The Celestial Bed

by Irving Wallace

  His work had been unclear to her—and in a way, still was. Two years ago he had founded, and still ran, something called the Acme Research Bureau. He was a full-time researcher, he had explained, digging up facts from countless sources for freelance writers, graduate students, magazines, newspapers. He worked on an hourly pay basis, poor pay, set barely at subsistence level, earning just enough to keep him in food, clothing, and a three-room apartment. She wondered what he researched and for whom. Just everything imaginable—who the only bachelor U.S. president was, for a political candidate; what the second highest mountain in the world was, for a travel writer; how advanced the process of cloning was, for a medical magazine; how many reported rapes there had been in Hillsdale and Los Angeles last year, for a Hillsdale attorney . . . She asked how he found his answers, and he explained that he did so by checking books in the library, corresponding with experts, interviewing specialists—why, he had even studied and trained to become a police reservist in the Hillsdale Police Force, to get closer to law enforcement material for many of his clients.

  "A police reservist?" Suzy had wondered. "Whatever is that?"

  "A part-time auxiliary policeman, a reserve police officer, the way a National Guardsman is a part-time soldier," Hunter had explained. "The police force needs added manpower. They take volunteers. Not easy to become a reservist. You're tested by a physician, then a psychiatrist, and if accepted you go to the Hillsdale Police Academy three nights a week for almost five months. Only two out of fifty of us graduated. At first I was a technical reservist, doing indoor work like taking reports at the police station. Then I studied for the line reserve and was trained in everything from use of firearms to criminal law. I wound up with a blue uniform and badge, a .38 Smith & Wesson pistol, handcuffs, and the rest. I work two eight-hour shifts a month and get fifteen dollars a month as pay. But I don't care about the pay. It's the firsthand research I'm interested in."

  "You did all that for research?"

  Hunter had considered Suzy's question. "Actually, there was another reason I went through it," Hunter had told her. "You see, this researching is only a stopgap, to keep me going until I can get what I want."

  "What do you want, Chet?"

  "I'm a born journalist, and I want to be one full-time. My one ambition now is to be a staff reporter on the Hillsdale Daily Chronicle. That's what I really want, really dream about. In fact, that's why I went through the whole heavy business of becoming a police reservist, to help get a lead on a big story and recognize it when it comes along. Otto Ferguson, he's the editor in chief at the Chronicle, he's not sure I'm ready yet. He feels I have to prove myself. So I keep trying and waiting, hoping for that big one. If I ever get it, I'm positive Ferguson will take me on." At this point, he had halted, embarrassed. "Forgive me, Suzy, for running off at the mouth like this. I haven't even asked you what you do. Are you an actress or something like that?"

  She had blushed. "Of course not. I just took a job as a medical secretary."

  "You could be, an actress, I mean."

  Two nights later they had dated more formally. Suzy really liked him. He was the most interesting and darling man she had ever met. She had suspected he liked her, too. The night after that, after dinner, she had asked to see some examples of his work. She had gone up to his three-room apartment, and after two vodkas on the rocks, she had gone to bed with him.

  In fact, since then she had gone to bed with him twice more, most recently last night.

  She had definitely fallen in love with him, but there was also definitely a problem.

  She felt more certain than ever that it could be overcome. She lifted the phone and dialed his number, hoping he was in.

  He answered the phone. "Hello . . ."

  "Hi, Chet. It's Suzy."

  "Suzy, why I—"

  "Chet," she said quickly, "if you're free tonight, I'd like to come over and see you for a little while."

  "You mean that? Of course I'm free. Gee, Suzy, I guess I didn't expect to hear from you again after last night. You know how much I want to see you."

  "Don't be silly. I want to see you, too. Can I come over to your place after dinner? Say, maybe between nine and nine thirty?"

  "I can't wait, Suzy. I'll be looking forward."

  After hanging up, she sat there staring at the phone. She thought, I'll be looking forward too. Tonight was important, really important. Her whole future was at stake.

  Gayle Miller, her legs tucked under her, sat on the couch she had shipped from Tucson and sewed a button on her blue cashmere sweater.

  The electric clock, set on the mantel of the fireplace across the small but cozy living room of her newly leased bungalow in Hillsdale, registered a few minutes before seven o'clock in the evening.

  If he weren't too frightened, Adam Demski, her very first patient in Hillsdale, should be arriving in a few minutes.

  Her mind held only the vaguest picture of him, although she had met with him and with Dr. Freeberg for nearly an hour after the surrogate meeting this afternoon. She retained the impression of a slender, tallish, slightly hunched man, maybe forty, with a hangdog expression, a cadaver type of narrow, sunken countenance, a tentative person in every way, with his concern over a small penis. Two women, a new girlfriend and then a prostitute, had mocked him for it. So he had been unable to get it up after that. Not up at all. He had buried himself in his work, accountancy in Chicago, and avoided women socially. Had tried dating a few who were kinder, but that hadn't helped. His penis had remained flaccid. And recently, his work, or rather his attitude toward it, had become flaccid, too. It was then that he had consulted a psychoanalyst, but verbalizing had not solved his erectile problem. Determined to help him, the psychoanalyst had referred Adam to Dr. Freeberg. Now Adam Demski was in Hillsdale to be resurrected among the living.

  The doorbell rang.

  Hastily, Gayle gathered her sweater and sewing kit together, stuffed them into the drawer of the end table beside the sofa, then stood up and appraised herself in the wall mirror. She fluffed her hair a little, otherwise, everything was in place.

  She went to the front door and opened it.

  A pale youngish man, somewhat taller than she remembered, and thinner, stood there under the yellow porch light. "I—I'm Adam Demski," he said, his voice constricted. "I don't know if you remember."

  "Of course I remember." Cheerfully, she put out her hand. "And in case you forgot, I'm Gayle Miller. We have a date. I hoped you wouldn't stand me up."

  "I wouldn't," he muttered, pausing there, staring at her, not yet taking her hand.

  Gayle was used to this, the standing and staring, because it had happened to her before. This happened, she guessed, because the patients had formed their own mental image of what a sex surrogate would look like. In Dr. Freeberg's office, Demski had scarcely looked at her. Probably he expected someone more hardened and professional, and least of all a fresh, clean, soft all-American girl, one who might actually be a date.

  She pushed forward her hand again, and this time he took it in a brief handshake. Her hand went up to the sleeve covering his forearm. "Come in. Do come in," she said, drawing him into the living room. "It's so good to see you."

  He stood in the middle of the living room, a bit bewildered. What had he expected? she wondered. A red satin bordello?

  "It's—it's very nice," he said. "Homey."

  "Oh, it's not really decorated yet," she said. "I just rented it and arranged some of my own furniture that came from Arizona—the sofa, the chairs, and the bed are old pieces. But I've been shopping. More will be coming in next week. Look, make yourself comfortable. You can take off your jacket, loosen your tie if you'd like." She gestured toward the couch. "Have a seat. I was about to heat up some water for my tea. Would you like a cup? Or maybe coffee or a soft drink?"

  "Whatever you're having, Miss—Miss Miller."

  "Gayle," she said. "Let's be friends, Adam. I'm Gayle from now on."

  Awkwardly, he sat down, then rem
embered to loosen his tie as she went into the kitchen.

  Minutes later she emerged with a tray bearing two cups of tea and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. He had taken off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the couch. He was thumbing the pages of the latest Vogue disinterestedly.

  Gayle settled down on the couch, not too close to him, and handed him his cup of tea. She noticed his hand trembled as he took it.

  "You're from Chicago, I recall," she said.

  "Born there," he told her.

  "Where in Chicago? I've been there a few times."

  "North side."

  "You live alone?"

  "Yes. I have an apartment."

  "You have many women friends?"

  He shook his head. "No. Not now. I'm very busy."

  Gayle sipped her tea. "What do you do when you're not busy, Adam?"

  "I don't know. Catch up on my reading. Catch up on movies. I belong to a videotape club. On Sundays, in season, I sometimes go to football games with some fellows from the office."

  She considered how much she could push him. "Do you have any time for a social life, Adam?"

  He blinked at her. "I—I don't know what you mean. You mean girls?"

  "Do you go to parties? Meet women? See women for dinner?"

  He gulped his tea and put down his empty cup. "I used to. Not much. I hardly do that at all anymore." He looked at Gayle sideways, tried to hold on her. "You—you know I have a problem. You were there when Dr. Freeberg discussed it. You know my problem."

  She nodded. "Of course. Maybe half the men in this country have problems in that area; only they repress them, won't face them." She wasn't sure of her statistics, but it sounded right.

  "Really?" he said. "Well, I guess I wouldn't discuss it either, for a long time. But when I realized it was affecting my work—I wasn't concentrating on my regular accounts, not going after new ones—I thought maybe there was a connection."

  "You were right, Adam. There is a connection. If you are having sexual difficulties, it affects not only your love life but your entire life, the way you relate to people and to your career."

  "I was having more—more trouble," he said. "I was having trouble sleeping. But I was too ashamed to try to get help until a fellow in the office mentioned a great analyst he was sending his son to. Well, I went, and this analyst, he helped me open up, speak about the problem, and finally recommended I go to California for a month to see Dr. Freeberg." He gave a shrug. "So here I am. I—I'm not sure anything can be done."

  "Well, you were smart and gutsy enough to try. And, Adam, I assure you something can be done. If you work with Dr. Freeberg and me, go along with us, and don't get discouraged, I'm certain you won't know your old self in a month—less than a month. You'll be a brand-new person. You'll be wanting women all the time, and they'll be wanting you, again and again."

  "It's hard to believe. You've done it for other men?"

  "A number of times. With patients far worse off than you. Dr. Freeberg and I have never failed."

  "When do we get started?" Demski blurted out, his chalky pallor more evident.

  "Now. Right now if you feel relaxed."

  "I guess I'm as relaxed as I'll ever be." There was a slight tic beside his right eye. He swallowed. "Do I—do I undress now?"

  "No, Adam," she said seriously. "That would be rushing it. In due time, when we're ready, we'll both undress. Right now, some simple exercises, fully clothed, but important exercises. One is called the hand caress. The other, the face caress. We can start with the hand caress."

  "Hand caress," he said. "What's that?"

  "Exactly what the name implies. I'm going to focus on your two hands, focus on touching them, rubbing them, feeling them, to give you relaxation, a sense of pleasure, a minimal sense of intimacy. Adam, I'd like to sit closer to you to start this. Do you mind?"

  "Of course not. Whatever you have to do, just do it."

  Gayle lifted herself off the couch, narrowed the gap between them, and eased onto a cushion beside him, her thigh barely touching his. "It's a two-way thing, Adam. I'll take your hands first, because I want to demonstrate the exercise. I'll ask you not to talk, and I won't talk, either. I'll ask you to keep your eyes closed. I don't want any visual input confusing you."

  Demski was clearly puzzled. "Visual input confusing me? How could that happen?"

  Gayle thought of how she might explain the necessity for him to keep his eyes shut. Then she remembered something. "I think I can give you an example of what I mean," she said. "When I was in training in Tucson, learning to become a surrogate, Dr. Freeberg found me a male partner to work with while Dr. Freeberg guided me. Well, the first time my partner and I were nude, I was struck by how handsome and well built my partner was. Although Dr. Freeberg was trying to show me the point of sensate focus —concentrating on a back caress—I paid little attention because I wouldn't shut my eyes but kept staring at my good-looking partner, or at least what I could see of him. Dr. Freeberg noticed what I was doing. Immediately, he pulled out his large handkerchief, folded it, and blindfolded me so that I would stop focusing on the wrong thing and get in touch with my feelings about the caressing. Dr. Freeberg succeeded in doing that by shutting my eyes for me. Now you can realize the importance of that, Adam, can't you?"

  "I—I think so."

  "Something else to know. When I start touching you, it'll be for my own pleasure. When I'm doing that, I'm doing it for my own sake and therefore not putting pressure on you or on me to perform. I'm doing it for pleasure rather than performance. The effect of the touching is that it feels good, first for me, then for you. Good lovemaking is first loving yourself and then learning to share that love with another. Once you can learn to share your love for yourself, then you're on your way. Does that make any sense?"

  "I'm not sure."

  She realized further talk, at this stage, would do little good. Only through demonstration would she be able to define better what she had been trying to explain. "I think that as we proceed, it will become clearer to you and will make sense. The place to begin, I repeat, is the hand caress.

  "Right now, I want you to sit back and be comfortable and let me take your hands. When I'm through, I'll tell you, and then I want you to do exactly the same thing to me. You understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Sit back now, go limp, shut your eyes, give me your hands."

  Demski did as he was told, shifting toward her slightly, extending his hands, which were trembling once more. Gayle took his hands and placed them in her lap. His fingers were long, knobby, the nails manicured. She released his left hand and cupped his entire right hand in her own.

  "In your mind, just focus on the temperature of my hands on yours and how it feels when I stroke you. Now we'll be quiet."

  Softly, her warm fingers stroked upward across his fingers and the smooth back of his hand to the hairs at his wrist. Gradually, she stroked downward, between the crevice separating his thumb and forefinger, between his bony fingers, then she slowly kneaded his entire hand. Slowly, she turned his hand over, palm upward, and resumed her light stroking and caresses.

  Not until his right hand was limp and warm did she take his left hand in hers and begin to massage it on both sides.

  Then she took both his hands together inside her own and cupped them warmly, moving her fingers, rubbing, stroking, kneading.

  After perhaps twenty minutes she lowered his hands to her lap and released them.

  "All right, Adam, you can open your eyes now, and we can talk a little." She met his eyes. "How was that—how did it feel?"

  "I don't know exactly. What can I say? It felt sort of good."

  Gayle moved her fingers over his left hand. "Were you aware of the different feelings when I touched your hand in different places? Did you feel pressures here on this bump, there on that crevice?"

  "Sure, it was nice."

  Gayle slipped one of her hands under his. "Okay, do the same hand caress to me. Close y
our eyes, and I'll close mine, and you do it to me the way I did it to you. For as long as you wish."

  After a brief hesitation, Demski began to rub and squeeze her hands. He continued to do so with more and more intensity.

  Nearly ten minutes had gone by when Gayle laced her fingers between his and stopped him. "Okay, Adam, that's fine. You can look at me. How did it feel? Did you get any special feeling from it?"

  "Well, I guess so. It was sort of—sort of—" He couldn't find the right word.

  Gayle tried to find it for him.

  "Sensuous, maybe?"

  "Yes, that's it."

  "There was more," Gayle said professionally. "Did my hands feel soft or weak or firm to you? Did you notice I had even the tiniest callus? Were you conscious of my fingernails, that they're not too long but they have nail polish on them? And the backs of my hands—were they smooth or chapped? To most people a hand is a hand is a hand, something to eat with, write with, shake with. But there's a lot more there. The purpose of this exercise, Adam, is to develop and heighten your sense of discrimination and focus. I want you to know more about your body, and my own. I want you to know shape and texture. Because if you do, you'll start creating pictures in your head, and the more sensual pictures you create, the more alive you're going to feel."

  "I had sensual pictures doing it."

  "Excellent," said Gayle. "The ridges of our hands, the smoothness of them, their texture, that can make you aware of yourself and of me as human beings. We get too accustomed to ourselves and others. But as we do more touching, you'll realize the richness and variations about your body and mine. You'll know how different it is when you touch the hairline of my neck, then the hairline of my groin. You'll stop being turned off from your body, and you'll become more alert and awake to every sensuous experience. Like the face caress. That should be next, and we have time."

  "What is it?" Demski asked worriedly.

  "Just touching each other's faces, the various parts of our faces in different ways, feeling the bone structure, the skin, the fuzz. I've always thought the face caress an exquisite experience. Some patients have told me it reminds them of when they were children, the tender way they were touched then, but they haven't been touched that way by anyone since. Let's try it, Adam. First, me to you, then you to me. Now shut your eyes."