"It's true."
"At the same time," Kile continued, "there are an awful lot of experts, therapists, psychiatrists, not on your side. They feel, by and large, that sex surrogates are ill-trained and unregulated. And also, generally, under a constant legal cloud because their profession is so undefined. Here we have the Massachusetts Psychological Association banning the use of surrogates altogether, and for the reasons given." He shuffled through his cards. "Many therapists tend to quibble somewhat. Like Dr. Helen Kaplan, director of a sex therapy program at New York Hospital's Payne Whitney Clinic."
"She's highly respected," said Freeberg.
"Well, she seems to be on both sides—but less on your side. She says, 'Lonely people can be helped by surrogates, but I would try to work in psychotherapy to figure out why the person is so lonely. We have to get humanity and eroticism back into bed. You can't do that if you pay someone a hundred dollars to go to bed with you.'"
"Is that helpful to me or to our district attorney friend?"
Kile put aside his cards, then smiled. "I'm sure Hoyt Lewis will use stronger stuff against you, if he has to." Kile was thoughtful a moment, as if remembering something else. "There's one more factor weighted against you, Arnie. The judiciary, it seems, has an unspoken prejudice against sex surrogates."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean this. I was talking to a fellow attorney who had handled a divorce case in Burbank. My friend was representing the wife, a mother of two children, whom she had in her custody during the action. Somehow, her estranged husband learned that his soon-to-be ex-wife was doing part-time work as a sex surrogate, even though she did none of her work at home or near the children. The husband contacted his lawyer, who went straight to a judge to get an ex parte order, one without a full hearing, and the judge immediately took custody of the children away from the wife and gave it over to the husband. My lawyer friend and I felt that was a poor judicial decision, but it did show that out in the real world you don't always get good judicial practice or even legal fairness."
"You're not making me feel good," mumbled Freeberg. "I'm just trying to tell you that some prejudice does exist."
"Roger, why don't you get down to it?" Freeberg shoved his plate of spaghetti away from him. "Where do I stand?"
"That's next on the agenda. I was right about what I guessed while talking to you on the phone. This is a political matter. Hoyt Lewis is looking for the main chance. He thinks he's found it. He has some powerful people in back of him, promoting him, no doubt urging him to proceed against you."
"Who are they?" Freeberg wanted to know.
"The best known is a prominent clergyman, the Reverend Josh Scrafield, who's against all sex education in schools and thinks a sex therapist like yourself can contaminate his fair community. We get him on the tube here in L.A. He does a big number."
"That yo-yo," Freeberg said with disgust. "Surely Lewis isn't taking him seriously?"
"I'd guess seriously in only a political sense. Scrafield knows how to win friends and influence people. He has a tremendous audience to whom his word is gospel. Nice person to have in your corner if you want to get ahead."
Freeberg nodded unhappily. "So what does that add up to?"
"Those are intangibles," said Kile. "The only tangible to consider is the law."
"I gather."
"The law in California is very specific in defining the crimes of pandering and prostitution. But there is no hint of anything about sex surrogates. There we are in muddy waters. In certain states, like Connecticut and Arizona, any sexual interaction for pay is prostitution. But not in California. Sex surrogates are not against the law here. Nor are they specifically permitted, either. Surrogates are not licensed. If they were, that would be of help. You know, Arnie, doctors and psychologists are licensed here. If Hoyt Lewis makes that point—that sex surrogates are treating disorders and therefore practicing medicine, or performing as psychologists, without license—he would have a stronger case. Although, actually, since both medicine and psychology are so broadly defined, that point might not be meaningful if used against surrogates. Besides, railing against unlicensed practitioners is pretty dull stuff. It's nothing to capture the public eye. Pandering and prostitution are other matters, and that's why Lewis settled on them."
"So where am I?" Freeberg pleaded. "Tell me where I am."
"We've come to the crux of it, and in my opinion, you are on the safe side," Kile informed him without hesitation. "The law defines prostitution as 'any lewd act between persons for money.' Yet a trained sex surrogate, advised by a licensed expert in mental health like yourself, should not be liable to a charge of prostitution. Your surrogate could present in court real solid evidence of her intent and work. She could show documents, plans, programs, notes, all kinds of actual records to prove that she is engaged in legitimate therapy—and not in performing a 'lewd act' for money. She could prove that she is simply an adjunct to acceptable talk therapy."
Behind his spectacles, Freeberg's eyes had widened. "You mean the law is really on my side?"
Kile smiled. "No question in my mind. The law prohibits promiscuous conduct. The intent of the law is clearly to prevent commercialized vice, which could damage individuals, families, and society. I don't see any of that in a sex surrogate's activities. The surrogate's intent is to rehabilitate suffering persons from clinically diagnosed sexual dysfunctions. The work includes no promiscuous conduct whatsoever. The surrogate's work is meant to be physically, emotionally, and economically constructive for individuals, families, society." He paused. "In short, my friend, the district attorney doesn't have much of a case at all. In my judgment, he has a weak one at best. You have a better case, and so do I on your behalf."
"You mean that?"
"I certainly do. Lewis can't go to court successfully without some real eyewitnesses to lewd behavior performed by your surrogates. Where's Lewis going to get those witnesses? You have a limited circle of surrogates working under your careful supervision, and a small number of patients you've thoroughly screened, and not one of them would ever consider defecting to the district attorney's side to land you and one of the surrogates in the slammer. Every possible witness is on your side."
"I'm sure of that."
Kile opened his hands and gave a confident shrug. "There you are, then. I'd say you're home free."
Freeberg's face had brightened, and the cords of tension standing out on his neck had relaxed. "You mean I can go on like before?"
"Not like before, but work even harder at it. Keep up with the surrogates. Take on more and more patients. Accumulate and build up bigger success statistics. If Lewis is ever fool enough to take us to court, you'll have this wonderful evidence to present. Actually, I think we'll want Lewis to learn of your success record sooner than that, in due time along the way. Knowledge of your work successes will probably give him pause—and probably prevent him from taking you to court."
"How do I handle Hoyt Lewis? I'm supposed to give him my decision within a week."
"You give him nothing. I'll take over with him from here. I'll let him stew up to the last minute while I sit on my hands. Then I'll phone him or call on him. Tell him to do what he wants to do but that he doesn't have a chance. You are proceeding with your practice."
"Doesn't he?"
"Doesn't he what?"
"Have a chance?"
Kile shrugged again. "I don't think so, but who knows? In American justice, there are usually two sides. Sometimes the weaker side can luck out. But if I were you, I'd go right ahead as if nothing had ever happened. No need to worry your surrogates about this. Just go right ahead . . . Now, Arnie, I recommend their chocolate sundaes here for dessert. The topping is like a celebration."
Even as she stood fully dressed outside the shower in her bathroom and reached in to test the spray with one hand to feel if it was warm enough for their next exercise, Gayle Miller's mind was not on Adam Demski undressing in the therapy room but on her brief meeting with D
r. Freeberg early this afternoon.
Freeberg had summoned her to review Demski's case again. This was odd because there had been thorough discussions of it before and after every session with Demski. Still, compulsively, Freeberg wanted to go into it all again, as if to be certain it was progressing successfully.
"So, anyway, you feel he's a little more comfortable about being unclothed?" Freeberg had asked.
"The first time, before the body imaging, he was reluctant, definitely uptight," Gayle had replied. "But he managed it and even seemed to relax a little. When he had to undress for the back caress day before yesterday, I thought there would be some difficulty, but he went through with it and he was considerably more at ease during the exercise."
Freeberg bent over his open folder. "Gayle . . ."
"Yes?"
"Any indication of some erectile movement?"
"None whatsoever, Doctor. Continues flaccid." She had paused. "Maybe it's too early."
"You're probably right," Freeberg had agreed. "What's next on the agenda? It's the shower nude, isn't it?"
"Correct. Later this afternoon."
Freeberg's gaze had fixed on her. "Don't get me wrong, Gayle. I don't want to rush this case. I'm only trying to say I want you to keep going with him at a reasonable but steady pace. The most important factor is the result. I'm hoping for a real success with this one." He had hesitated. "It would get us off to a good start in the clinic."
"I'll do my very best, Doctor."
Thinking back on that, her hand adjusting the shower's hot and cold knobs, she still sensed a feeling of pressure from Freeberg. He wanted the case to move along fast yet thoroughly. Above all, and this was the first time he had ever spoken to her about a result, he wanted the treatment of Demski to be successful. It seemed a needless request, and she wondered why it had been emphasized. She speculated on what was going on in Freeberg's life. Was he himself under some kind of pressure—either to prove himself or to put down some anticipated competition?
And the question about Demski's erectile progress. That definitely was tied up with the need for success. Never before had Freeberg posed the question this early in the exercises.
The shower spray was just right. Warm and lovely. She decided to put Freeberg out of her mind and concentrate on the exercise at hand. In the bathroom, she undressed herself until she was nude, then walked into the hall to the rear therapy room. Adam Demski was seated in a chair naked, browsing through a magazine. She was pleased to note that neither his hands nor the magazine covered his penis. It drooped there between his legs, to be seen, and his posture indicated that he was less shy with her. She felt good about that. Maybe they were getting somewhere.
He raised his head after her entrance and did not take his eyes from her body. "You're—you're darn beautiful, Gayle."
"I like compliments." She held out her hand. "Now, come with me."
He put down the magazine and came to his feet, taking her hand. "Where to?"
"We're going to the bathroom to take a sensuous shower together."
"But I took a shower this morning."
"This one will be different—you'll see. It's really a body caress standing up, using soap and water. After we're done, we'll dry ourselves, go to the therapy room again, and we'll do another back and overall caress with each other, head to heels. How does that sound?"
"Sounds fine," Demski said.
"Let's go," Gayle said, leading him into the hallway and then into the bathroom. Releasing his hands, she reached over to turn her white radio on to an FM station. The music was lazy and soft, maybe 1940s music when couples danced close together.
"I like the music," Demski said. "Now what do we do?"
Gayle opened the glass shower door. "You can see I have the water ready for us. It's warm. We're going to step in under the spray and face each other. Once we're wet, I want you to take the bar of soap and run it over me, really get me as soapy as you can. Then start caressing me, but no breasts or genitals. Try to keep your eyes closed, unless you want to see where your hands are. My eyes will be closed. I'll probably talk some in order to direct you. You soap me front and back, and then I'll do the same to you."
"The idea is to feel good?"
"The idea is to enjoy. Don't speak at any time unless you want to tell me something's bothering you or you're uncomfortable."
"All right."
"I repeat, the idea is to enjoy yourself, to get in closer touch with your feelings. To let yourself go and daydream creatively. This can be sensuous, even fairly erotic. Trying to feel the sensuality of your touch and then mine. Let's step inside."
They were in the shower, then under it. The spray was deliciously warm.
Gayle handed Demski a bar of soap and stepped back slightly. "Do you feel comfortable?" Gayle asked.
"I'm relaxed."
"So am I," said Gayle. "Why don't you soap me up? Throat, shoulders, arms, hands, my thighs and legs."
"I'll have to keep my eyes open to see where—"
"That's all right," Gayle said. "But keep them closed when you can."
As the music wafted in, he began to slide the soap across her features and parts of her body, careful not to go near her breasts or vagina.
Gayle's eyes were closed as he continued soaping her. "Okay, Adam," she told him softly, "now put away the soap and use your hands to caress and stroke me lightly, front and back."
He followed her instructions, and his fingertips moved across her upper and lower body, and involuntarily Gayle sighed. "Nice, Adam, very nice."
After nearly ten minutes, she opened her eyes.
"Give me the soap," she said. "Now it's my turn to soap and caress you. Close your eyes. No talk. Let your mind float. You're in a harem with a thousand fingers fluttering over you. Let your mind go. Remember, it's supposed to be sensuous, and whatever sensations you get, I hope they're good and you enjoy them. Turn around. Let me start with your back."
He turned around under the spray, and she moved close to him, absorbing the gentle warmth of the water, running the bar of soap over his neck, shoulders, back, and buttocks until his skin was foamy. With a free hand in the white bubbles of foam, she massaged him gently.
After a while she guided him around until he was facing her. Close to him, she soaped his chest, arms, hips, thighs, legs. Then putting away the bar, she immersed both her hands in the foam and made circular motions with them, and then long strokes with her fingers until the shower spray had washed all the soap away.
She stepped nearer to him, her hands gliding down to his thighs once more, and then sliding along the inside of his thighs, her fingers going up and down on his wet skin.
Opening her eyes, to be sure she didn't touch his genitals, she saw something move.
Her eyes widened.
His small penis had filled a little, definitely swollen a bit, risen an inch or two from his crotch.
Resurrection, she wanted to cry out.
She was thrilled.
And Dr. Freeberg, she couldn't wait to tell him. Whether he showed it or not, he would be thrilled, too. For the first time, she could see a light at the end of the tunnel. It shone on one word in the distance. The word was: success.
Unable to contain herself over her achievement, Gayle impulsively stepped forward against Demski and wrapped her arms lovingly around him. She could feel him against her, really feel him pressed against her.
In her arms, Demski opened his eyes, startled. "Hey, what's going on? Was I falling?"
"I didn't have to hold you up. You are up. Didn't you know it?"
"I—I can't believe it."
"Better believe it. You're on your way, Adam. Really on your way. How do you feel, Adam?"
He smiled shyly. "Ten feet tall."
"All over," she said with a grin. "Just great."
In bed that evening, waiting for Tony to emerge from the bathroom, Nan Whitcomb determined to make one more effort to talk things out with him.
She had been able to
fend him off for an entire week, pleading that her gynecologist insisted that she must avoid sexual intercourse while receiving her series of hormone shots. But every day of this avoidance had made him more and more sullen and difficult, and she had known she could not put him off forever. Sooner or later—sooner, she was sure—she would have to give in to his demand, and she hadn't been certain she was far enough along in her therapy to cooperate with Tony and give him what he wanted satisfactorily.
Lying in bed, she knew that she could not continue her delaying tactic. She had to face up to the life she had chosen, and wanted to hold on to, and that meant finding a way to make her physical relationship with Tony Zecca acceptable.
She thought that she had found a new approach, and she'd made up her mind to try it out on Tony. Constantly rejecting Tony would solve nothing. Changing Tony, at least somewhat, might be the solution.
The idea of educating Tony to her needs had probably occurred to her late in the afternoon, after leaving Paul Brandon's apartment. Paul . . . She had real difficulty thinking of him as a hired sex surrogate—and of herself as a needy patient. Paul had been unusually tender and kind to her. At the outset of their two-hour meeting, Paul had explained to her about their next exercise, the frontal caress without touching her breasts or genitals or his genitals. She had taken off her clothes with a mounting feeling of anticipation. The exercise had proceeded with gentle care by each of them. His fingers over her body had brought heat to her skin, and she had been seized by the desire to grab his hands and make them cover her breasts and bring them down to her vagina. She had resisted the temptation because she had not wanted to break the rules, upset the relationship between them, or offend him in any way. When it had been her turn to caress him frontally, the temptation had been even stronger. She had wanted to take hold of his penis, guide it into her. While she had not given in to this desire, Paul had seemed to have some understanding of what had been passing through her mind. He had been wonderfully sweet and thoughtful, even after they had been clothed once more.
Driving home, but more certainly after dinner and when she and Tony were readying for bed, she had determined to speak to Tony tonight, to try to transfer some of Paul's tenderness and kindness to Tony, the man she actually had to deal with.
The Celestial Bed Page 14
