That First Interview

by Claudia Rose

  Chapter 1

  I don’t find it that easy talking about that first interview, or about being a subject. Even after all this time you might get the wrong idea and cast me as a nymphomaniac, or a woman with no morals, or, worse, some sort of desperately needy victim.

  I’d hate that.

  I became a subject because I wanted to. I admit I did enjoy the money— and I needed it. And again I admit I did enjoy the experiments. But there’s no crime in making an honest living the best way you can. Nor is there any crime in learning about one’s body. I’m proud that I advanced the cause of research, and the fact that I learned a lot about myself in the process was an unanticipated bonus.

  I believe that it’s wrong to judge people, certainly not before you’ve walked one hundred miles in their shoes. But that was what people did in those days—they judged. Usually they did so out of ignorance. Still, what do I care now? It’s a long time in the past.

  My children are grown up, with children of their own. They’d never guess in a million years what their mother had to do to feed them, clothe them, and get them through school. For the financial security alone, it was worth becoming a subject. But most importantly, if I hadn’t become a subject I would never have met him—and that prospect doesn’t bear thinking about for a second.

  How did it all begin? Well, I was twenty-four, with two small children, scouring the papers for a job. Any sort of job really, but there was nothing to be had. Billy, my first husband, was killed in Vietnam. Stupid, senseless, unconscionable war! He didn’t even have a hero’s death. As I understand it, his safety harness hadn’t been properly secured and he fell out of a helicopter. I still feel sick when I think about it.

  There were no jobs in the paper. But a friend of mine who had a friend that worked at the university, told me that she’d heard there was often work available for people prepared to be subjects in research experiments. The idea made me a little nervous, I didn’t want to become a guinea pig and end up with some god-awful disease. But I thought there was no harm in finding out a bit more. So I made enquiries, and was told to go and see a Professor Tremayne in the Psychology Department.

  We all carry around stereotypes in our heads, don’t we? How do you imagine a professor? To me they’re either stern, beaky-nosed types, or else diminutive, myopic, absent-minded Einsteins.

  Professor Tremayne confounded all my expectations. I’m not sure I can do him justice if I try to describe him to you. I heard a phrase recently that might apply—”drop dead gorgeous.” But that could mean anything to anyone, couldn’t it? I’ll try and be more specific.

  Professor Garrick Tremayne looked like one of those Hollywood doctors, you know, Doctor Kildare, or one like that. He was tall, over six feet, he had dark black wavy hair, and on the first day I met him he was wearing a black polo-neck sweater under his white laboratory coat. He was terribly handsome. He had a look I’ve heard described as patrician—you know, born to command, blue blood, wealth and privilege, that sort of thing.

  But despite this sense that he was well bred, there was nothing arrogant about him. In all our dealings throughout the course of the experiments (with the exception of the day I’m going to tell you about, which was an exceptional day by anyone’s standards) he was extremely polite, clinical and matter-of-fact.

  If I hadn’t known better, I’d have become convinced during the three years of the experiments that he didn’t see me as a woman. No matter what the experiment he never appeared the least bit affected by what his subjects were being put through. I’d never heard of homosexuals in those days—a gay person was simply someone who was happy and full of life. Never in my wildest imaginings had I considered a man might love another man. But certainly if I’d known of such things, and if I’d not had my secret, I’d have probably assumed he was gay.

  Why? Well, I’m not vain, but you can see I’m still a handsome woman in my sixties, and back then I was a real looker. People sometimes compared me to Lana Turner. I’d been a cheerleader at high school, and there’d been plenty of boys chasing me before I settled on Billy Bryce. But for those three years Professor Tremayne never looked at me as if I was anything more than a fine, inanimate object, like a piece of quality furniture or similar. Now that I know more, and know the secret he carried all those years, I can’t help admiring his iron control. But then, that’s the sort of man he is.

  Now, where was I? Oh yes, that first interview.

  Well, as I said, I went over to the Psychology Department, where a very prim and disapproving secretary directed me to Professor Tremayne's office. I knocked on his door (rather timidly) and a lovely baritone voice, with such clear diction, invited me to enter.

  I like to think that when he first set eyes on me his eyebrows rose, just a little, at what he saw. I know I looked good. I was wearing my best eggshell-blue suit, complete with hat and gloves. It was modeled on something Jackie Kennedy used to wear. I’m sure I presented well.

  “Yes, Ma'am. How may I help you?” he asked, so politely.

  “I’m here to be considered as a subject for your research project,” I replied.

  That really seemed to take him aback.

  “My research project? Are you quite sure?”

  “You are Professor Tremayne, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed I am, Miss…ah…Mrs..?”

  “Bryce. Mrs Sandra Bryce. But my husband died last year in Vietnam, so I am a widow.”

  “I’m most sorry to hear that, Mrs Bryce.”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  “Please,” he said, rising to his feet and gesturing expansively to a comfortable chair that faced him across his desk. “Do come in and have a seat.”

  I closed the door behind me and sat where he indicated.

  Then he paused for a moment, his deep brown eyes fixed musingly on the surface of his desk, as he considered what to say next. He must have decided that the direct approach was the best one, because he looked back up, and straight into my eyes, as he began speaking.

  “It is true, Mrs Bryce, that I am looking for subjects for my experiments. But I need to warn you that my area of research is not an area that most people are comfortable with. In short, I study human sexuality and my experiments are practical, to a profoundly intimate degree. Subjects in my trials routinely undress and participate in a variety of sexual situations, all the while attached to machines that measure such things as pulse rate, temperature and blood pressure. It may be that such a proposition makes you uncomfortable, which I would entirely understand. If this is the case, and you wish to excuse yourself, please feel free to do so with my thanks and very good wishes.”

  My mind whirled, I can tell you. Human sexuality? He wanted people prepared to undress and have sex? I was totally stunned. In my wildest imaginings I’d never anticipated anything like this. My daddy was a preacher, and our entire congregation knew me as a good girl. I’d remained pure unto marriage. My husband, Billy, had been my first lover, and we’d both been pretty green. There was no untoward activity in our bedroom. Our two children had been conceived in bed, using the missionary position, and with the lights off. To be honest, I didn’t even feel comfortable looking at my nude body in the mirror.

  Professor Tremayne was right; I wanted to be anywhere but here. Automatically I clutched at my purse, blushing painfully as I tried to frame a face-saving farewell. I looked at him, and could see that he knew I was about to leave. I think it was the expectation reflected in his face, that I would never participate in his experiments, which made me pause. Did I mention that sometimes I could be downright stubborn? Instead of leaving, I looked him straight in the eye and rose to the challenge.

  “You are right, Professor, this isn’t what I expected at all, and it’s
probably not for me. But before I leave in haste, I wonder if you would tell me a little more about your research and why you think it is important.”

  He smiled. It was a very faint smile, but it lit up his eyes in such a lovely way, and I could tell he was genuinely pleased that I had bothered to express an interest in what he did.

  “You are not alone in your surprise, Mrs Bryce. Mine is an unusual field of research, and one with its fair share of detractors. But I, and a few others, consider it to be an area of profound importance. Do you realize that we know more about the surface of the moon, or the bottom of the sea, than we do about the way men and women make love? Full knowledge and understanding of this most intimate and sacred area of our lives is sealed to us, absolutely taboo.

  Yet it is sexual love and desire that motivates many of our actions, and informs many of our interactions. The entire fabric of our society depends upon successful sexual relationships. I can only guess at all the things we might learn, that will benefit our future, if we come to understand this most basic and, in my opinion, most important human drive. It is the responsibility of scientists like myself to study sex carefully and professionally, free of all the religious and moral baggage that so inhibits our society.”

  “So you believe that my participation in your research could be of real value?”

  “Absolutely! I can say with perfect honesty that this represents a significant opportunity to improve the lot of humankind.”

  “But what about my privacy? If anyone knew what I was doing I’d be disgraced and my children would suffer.”

  “I can assure you that your privacy would be closely guarded, Mrs Bryce. In fact your real name will never be recorded, your face will never be photographed, all experiments will be conducted in a secure laboratory, and no results will be published until all trials have been completed and the subjects excused.”

  How can I explain my fascination? What he said made sense, and I wanted to learn more. As well, I didn’t want to have to walk out of his office, at least not yet.

  “Well, Professor, I am tentatively interested, although the idea of what you are expecting makes me extremely nervous. What if I discover that I can’t go through with it?”

  “If at any time you wish to cease your involvement, you may do so at once. There is nothing to be gained by having unwilling subjects involved.”

  I sat for a time thinking, and he sat too, in perfect silence, giving no sign of frustration as I dithered, and making no effort to influence me either way.

  “I have one final question, Professor,” I said, after a few minutes. “How much will you pay me?”

  He quoted me an hourly rate that quite took my breath away, and that sealed it. It was more than I’d make in a week waiting tables. It would set us up nicely, and leave most of my time free to be at home to get the children to school and be waiting when they walked back in the door in the afternoon.

  “Thank you for your patience, Professor. Based on what you have told me, I’d like to give it a try, as long as you guarantee that I can stop in a second if I feel I need to.”

  Again his eyes lit up and later on, when I’d got to know him so much better, I was more readily able to interpret that expression as one of delight.

  “This is very pleasing, Mrs Bryce. You have my word that you will not be asked to participate in any laboratory situation that makes you uncomfortable. Now, I have some paperwork you’ll need to fill out, and I also need to give you a preliminary physical examination. The examination can be scheduled for later in the week, or it can take place now. You are, of course, paid the agreed hourly rate for the examination.”

  The opportunity to start earning that very day was a chance I couldn’t waste, particularly as my purse was heavy with overdue bills.

  “I’m happy to begin now, Professor,” I replied.

  “Very good Mrs Bryce. Let me give you some papers to fill out, and while you do so, I’ll begin a new file.”

  Chapter 2

  So there we both were, in his office, scribbling away on our various bits of paper. He never glanced at me, and he certainly didn’t hurry. For myself, I was glad to have the form to take my mind off what I’d just agreed to do. What was I thinking of? There was a sick, fluttery feeling in the middle of my stomach, and I was overwhelmed by a desire to get out of there. I finished writing before him, and spent a few more anxious minutes looking blindly at the titles on the spines of his books.

  Eventually he stopped writing and looked up again, almost as if he were surprised to find me still sitting there.

  “Now, Mrs Bryce,” he began. “The purpose of this examination is to make a complete record of your vital signs and general state of health. There is also an alternative purpose, however, and that is to gauge the extent of your inhibitions concerning what you will be asked to do in the course of the experiments. To that end I’m going to ask you to undress before me, and also to engage in some relatively low-level sexual activity. If at any time you wish to stop please do so. No matter how far we get, if you choose to stop at any time from now on you will be paid in full for this examination.”

  It was all happening a little too fast. I’d never undressed for anyone before, even with Billy I’d changed in the bathroom and slipped into bed quickly. Yet now I was being expected to undress for a man I’d only met a few minutes before. Not only that, I was afraid to think what he meant by the alarming phrase “low-level sexual activity”.

  I could see from his eyes that he still expected me to change my mind.

  Damn my stubborn streak, I wasn’t quitting yet. So I met those dubious eyes, my heart hammering, and gave him a small nervous nod.

  He smiled slowly, asked me to stand in front of him and begin removing my clothing, and gestured toward a coat rack behind me where I might hang things.

  Shakily I rose to my feet to do his bidding. I was committed now, but I was also reluctant. My desire to delay the inevitable made me slow. I took off my hat first, and then my gloves, and laid them on his desk. He didn’t look away; rather his eyes followed my every move. I faced him as I began unbuttoning my jacket, top button first and then the three below it. I took it off and placed it carefully on the coat stand. My blouse was white, a sheer cotton, through which he’d be able to discern the outlines of my bra and my bosom.

  My mind was racing, I can tell you. What should I remove next, my blouse, thereby giving him a better look at my bra and cleavage, or my skirt? I opted for the latter because beneath it I was wearing my satin petticoat. Still facing him, I reached behind and unbuttoned the skirt at the back, then slid down the zipper. I’d like to have looked at the floor, but I didn’t want to appear too gauche, so instead I kept my eyes on his. He smiled a smile that was both polite and reassuring as he returned my look. I again hesitated, before pulling my skirt down at each side and shimmying out of it.

  For the first time he took his eyes off me so as to make a small notation in my file. I couldn’t imagine what he could have seen to write about, and I panicked a little as I felt a nervous giggle rise in my chest at the ridiculous thought that he was noting down the manufacturer of my undergarments.

  With a nervous cough designed to quell my desire to laugh hysterically, I straightened up from stepping out of the skirt and smoothed the petticoat over my thighs nervously with the palms of my hands. Professor Tremayne made no movement as he looked at me, but his manner clearly indicated that he expected me to continue.

  With another deep breath I began unbuttoning my blouse. I tried to be brisk and businesslike, but I could feel my hands shaking, and I knew from the heat in my cheeks that there was a high color about my face.

  Soon the blouse was unbuttoned, and it too had to come off. I was glad that the under things I was wearing were my best. I had on a lovely matching lacy set—bra, panties and suspender belt in a delicate mother-of-pearl shade—that my poor, embarrassed Billy had brought me on our first anniversary, and which I’d daringly worn for his pleasure once or twice.


  Because my breasts were quite full and firm in those days (a very ample C cup) they nestled firmly in the bra, treating the professor to a generous amount of cleavage. He didn’t seem affected by it though. He was still waiting for more.

  Realizing that I couldn’t delay taking off my petticoat any longer, I gave another shimmy as it too came down. I was more awkward stepping out of it than I had been stepping out of my skirt. Mainly because I was acutely aware that when I bent over to retrieve it from the floor, gravity pulled my breasts down so that each spilled generously out of its cup towards him.

  Still, that was the easy part. Now the moment of truth had arrived. I’d come this far, I couldn’t back out now. Reaching behind, hands shaking even more, I released the hooks that held my bra closed. As the straps came loose, my breasts pushed forward, and when I slipped the bra off they swung free for him to look at. Never in my life had I treated anyone to such a sight.

  What did he think of them? At the time I could only imagine. They were generous, round creamy globes with prominent pink nipples. I think they were nice breasts, and certainly I’ve never had any complaints from men about them.

  I was almost there now. There was only a pair of lace panties between myself and total humiliation. Once they were off, all I’d be wearing would be stockings, suspenders and my favorite high-heeled black shoes. I don’t mind telling you that it was then that I really began to hesitate. Professor Tremayne must have sensed this, because he spoke for the first time since I’d begun to undress.

  “You have been very courageous Mrs Bryce. Remember, there is nothing requiring you to continue if you find it too difficult.”

  At the time I thought he was being generous. Now I think he’d already worked out that I was likely to take such a comment as a challenge, and I’ve always found it hard to resist a challenge.

  “Thank you, Professor, I’m fine,” I replied more calmly than I felt. As if to prove it I quickly pulled my panties down to the floor and stepped out of them.