Private Pleasures

by Lawrence Sanders

  "It's supposed to be sexy," I reminded him. , He looked again. "Very attractive," he said, which was an improvement-but not much. He got into bed and pulled the top sheet up to his chin.

  I went over and sat on the edge of the bed at his side. "I feel horny,"

  I told him. "Please don't tell me you've got a headache."

  That made him smile. I turned off the lights, took off my teddy, and slipped into bed next to him, naked as a skinned rabbit. I took his hand and cupped it around one of my lungs.

  "Look how big I'm getting," I said.

  "I've noticed," he said.

  "That's okay with you, isn't it? " I said. "I mean you don't have any objections, do you?"

  It was the first I had heard him laugh in a long time. It wasn't much of a laugh, just a little chuckle, but it was something.

  "You're very hot," he said in a low voice.

  "Hotter than you think," I said. "Do you remember what to do next?"

  He laughed again, a little louder this time. "It's like riding a bike," he said. "You never forget how."

  "Why don't you take off your suit," I suggested. "And start pedaling."

  He got out of bed to do it, stumbling around in the darkness.

  Then he got back into bed. Greg is nicely put together.

  I ran my hands over his body. "Hey," I said, "what have we here?

  Hello, there! Long time no see."

  He kissed me a few times. Adequate, but nothing to write home about.

  I pulled the sheet off us and kicked it aside. I inched up in bed and moved his head down to my bosom, wanting him to do a Herman.

  "Try it," I said. "It's better than spaghetti and meatballs."

  Then I stopped coaching him. He did what men are supposed to do. I mean he knew all the moves, even though he was never going to be a mad, impetuous lover. He was so methodical, like he was working his way through a sex manual. Something published around 1810.

  Sure I got aroused, I'm not wood, you know, and right then it was thank God for little favors, though I wished he wasn't so polite.

  "Am I too heavy on you?" he inquired.

  You know, I really felt sorry for him. I mean he was trying.

  But when it came to making a woman happy, he had the words but he just didn't have the music.

  I wasn't going to take my problem to my brother, Chas has his own troubles. And if I told him Marleen was talking divorce, he wouldn't say, "I told you so," but he'd give me a look that would mean the same thing.

  It was a funny feeling, not funny ha-ha but funny strange.

  I mean I was a sociable guy, "Herm" to half the population, always ready for party time. But now, with my life falling apart, I couldn't think of a shoulder I could cry on.

  I should tell you that I hate solitude. If I had to live like Chas, I'd go nuts. I like to be part of a crowd, everyone knocking back the drinks and laughing up a storm. Suddenly I felt alone, deserted, with no one but myself to talk to. I couldn't handle it, I admit it, and I was afraid of just giving up and crawling into a bottle of Absolut to end my days.

  I was really down, dragging ass, when I got this great brainstorm.

  There was someone I could talk to, a professional who would listen to my tale of woe and maybe tell me how to get out of the mess I was in.

  I phoned Dr. Cherry Noble.

  "Is this about Chas?" she asked me.

  "No," I told her, "it's about me. I need help."

  "That's a good start," she said.

  So we set up an appointment. I didn't even ask her what it was going to cost. At that point in time her fee was the least of my worries.

  I was afraid she might want me to lie on a couch, which would have been ridiculous, but she didn't even have one in her office.

  She sat behind a desk for which I was thankful because I think I told you she's got the greatest legs in the world, and if she sat where I could see them, I'd probably end up making a pass and that would queer the whole deal. I sat in an uncomfortable armchair facing her across the desk.

  I told her I was in deep shit with Marleen, that she had said she wanted a divorce and sounded serious about it. I also told her about the anniversary dinner I had missed.

  "Surely she doesn't want a divorce because you forgot an anniversary,"

  Dr. Noble said.

  "Nah," I said. "That was just the final straw. I admit I've been a bad boy. Too much drinking. Too much partying. Too many beds, if you know what I mean."

  "You were aware your behavior offended her?"

  "I guess I knew it," I admitted, "but either I didn't care or I didn't think it would rile her all that much."

  "And what is it you want from me, Herman-absolution? "

  "Look, doc, the big problem is this, I can crawl on my knees to my wife, swear I'm going to straighten, up and fly right. And maybe she'll give me another chance.

  Maybe. But I know that I won't be able to do it for long.

  Sooner or later I'll go back to my old ways because, let's face it, I enjoy living like that. So what I want from you is to be told why I act the way I do, why I'm hooked on drinking and whoring around.

  Maybe if I can understand why I do it, I can figure out how to stop permanently."

  "Mmm," she said. "You don't want to lose Marleen?

  "Hell, no!" I said. "I love that woman, and my little girl, Tania. I guess I haven't proved it to them, but I do love them.

  I'm a self-centered sonofabitch, I know that, but I don't seem capable of changing."

  "Do you honestly want to change?"

  "Honestly I don't. I told you I like the way I've been living. But if changing is the only way I can hang onto Marleen and Tania, then I'll do it. What I want you to do is tell me how."

  "What you're asking is that I help you learn why you drink so much and why you're a womanizer?"

  "That's about it, doc."

  "Mmm. Have you told Marleen that you were going to consult me?"

  No.

  "If I take you on, do you intend to tell her?"

  I thought about that for a moment. "Probably," I said finally. "It may be the only way to keep her from going ahead with a divorce. If she hears I'm getting help, maybe she'll be patient until she sees if I'm really serious about mending my ways."

  "And are you serious?"

  "Would I be here if I wasn't?"

  She was silent awhile, and I stared at her. She was handsome woman.

  Great cheekbones. if a woman has high cheekbones and long legs, she's got it allright? Marleen had high cheekbones and long legs.

  "I wouldn't care to be used, Herman," Dr. Noble said softly.

  "I don't like the idea of your thinking of therapy as a ploy to keep Marleen from seeking a divorce. If I took you on, your treatment could conceivably take a long time. Perhaps months.

  Perhaps years. Meanwhile, do you intend to keep living the way you have been?"

  "I see what you're getting at, doc," I said slowly. "I can't ask Marleen to put up with my bullshit just because I'm going to a shrink.

  Is that what you mean? "

  "Something like that."

  "That doesn't leave me much hope, does it?"

  "There may be a way of working it out," she said evenly.

  "Let me think about it. Phone me early next week. I think you've done a good job of analyzing your problem, but whether or not I can help you is a question. I hope you realize that the success of therapy will depend on you. Not on me, on you."

  "Sure, I know that. Okay, I'll call you next week." I got up to leave.

  "Have you seen Chas lately? " I asked her.

  "Yes," she said. "I stopped by his place last Saturday."

  "How's he doing?"

  "Better," she said. "Are you going to tell him about your problem?"

  "No. He's got his own worries." She nodded, rose, and opened her office door for me. , She was wearing a pantsuit so I never did get a good look at her legs.

  It was then about three in the afternoon, and
I didn't feel like going back to work. I could have gone out to the club and hoisted a few, but that didn't appeal to me right then. So, believe it or not, I went home. I guess I wanted time to think about what Cherry had said. She hadn't agreed to take me on, I noted, but she hadn't said no either. I figured my chances were fifty-fifty.

  When I got home, I pulled into the driveway and didn't even get out of the car. I just sat there with the engine running and the air conditioner on. I saw Tania and Chester Barrow. They were both in their bathing suits, and they were having a hose fight across our two lawns.

  They were having a helluva time, running around and screaming and dousing each other with water. I envied them. They ate, slept, enjoyed life, and that was about it. You had to grow up to have troubles.

  I watched Chet Barrow, a good-looking boy, and thought about his mother.

  She was primed, and I knew if I had to move into a motel room, she'd be my first guest. I was glad I hadn't mentioned that project to Dr.

  Noble. She'd have thrown my ass out of her office for sure.

  Tania came running over to the Lincoln, and I lowered the window.

  "Why are you home so early, Daddy?" she asked.

  "Just stopped by for a minute," I said. "Having a good time, honey?"

  "It's okay," she said. "Better than going in that smelly pool."

  Then Chet came close and sloshed her with water from his hose. She shrieked and ran away. He followed. I put up the window and watched the two of them scampering about, not a worry in the world.

  I decided I wanted some of that. I backed out of the driveway and headed for the club. By the time I got there the Happy Hour would be starting.

  That was a curious summer. I had six weeks of accumulated vacation time, and Mabel and Chester were continually asking when we were going away, and where. I told them how busy I was at the lab and mumbled something about taking time off in October. I didn't tell them that even a fall vacation was iffy.

  The truth was I had no desire to go anywhere. I was totally engrossed by the ZAP Project, possibly the most interesting research I had ever done, and I even resented taking Sundays off.

  I wanted to be in the lab every day with my mice and video cameras.

  The problem was to develop a testosterone formulation that increased aggressiveness without inflaming sexual desire at the same time. After several failed experiments, I began to wonder if the two might not be inextricably linked.

  My first small success resulted from the addition of potassium nitrate and sodium nitrate to the solution of synthetic testosterone. I had clear evidence (on TV tape) that male mice injected with the altered testosterone showed a small but discernible lessening of their desire to copulate.

  To achieve even this minor reduction required countless experiments.

  And as I began a search for other chemicals that might further decrease the sexual consequences of the hormone injection, my notebooks filled with the record of seemingly endless trials, all of which ended in failure. One cause of that, naturally, was that I had no prior research by others to guide me.

  I felt like Edison who reportedly tested hundreds of materials before finding a filament that worked in his incandescent lamp.

  While I was so deeply involved in the ZAP Project, I must confess that I was completely unaware of the worsening crisis in my relations with my wife and son. I thought we had arrived at a plateau of unhappiness, unpleasant but endurable. I suppose I was content because things didn't seem to be getting worse.

  I expressed these sentiments to Marleen Todd, and she was scornful.

  "Greg," she said, "you simply can't let matters drift.

  That's like neglecting to seek a cure for an illness because you've become used to the pain."

  I admit I was somewhat miffed. She wasn't treating me like the village idiot, exactly, but she made no effort to hide her exasperation with my predilection for letting things slide. She may have had a point, I do hate to make waves.

  "And what do you suggest I do, Marleen?"

  "Either have a long, intimate talk with Mabel and get things straightened out between you two, or take some other action to end your estrangement."

  "I wouldn't call it an estrangement," I said lamely, "No? Then what would you call it?"

  "I don't know," I said helplessly. "A coolness, I suppose.

  We inhabit the same house, but we seem to be living in different worlds.

  It's a very unsettling situation, Marleen, and I suspect most of the fault is mine. I know I'm not the husband Mabel wants me to be.

  She thinks I'm a failure as a man."

  "Not all women think that, Greg," she said quietly.

  Then an event occurred that was to affect profoundly all our lives.

  On the morning of July 27, I heard the sounds of people running in the corridor outside my private laboratory and shouts I could not comprehend. I feared a fire might have broken out-a terrible danger since we had so many inflammables on the premisesbut the alarm didn't go off.

  A moment later my lab phone rang. It was Marleen, excited and breathless.

  "Did you hear?" she gasped. "It's Mr. Mcwhortle. He collapsed on his putting green. They're giving him CPR." I went out there as quickly as I could. The company doctor was in attendance, now using a portable oxygen tank. He and a nurse worked frantically for several minutes, while a crowd of employees that had assembled stood a respectful distance away.

  "It's his heart," I heard someone say. "The doctor gave him a shot, but he hasn't moved since I've been here.

  Then we all waited in silence. A fire rescue truck arrived followed by an ambulance. They had additional equipment, and the paramedics joined the chore in ministering to the fallen man.

  It was almost a half hour before the paramedics gave up, turned away, and began to pack their gear. The ambulance crew wheeled a stretcher across the putting green. The company doctor came over to the assembled employees.

  "He's gone," he reported.

  The sudden death of Marvin Mcwhortle shook all of us. He really was a generous, beneficent employer, and after mouming his demise, we all began worrying about the future of Mcwhortle Laboratory. I think my greatest anxiety concerned the continued funding of the ZAP Project.

  The laboratory was closed for three days, but those of us conducting animal research were allowed entrance to feed and care for our subjects.

  The laboratory reopened the day after the funeral. All employees were summoned to a meeting in the cafeteria where Mrs. Gertrude Mcwhortle, Marvin's widow, spoke to us.

  She was a large, imposing woman, and no one could doubt her sincerity and determination. She said she was now the sole owner of Mcwhortle Laboratory, had every intention of keeping the business going, and saw no reason not to follow her late husband's plans for expansion.

  She also told us she would act as chief executive officer until she could hire a more experienced CEO with the aid of a management consulting firm. All of us were to continue working at our assigned projects,, all contracts with clients would be fulfilled. The company was in excellent financial condition, she added, with ample cash reserves.

  Good news indeed!

  And so, with only a brief interruption, I returned to my assignment with renewed enthusiasm, as I think other employees did as well. I even heard several, including Marleen Todd, express satisfaction that a woman was now in charge of our company.

  "I suppose it's selfish of me," Marleen said, "but I'm hoping Gertie will increase the budget of the perfumery. We've been trying to get our library of essences inventoried and computerized for ages. Greg, now is the time for you to put in a requisition for that electron microscope you've always wanted. it "It would be nice to have, Marleen," I said, "but it's really not essential."

  "What an old stick-in-the-mud you are," she said, laughing.

  I tried to laugh too, but couldn't. Her remark rankled, as did her previous comments about my tendency to let things drift.

  She seemed so vehement ab
out what she considered my wishy-washiness that I had a feeling of being pressured, of being manipulated to fit a scenario she had designed. It was a disquieting notion.

  But I had other, more important matters to consider. A week after Mr.

  Mcwhortle's death I succeeded in adding a chemical to the solution of synthesized testosterone that had a very definite, easily observed effect of diminishing, if not totally eliminating, the sexual aggression of injected male mice. I cannot identify the chemical for proprietary reasons, but I can state it was an inexpensive ingredient found in many common household soaps and detergents.

  Repeated experiments with the new formulation ielded the same gratifying results, and I pondered y my next move. Logically, I should have repeated my final experiments on larger mammals, guinea pigs, dogs, and chimps.

  But I was so excited by my recent success that I decided to progress immediately to trials on human volunteers-myself first, of course.

  Analyzing my own conduct in this regard, I see now that I had an ulterior motive for wishing to try the hormone formulation on myself.

  I had no desire to become more physically aggressive, that is simply contrary to my nature.

  But I did hope to become more assertive, to express myself and act more forcibly. I believe I had some vague notion of proving to Mabel and Marleen that I was a real man. Macho posturing had nothing to do with it. It was simply a matter of masculine pride.

  On July 27,

  I was lying on a chaise out by my swimming pool, naked as a jaybird. I had my portable radio tuned to an oldies station. The local news came on, and I heard the announcer say Marvin Mcwhortle, a well-known businessman, had dropped dead that morning on his private putting green.

  I immediately dashed into the house, phoned the Pontiac dealership and canceled my order for a white Bonneville. Thank God I hadn't signed a contract yet. Then I poured myself a vodka on the rocks, took a gulp, and started crying.

  Part of my boohooing was because I had lost my sugar daddy, I admit it.

  But part was because I really felt sorry the old man had shuffled off.

  I mean he was always straight with me, never beat me, and he wasn't all that kinky. I knew I'd never find another john like him.