The Celestial Bed

by Irving Wallace

  "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 t
hat, 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."