She blinked at him. "I hope I'm all right, Paul. I can't imagine having that awful tightening with you."
He tried to maintain some kind of professional stance. "If our exercises have gone well—and I think they have—there should be no problem."
Nan lifted her legs onto the bed and pushed herself against the pillows at the headboard. Brandon walked to the bed and lowered himself beside her.
"What do I do now?" she inquired innocently.
"We'll start with frontal caressing, taking turns, to get ourselves into the mood."
"I am in the mood, Paul," she said simply.
"That helps."
"I'm wet down there." She offered a shy smile. "Not difficult. I've been looking at you."
Somehow, he sensed, he had to slow her down. "Fine. But before we start, I'd like to say a few things."
"Whatever you want."
"Your only prolonged relationship with a male has been with Tony Zecca. As a result, you may still have some negative body images about yourself."
"I think maybe you've helped me overcome them. I feel more attractive now."
He concurred. "You are attractive. At the same time, with Tony you had no pleasure, only pain, and no orgasms."
"That's true."
Brandon went on doggedly. "With Tony you turned off all your physical receptors, experienced no joyous physical sensation. My goal, in our program, has been to get you in touch with your own sensuality."
She smiled less shyly. "I'm positive you've succeeded, Paul. I've never felt ours was an artificial relationship only. Even though this is paid for, and we talk to a therapist, I felt from early on that what's between us is something more. I've stopped thinking of you as a surrogate." She hesitated. "That's good, isn't it?"
Brandon wasn't sure if he was perspiring, but he felt as if he were. He wanted to let her know, in these moments, that a vital part of their therapeutic relationship was disengaging themselves from each other soon and being able to say good-bye to all that had been happening between them. This was the time to tell her that, and yet in observing her vulnerability, he could not bring himself to do so.
"Yes," he said weakly, "that is good, and I appreciate it." He paused. "All right, Nan, let's get into our feelings and relax and have pleasure in our relationship. Close your eyes and let's begin."
Brandon began to stroke her, and after that, she stroked him. She was extremely receptive to his touch and had become expert in her caressing of him.
There would be no problem with his erection. He was ready for her.
He looked at her. "All right, Nan. Let's try penetration. Non-demand penetration. I'll lie here, flat on my back. You lift yourself up and get on top of me. Then, very gradually, lower yourself down on me, until I've entered you fully. I won't move. Don't you move either, once I'm inside you. If you have any pain, let me know at once."
Nan nodded eagerly and climbed above him. His erection held, and he braced himself for their first contact.
"Remember, Nan, no thrusting from either of us. Even if you feel like it, don't. Just get used to my being inside you."
She had his penis in one hand as she arranged herself over it and moved it until it touched her vaginal lips, and then she eased herself downward. When his penis slid into her, she continued downward until she engulfed him.
"No pain?" he asked.
"It's wonderful," she said breathlessly. "I feel ecstatic. Let me move a little, Paul."
"No."
"Please . . ."
"Absolutely not."
"But I'm marvelous now. I'm all well. Paul, darling, I love it . . . I love it more than anything . . ."
With his hands firmly on her arms, he lifted her off him and withdrew, and she fell beside him, hugging and snuggling and kissing him and whispering, "And I love you even more. I'll love you forever."
He tried to respond, without being too responsive, and as quickly as it could be done, he brought their exercise session to an end.
Once she was dressed, and at the door, she halted briefly. "The same time tomorrow?"
"Yes, Nan."
"Will it be more, more of the same?"
"Yes."
"But closer to the real thing? I mean, moving?"
"Yes," he said almost inaudibly.
She kissed him. "I do love you," she said.
Peering through the living room window, he saw her drive off. Troubled, he went through his apartment, turning on the volume of the telephones again.
The resolve to overcome his problem—Nan's obvious emotional involvement with him—now had become an urgent necessity. Lingering over his bedroom phone, he lifted the receiver and dialed the Freeberg Clinic. He asked to speak to Dr. Freeberg. He learned that the therapist was out on a business call but would be back in an hour or so. Brandon left word for Freeberg to phone him as soon as he could.
Pacing about his living room, puffing away at his pipe, Brandon brooded over the matter. He tried, in his mind, to clarify every instance of Nan's involvement with him, its seriousness, her determination to block out their professional relationship and regard him as her real-life boyfriend. This could not continue, he knew, and yet he was incapable of telling her it was a professional relationship that would be over within a week. He knew that, much as he hated to do so, he would have to allow Dr. Freeberg to take him off the case and replace him with another male surrogate to wind up the therapy with Nan.
An hour and a half passed before Dr. Freeberg returned his call.
"How are you, Paul?" Freeberg wanted to know.
"Never better."
"Your message says you wanted to consult me about something."
"There is something I wanted to report, Doctor. I—" And then what he had prepared himself to say, what he had rehearsed, became stuck in some recess of his throat.
He pictured Nan being summoned by Dr. Freeberg tomorrow and being told that Paul Brandon had to be taken off her case and that a substitute would appear in his place.
He could imagine Nan's consternation at this unexpected turn of events. Somehow, she would perceive that the man she loved had rejected her. Somehow, she would be frightened by the idea of starting all over with a stranger. It would surely set her therapy back by weeks, if not end it altogether.
Brandon realized that no matter how well Freeberg managed it, this would be a brutal blow to Nan, as brutal as anything ever inflicted upon her by Tony Zecca. Brandon knew that he could not be the one responsible for inflicting more pain on Nan.
"Please go on, Paul," Brandon heard Freeberg say.
"Actually, I didn't want to consult you," Brandon said, "but merely report something to you. It's good news, and I didn't want to hold it back."
"What is it, Paul?"
"Nan and I had our initial non-demand penetration today. I'd say her vaginismus is cured. There were no obstructions. It went well. I'm sure she's cured."
"You're positive?"
"Just about."
"But you haven't tried penetration and thrusting yet, have you?"
"Not yet."
"Try that tomorrow, and let me know. If that comes off well, then we'll be positive she's cured, and you'll deserve congratulations. Good luck."
Good luck, he thought bitterly, hanging up the phone.
He was worse off than before. He hadn't the faintest idea of how he would handle Nan Whitcomb tomorrow.
At least tonight with Gayle he'd have no problem. He wouldn't even hint to her about his fainthearted and evasive talk with Freeberg.
Gayle didn't have to know.
If a tree falls in the forest, and no one hears it, did the tree actually fall?
It had been a happy evening for Brandon and Gayle.
For one thing, Lapin Agile was a cozy restaurant, providing the perfect background for easy conversation. The pianist across the crowded room softly played popular songs of old Montmartre. Three of the walls surrounding them were covered with colorful framed Toulouse-Lautrec posters representing many
of the artist's friends from May Belfort and Jane Avril to Aristide Bruant and the Troupe de Mlle. Eglantine.
Most of all, adhering to a promise he had made to himself when he had gone to pick up Gayle, Brandon saw to it that there had been no discussion of their therapy activities. Any references to their jobs as surrogates or to their patients were strictly avoided. He would not allow himself to fall into that trap again. And instinctively, Gayle had gone along with him.
At their rustic wooden table, they had talked about their pasts and their futures, about music, books, movies, about politics, sports, television programs. They had talked, and laughed, about his adventures as a substitute teacher. They had talked about each other, how they felt about each other and what they wanted from their relationship.
Neither could remember, by dinner's end, what they had eaten, only that it had been delicious.
By the time they had finished their desserts, they had fallen into silence, holding hands across the table and speaking only with their eyes.
Tonight, Brandon told himself, was finally the night so long postponed. He was eager to have this breathtaking young woman in his arms and make her a part of him, as he would be a part of her. At last he broke the silence to tell her so.
She nodded. "It's what I've been wanting, too, Paul. Let's go back to my place."
Once in his car, he drew her closer to him and headed toward her house.
Throughout the drive, both were quiet. Brandon could feel his heart quickening with anticipation, like that of an excited schoolboy.
Parking in front of her bungalow, Brandon brought her to him, kissed her avidly, and whispered against her ear, "Let's go inside."
While Gayle was straightening her dress, and smoothing her hair, Brandon went around the car to open the passenger door and help her out.
As she stepped down beside him, Gayle said offhandedly, "There was something I meant to ask you. That patient of yours, the one who has a crush on you—I keep forgetting her name—"
Brandon squirmed uncomfortably, took Gayle by the hand, and started her up the walk. "Nan," he said, barely audible.
"Did you say Nan?"
"That's right."
"I wanted to ask how you made out with her. Was it difficult to break the news to her, that you had to terminate her?"
Playing dumb, Brandon guided Gayle up the three steps to her porch.
She stopped before her door to hunt inside her purse for the key. "Did she take it badly?" Gayle resumed.
Brandon decided he would have to face up to the inevitable and admit the truth. "Gayle, I just couldn't tell her we were winding up."
"Oh, no?"
"I couldn't do it one on one, Gayle. It would have been like executing someone. I just couldn't get around to it, so—"
Gayle, key in hand, was ominously still. "So you reported what was going on to Dr. Freeberg?"
"I started to. In fact, I called Dr. Freeberg to discuss the matter."
"Well, what did he say?"
Brandon was finding this even more difficult than he had expected. "He didn't say anything . . . because I didn't tell him anything."
Gayle's expression was one of incredulity. "You didn't tell Dr. Freeberg that your patient has fallen in love with you and expects to have a real-life romance with you?"
"Gayle, I couldn't. I simply couldn't. It would have been inhumane. To have reached the point I have with her, and then back off and let Dr. Freeberg tell her another man would take my place—it was impossible for me to do."
Gayle stared at him. "And exactly what point have you reached with Nan?"
"I—we—I think we've overcome her vaginismus."
"You mean you're fucking her?"
"Not really. It was only non-demand penetration."
"You're fucking her," Gayle persisted with rising anger, "and you're loving it, and she's loving it and in love with you. And you're doing nothing about it."
"I'm not loving it, and I don't love her," he said heatedly. "I'm just trying to be decent."
"You call that decent? Leading her on when you tell me you don't love her? If that's what you're doing, I think that's rotten. I have an idea that's not what you're doing. I have an idea you like what you're getting from her, and you don't want to give it up."
"Gayle, for Christ's sake, then what am I doing here?"
"That's what I'd like to know. What are you doing here, and what am I doing here with you?"
She jammed her key into the front door and turned it. Brandon reached out and gripped her arm. "Gayle, will you stop this nonsense and be reasonable? I can understand someone being jealous, but when they're jealous without any cause—"
Gayle yanked her arm free. "I am jealous, damn you! And with good cause. It's just not fair!"
"Gayle, please let me come inside and—"
"And what? Let you fuck me the way you're fucking her? No way!"
"Gayle, give me a chance to talk to you."
"I'm not talking to you again until you've broken up with your little Nan or you have Freeberg insist that you do. Until then"—she pushed her door open—"fuck off!"
With that, she ran into the house, slamming the door in his face.
Brandon sat dejectedly behind the wheel of his car in front of her house, trying to decide what to do.
For many minutes, he sought to focus his resentment against Gayle on her. She was being a fool, a childish fool, he kept telling himself, allowing immature jealousy to intervene in their relationship. Her jealousy was so displaced as to be unbelievable.
But to Gayle it was believable, and for some minutes, he tried to see his involvement with Nan from Gayle's point of view. He could see that although she was a professional sex partner, she was not a professional female. Perhaps she knew more about the mechanism of sex than the average woman, just as a physician knew more about the mechanism of health than the average layman. But a physician could not heal himself any more than Gayle could overcome the insecurities of an ordinary woman.
Examining Gayle's anger, Brandon even considered the possible validity of her feeling. Did he enjoy making love to his patient and being loved by her in return? Could Gayle have intuitively hit on some truth there? He examined and reexamined this possibility, and what he emerged with were two stark facts. One was that he was sorry for Nan and wanted to help her but was absolutely not in love with her. The other was that he was deeply in love with Gayle—and was seriously on the verge of losing her for now and forever.
There was only one way for him to prove to Gayle that she—and not a patient named Nan Whitcomb—was his true love. Gayle had spelled out the one proof she would accept. He must personally be forthright with Nan and remind her that their relationship was purely a professional one and would terminate with their next encounter. Or he must in all candor inform Dr. Freeberg of his problem and seek Freeberg's guidance in solving it.
As a so-called professional, he had been performing his work amateurishly. He must speak to Dr. Freeberg at once and be totally honest with him.
Brandon snapped on his dashboard light, held his wrist near it, and peered at his wristwatch.
The time was close to ten forty-five. He half remembered hearing somewhere that Dr. Freeberg kept late hours, writing and reading until midnight at least. If this were true, Dr. Freeberg would still be awake. Brandon had to take a chance. The sooner the better.
With determination, Brandon started his car and began to drive around the neighborhood until he found a shopping area. When he located it, he could see a filling station a block away, its lights on. He drove toward it and saw that the lone attendant was closing down the station but that the door to the glass-enclosed telephone booth nearby was open.
Brandon guided his car past the pumps and parked in a vacant slot near the telephone booth. Getting out, feeling in his pocket for change, and then for his miniature address book, he started for the glass booth.
Inside it, he closed the door and the light went on. Finding Dr. Freeberg's home
phone number, Brandon sorted out his change, dropped the required coins into the slot, and dialed Freeberg's number.
There were no more than two rings before Freeberg himself answered the phone.
"Dr. Freeberg? This is Paul Brandon. I hope I didn't wake you."
"Not at all, not at all. I'll be up for hours. Just puttering around with some research for a paper I was planning to write. What's on your mind, Paul?"
"It's something I think is rather important, something regarding my relationship with my patient, Nan Whitcomb. I do need your advice."
There was a pause. "Is this something you meant to discuss with me when you phoned me earlier today?"
"Yes," said Brandon, surprised. "How did you know?"
Freeberg chuckled. "Because your afternoon call was uncharacteristic. It was obvious you had something important on your mind but found yourself unable to get down to it. I'm pleased you've decided to discuss it now. You want to tell me what this is all about?"
"My patient, Nan Whitcomb, she's fallen in love with me," Brandon blurted out.
"Ah, so that's it," Dr. Freeberg said. "You're doing the right thing to tell me. I'd suggest you let me hear it all, omitting nothing.."
For over ten minutes, Brandon spilled out every detail of his series of sessions with Nan. He placed special emphasis on those moments when he perceived that Nan was falling in love with him—from her offer to move in and stay overnight with him to her declaration of love for him this very afternoon.
"I should have discussed this earlier with you, Dr. Freeberg," Brandon concluded, "but I was afraid you'd want to take me off the case and replace me with someone else. I worried that if this happened, it might wound Nan deeply and set her back, after we've made so much progress."
"I can understand your concern," said Dr. Freeberg. Then he inquired, "How many sessions do you have left with her?"
"Two at the most. Possibly, if all continues to go well, I might wind it up with the exercise we have scheduled for tomorrow afternoon."
There was silence on the other end of the line. Dr. Freeberg was thinking this through, Brandon knew, and he waited anxiously.
"All right," said Dr. Freeberg, "I believe I know what must be done. I'm going to call Nan Whitcomb at her hotel right now. I'm going to postpone her session with you tomorrow and set it for the day after. Then tomorrow, I'll see her."
The Celestial Bed Page 22
