"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.
Chapter V
It was during his interview and discussion with his latest patient, Chet Hunter, and the surrogate assigned to the case, Gayle Miller, that Dr. Freeberg received the unexpected telephone call.
At nine twenty-one in the morning, Freeberg's ICM button on his phone lighted up, and his secretary's voice came on. "Sorry to disturb you, Doctor," said Suzy Edwards, "but I have Mr. Hoyt Lewis, the district attorney of Hillsdale, on the line. He wants to speak to you."
Annoyed by the interruption, Freeberg flipped off the tape recorder and replied, "The district attorney, you say? I have no business I know of with him, and I'm tied up right now. Can't it wait?"
"I'm afraid not, Dr. Freeberg. Mr. Lewis insists on speaking to you. He says it's important."
Freeberg had been glaring at the phone, but then Suzy's message gave him a pause of apprehension. "Well . . ." he said, becoming less resistant. "Okay, Suzy, if it's so important, you might as well put him through." He lifted the receiver, held a palm over the mouthpiece, and apologized to his patient and surrogate. "Excuse me, Mr. Hunter, Gayle. You heard. The district attorney. I suppose I should be respectful."
Hunter and Gayle both indicated their understanding as Freeberg brought his palm away from the mouthpiece and drew the receiver closer.
"Hello," he said into the phone. "This is Dr. Freeberg."
"Ah, Dr. Freeberg, glad I could get hold of you," came the voice from the other end, at once hearty and jovial, "and sorry to butt in on your busy day. I'm Hoyt Lewis, the city's district attorney. We've never met, but I've heard of you."
"I've heard of you, too, Mr. Lewis. What can I do for you?"
"We need to meet personally, Doctor. It's some local matter that's come up. Nothing I can go into on the phone. Just something I want to discuss briefly. The sooner, the better."
"How soon?"
"Today, if possible. Even later this morning, before lunch. Can you make it?"
Freeberg had bent over to examine his calendar and appointments. "I'm just looking to see . . ." He nodded at the mouthpiece. "Yes, I could schedule a meeting this morning. I have a heavy work load in the afternoon. But this morning I'll be clear from eleven o'clock on. Is that satisfactory?"
"Perfect. Eleven is perfect."
"Where's your office, Mr. Lewis?"
"I'm in city hall," said the district attorney, "but never mind. I'll just drop by and look in on you."
"Do you know where the clinic is?"
"I know," said the district attorney. "Looking forward."
Hanging up, Freeberg was not certain that he himself looked forward. But the tone of the district attorney's voice had carried no sign of urgency, other than the fact that their meeting had some priority. Freeberg determined to put it out of his mind for the time being. He cleared his throat, apologized to Hunter and Gayle once more, and reached for his notes. He realized that there were no notes because he had been recording the discussion.
"All right," he said, "let's see where we left off." He pressed the Rewind button on his tape recorder, then pressed Stop, then Play.
Freeberg heard his voice on the machine. "—so, of course, you may remember, we discussed surrogate therapy at length in our initial talk. You already have an idea of what it is and what it is not. I think you have the picture."
He heard Hunter's voice. "I think so, Doctor."
He heard his own voice again. "Now, the purpose of this session is not only to acquaint you with your actual surrogate, Gayle Miller, who will be working closely with you, but also to review the goal of the therapy, to be specific about it. Essentially, the goal is not just to make you feel better and to do better; it is to make you function better all around. So—"
At this point, Suzy's buzzer and voice on the intercom broke into the tape, and then there was no more on the tape because obviously, just then, Freeberg had shut the recorder off.
Freeberg stopped the machine, pressed two buttons to start it recording again, and swung toward Hunter and Gayle.
"Now we can resume," Freeberg said. "There was one thing I neglected to ask you, Mr. Hunter, in our first session. You felt, I gather, some discontent about your sexual dysfunctioning from the very beginning of any intimate relationship you had with women?"
"That's true," said Hunter.
"I mean, it is a problem that's worried you for a long time? It didn't happen yesterday and make you decide to do something about it? Perhaps it's been eating away at you for many months, even years?"
"At least three years," said Hunter, half addressing himself to Gayle.
She did not appear surprised, and nodded with understanding.
"And each time you tried to be intimate with a woman," said Freeberg, "you were uncomfortable, and your own anxiety continued to sabotage you again and again?" Freeberg sat straight. "Mr. Hunter, did you feel your dysfunction in any way affected your work?"
Hunter seemed startled. "My work? I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"You're a writer. You were a writer in New York before you moved to California. All that time, you had this sexual problem. Did you feel that this problem interfered with your concentration, your creativity?"
"It was sure on my mind a lot," Hunter admitted. "I would be trying to work, but I was also always worrying about my—my failures."
"These so-called failures," said Freeberg, "did they result in an emotional, even a physical, withdrawal in your behavior? What I mean is, did you date less often—and when you dated, avoid intimacy more often—because you were concerned with not performing?"
Hunter squirmed uneasily. "Well, you have a couple of questions there . . ."
"I'm sorry. Can you sort them out?"
"Yes. I kept dating women all the time. I wouldn't give up. But, yeah, you're right about avoiding sex. I mean I did try, but when I kept ejaculating too soon, I began to stop testing myself with women. I knew it wasn't going to go well. After I moved out here, I almost became a celibate. Not quite, but almost. Then I met a woman . . . and fell for her. I fell in love with this young woman
in Hillsdale. So I felt that this could be a new start. If you're in love, and want someone for real, want her so much, it has to go good." He shook his head sadly. "But it didn't."
Freeberg was sympathetic. "So you wisely decided to do something about it."
"Not easy," said Hunter.
Gayle, in a kindly tone, spoke to the patient. "In our society, with all its pressures, your anxieties are fully understandable. However, your problem shouldn't embarrass or humiliate you. What's happened to you happens to many, many men every day, but they don't talk to each other about it because they think they're the only ones suffering, and so they suffer alone and in silence. Dr. Freeberg has assured you that you can be cured, and for my part, I can assure you, too."
Hunter had been listening to Gayle with new interest.
Smiling, Freeberg resumed once more. "Now, let's review the design of your therapy, how we're going to work together."
The three-way session went on for another hour, as Freeberg probed into Hunter's background and sexual history and finally determined that Hunter could begin his first meeting with Gayle at her place later that afternoon. Further intensive sessions would continue the following day and the day after, once Freeberg was satisfied with the progress being made.
After dismissing his surrogate and patient, Freeberg was alone. Yet, in a sense, he was not alone. He realized that District Attorney Hoyt Lewis was still with him. He tried to give his latest patient more thought, but then he decided that Gayle was competent enough to handle this kind of case well and he put Hunter out of his mind. He was free to entertain thoughts of the district attorney once more.
On the surface the request for a meeting by Hoyt Lewis seemed sociable enough. Perhaps, Freeberg decided, the district attorney might only want to welcome Freeberg to the community or, more likely, to urge him to join in some community undertaking. But at once, Freeberg knew those ideas were absurd, because behind the district attorney's seemingly bland approach, there had been a definite insistence on seeing Freeberg immediately.
This was not a social visit, Freeberg decided. Instinctively, as if seeking a refresher on his work, Freeberg reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept research notes for a paper he had long been preparing, and putting off, on the evolution of sexual therapy and the changes that had been wrought in the profession since the pioneering days of Masters and Johnson.
He was soon absorbed in reviewing his notes, and the next time he looked at his desk clock, it was nine minutes to eleven. Hastily, Freeberg pushed his notes aside and went to the bathroom. He washed up, dousing his face with cold water to make himself as alert as possible.
At eleven o'clock he was once more at his desk and ready for anything.
District Attorney Hoyt Lewis arrived at five minutes after eleven, and he was not by himself. Lewis, a large man sartorially impeccable except for a disconcerting string tie, pumped Freeberg's hand vigorously and then introduced the much smaller man who was accompanying him.
"Dr. Freeberg," said Lewis, "I hope you don't mind my bringing along an old friend and consultant, Dr. Elliot Ogelthorpe, from the University of Virginia, who heads up their Sex Education Department. He happened to be in town . . ."
"Not at all," said Freeberg, shaking Ogelthorpe's hand. "Pleased to meet you." Freeberg was not pleased at all. Not only did he dislike Ogelthorpe's appearance—he had beady eyes, an unsmiling mouth, a sharp affected Van Dyke beard (which made Freeberg ashamed of his own scruffy beard)—but he disliked the man for his reputation. "I've read your articles in medical journals," said Freeberg, "including your recent one on partner surrogates, 'The Newest Old Profession,' so I can say I know your work quite well."
"And I know yours," said Ogelthorpe, with no trace of friendliness.
Freeberg directed both of them to chairs across from his desk. As Hoyt Lewis took his seat, he was still assuming an air of sociability. "Normally," said Lewis, "when I meet someone on business, I like to invite him to my office in the city hall." He laughed. "It's more intimidating. But actually, today, I thought I'd stroll over and have a look at your clinic before seeing you. Very nice."
Freeberg still clung to Lewis's usage of the word "business." If the district attorney had a business meeting in mind, it could be ominous. "Glad you like our little place here," Freeberg said. "It's all new, and I'm rather proud of it." He suspected that Lewis had come here to look the place over—To look for what? Orgies?—and had been disappointed.
Freeberg waited in silence for what might be next.
The district attorney wet his lips with his tongue, straightened up, and dropped his air of sociability. He was plainly all business now. "I'm sure you're puzzled as to why I'm here . . . and why I wanted to see you as soon as possible."
Freeberg tried unsuccessfully to smile. "I gave it a passing thought."
"Dr. Freeberg, since you've settled down in Hillsdale," said Hoyt Lewis, "something of your activity has been brought to my attention by—well, by respected members of this community."
"My activity?" said Freeberg mildly.
"Yes, your work as a sex therapist, a perfectly honorable profession, and your use of sex surrogates . . . engaged in a somewhat more questionable profession. This has been brought to my attention and has forced me to look into the work that you and your hired surrogates do. I've done some extensive preliminary research."
"What have you found out, Mr. Lewis?" Freeberg asked quietly.
"That you may be involved, quite innocently, in an activity that is illegal, perhaps even criminal. I have been investigating the possibility that as a sex therapist you may be engaged in pandering and your sex surrogates may be involved in what might be construed as nothing more than prostitution."
"Oh, come on now," Freeberg objected, trying to make light of the accusation, "we're living in modern times, in the progressive state of California—"
"Ah, California," interrupted Lewis, fumbling in his jacket pocket for a piece of paper, which he then unfolded. "Let me tell you something about the law of California, which, as a newcomer, you may not know. California has two statutes on its books that specifically prohibit the work you and your associates are doing." He consulted the sheet of paper in his hands. "Here's a mention of 'pandering.' This means any action in which one person procures and provides another person for the purpose of prostitution." He looked up. "By sending sex surrogates out to work for you, there is little doubt that you are engaged in pandering. That, Dr. Freeberg, is against the law in California and in fifty states of this Union. It is a felony."
Freeberg started to speak, but Hoyt Lewis held up a hand to silence him and consulted his sheet of paper again. "And here we have 'disorderly conduct.' Meaning, a person who takes part in an act of prostitution, which includes any lewd act between persons for money or other consideration. That, too, 3 against the law in California, and a misdemeanor."
Freeberg felt his cheeks flush, and he tried to contain himself. "You haven't defined 'prostitution' yet, Mr. Lewis."
The district attorney was back to his sheet of paper. "'Prostitution,'" he murmured, "meaning someone involved in professional sexual relations, especially for money." He looked up. "A prostitute is commonly declared to be a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse, especially for money. There you have it all. And from my investigation, it appears you are perilously close to, or totally engaged in, the practice of procuring women to engage in lewd acts with members of the opposite sex and to hire themselves out as prostitutes for pay. Now then—"
"One second, Mr. Lewis," Freeberg broke in. "Can we discuss this matter?"
"The very reason I'm here," said Lewis. "To discuss your activity and then to put you on warning."
"First, can we talk about the matter?"
"Absolutely."
"Because," said Freeberg, "you may have been misled in your researches and misinformed in your investigation. May I clarify a few things for you?"
"Go right ahead."
T
rying to control himself, Freeberg began, "I think it is essential that you know the vast difference that separates the prostitute from the sex surrogate."
"From my understanding of it, they are one and the same," said Lewis.
"Please, let me go on," Freeberg persisted. "After all, your understanding of what a prostitute is and what a sex surrogate is may be totally incorrect."
Hoyt Lewis shifted his bulk in his chair. "Very well, Dr. Freeberg. I'm listening."
"All right," Freeberg said, "let's start with this. Your average general practitioner in this country or any country knows very little about sexual problems, unless the problems involve something organically wrong with a patient. So whenever a man, young or old, has had a sexual problem, he's found it hopeless to consult his family doctor. If he was properly directed, he went eventually to some kind of specialized consultant—a psychiatrist, a trained therapist in sexual matters—and he tried to get to the root of his problem by talking it out. But early on, we began to learn that talk was not enough. As one psychologist pointed out, 'Sex is action, not talk,' and effective therapy had to be based on action. The first men of science to comprehend the necessity for something more than talk were Dr. Joseph Wolpe, who suggested that sexual partners be recruited to help the sexually disabled, and Arnold Lazarus, a Ph.D., who felt that sexual partners were 'necessary' to get anywhere with sexually dysfunctional males. But Masters and Johnson were the ones who actually coined the words 'sex surrogate' or 'partner surrogate' and put these so-called fantasy wives or lovers into their rehabilitation program. Now, Masters and Johnson—"
"Dr. Freeberg," the district attorney cut in, "if you're going to talk about Masters and Johnson, you'd better include my friend Dr. Ogelthorpe in your discussion. As you know from your reading, he's an expert on Masters and Johnson."
"I'm including you in all of this, of course," said Freeberg to the district attorney's companion.
"Then I have something to say to you," Ogelthorpe began, "and I think it should be said right up front. Masters and Johnson saw from the very moment they got into this therapy that prostitutes, real prostitutes, would make excellent surrogates and used them as such."
The Celestial Bed Page 12
