekly ranting about sex education in the schools. I caught a bit of his show twice. To me, he was revolting. But maybe, to others, persuasive. He wants to give sex education back to the family."
"Which is like giving evolution back to the Bible," said Brandon. "That guy—Scrafield, you say?—is obviously a nut. I'm not worried about him. Sex education is in the schools to stay. So don't worry about my drowning."
When she'd drained her cup of coffee, she gathered up her purse and check. He tried to take her check from her. She held on to it. "No. This time we go Dutch." She started to rise. "I'd better be going."
"Me, too," he said, standing. "Do you happen to have a car?"
"Next door. Need a lift?"
"If you don't mind," Brandon said. "I should have my own car tomorrow. I bought a nice secondhand Chevy. They're still tuning the motor."
"Well, tonight you can be my guest."
After paying the cashier, they walked silently out to her Honda. She got behind the wheel, and he sat beside her. "Turn right," he said as they left the parking lot.
He directed her to a five-story apartment building. He pointed at it. "My new digs," he said.
Gayle drew up at the curb near the front door and let her engine idle as he got out, then came around the car to her side.
He opened her door. "Why don't you park it and come up and see my new apartment? It's a nice one. Maybe you'd like to have a look?"
She sat unmoving, her hands on the wheel.
"You're inviting me to come up to your place?" she said.
"Why, yes."
"Then what?"
He was taken aback. "Why, I don't know. We—"
"I know, Paul," she said. "You want to take me to bed." He stared down at her. "Now that you mention it, not exactly a bad idea. In fact, a very good idea."
He held out his hand for her, but she ignored it. "Paul," she said, "let's get off on the right foot. First, if I went to your apartment, I'd go to bed with you. I'd want to. But not tonight. Two reasons. One, I don't want you to think I'm a pushover. Two, I don't think I can handle three men in one week." She closed the door. He leaned toward her, but she said, "And no goodnight kiss. That could ruin all my resolve. Let's save something for next time."
"Next time," he said, cherishing the words as if they were pearls.
"Definitely," she said, gunning the engine and then shifting into drive. "Don't call me. I'll call you."
And she and her car were off, as he stood looking after her, his heart beating harder and his person utterly flabbergasted.