"Anything you say, teacher."
"Okay. What we'll do is this. I'll stroke you to excite you to the point where you feel an orgasm about to start. When you're close to that, you tell me so—tell me to squeeze."
"How soon? When?"
"Not the second you're about to ejaculate. Maybe a half minute or so before. In fact, I'd rather retard you early, to play it safe, and then we can gradually try it closer and closer to your orgasm, maybe five seconds before emission."
"I hope I can tell you in time."
"You will," Gayle promised him. "The instant you tell me, I'll reach up to the glans, or head of your penis, with my thumb and first two fingers and squeeze rather hard just below the rim of the head, the two fingers on top and my thumb pressing the underside for four seconds. It won't hurt. You'll usually lose your erection and certainly any desire to have an orgasm. Your entire stress mechanism is reduced. You go limp. Then we start all over. I play with your penis until it's erect again. Don't worry about that. The penis can be brought to erection a dozen times or more, easily. Each time, I'll retard your orgasm by squeezing and then give you the pleasure of getting it up again. We'll set a goal today. We'll try to have you hold back for five minutes. We'll build that up to ten minutes. Our ultimate goal is fifteen minutes, to have you holding back orgasm outside or inside a woman for fifteen minutes. Want to try it?"
"Go ahead."
He'd lost a good deal of rigidity, and Gayle reached down and began to caress his abdomen and thighs, closer and closer to his genitals. Her hand closed around his testicles, and immediately his shaft began bulging, and soon it was standing straight out. She ran her fingers along it, placed her hand around it, and began to run her hand up and down.
Hunter, his eyes tight, his buttocks quivering, began to groan. "I—I can't hold it," he whimpered.
Instantly, Gayle moved her fingers on top of his penis and she squeezed.
"Oh!" he cried out.
But he did not come. The penis went soft in her hand and began to slip from her grasp.
"There, you made it, Chet," she said. "Erection, excitement, but no ejaculation."
"Okay," he said breathlessly, peering down at his limp member. "Now what?"
"Now I make you happy with your manhood, but don't let it get out of control."
Once more her fingers and hand pleasured his penis, and once more he was rigid. Again her hand stroked his shaft, and again his eyes closed tightly and he began to moan.
"I—I—I'm ready . . ." he whispered.
She squeezed hard.
No orgasm. Limp once more.
She continued repeating the exercise, each time retarding his ejaculation. But after five successful minutes of this, when he was at the peak of one more erection, she found a folded tissue, held it over the head of his penis, and continued with her hand.
This time, when he groaned, she did not squeeze. She allowed him to ejaculate all the way.
When it was over, he turned on his side. "Thank you, Gayle. That's it?"
"The beginning," she said. "To be really effective in retarding ejaculation, you'll have to do some homework."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean touching yourself."
He sat up. "Touching my—oh, you mean masturbation?"
"Exactly."
"But I don't—"
"Chet, everyone does, or at least has, at one time or another. You must have."
"When I was a kid, sure. All kids do."
"Now you're a man. I want you to do it again before our next exercise. It's so simple. Start masturbating. Then use the squeeze technique on yourself. Do it for five or more minutes, before release. Do that, and you'll save us both a lot of time. You'll get where you want to be."
"I still don't like that kind of homework. Not at my age. I can't see myself masturbating. If it were some kind of workout with a woman, I could handle it—"
"But you can't handle it with a woman yet. That's why you're here. Masturbation can get you with a woman sooner." Gayle tried to smile. "The homework could be worse. And it's free." She came to her feet, speaking to him seriously. "I'll tell you a secret. Masturbation is really the key to sex therapy. Believe me, Chet, the golden rule of sex treatment is: Do unto yourself, successfully, and you'll be able to do unto others forever." She searched his face. "Please take my word for it."
He shook his head slowly. "I want to, but I can't. I don't mind you doing it, but—"
"Chet, we can save a lot of time if you help me out. Masturbating isn't so awful."
"Well, I don't like it."
She studied him. "Chet, a man who's uncomfortable with masturbation may have a lot of work to do on himself psychologically. If you don't agree with me, go ask Dr. Freeberg."
"I intend to."
"I'll be waiting to hear what you find out."
Dr. Freeberg had been listening to Chet Hunter, and now he began to nod. "Basically, what Miss Miller advised you is correct. Perhaps she phrased it a bit dramatically in stating that masturbation is the key to sex therapy. I might be inclined to put it another way. Masturbation is a valuable exercise in conjunction with pleasuring and other therapeutic procedures. Why do you object to it so strongly?"
"Because lying around at home and jerking off by myself —I don't like it—"
"Why?" Freeberg persisted.
"It tells me again I can't make out with a woman."
"And intensifies your sense of failure?"
"I suppose so."
"I wonder if that's all, if your resistance to the idea didn't start much earlier? You say you masturbated when you were a youngster. How did your parents feel about it?"
Hunter sat up. "My God, I wouldn't have thought of telling them!"
"Ah, then even in your childhood you had the belief that masturbation was wrong, and that if your father and mother learned about it, they would disapprove. So you must have already known about their negative attitude toward masturbation."
"Now that you mention it . . . . Yes, I guess I did know it was considered a bad thing. I must have heard my parents at some time say it was a bad thing and unhealthy." Hunter reflected on this briefly. "My parents are hard-shell Baptists. They would have the notion that masturbation could lead to mental illness of some sort, even to insanity. I must have picked up on that."
"But at this time," said Freeberg, "you must know different. You must know there is not a shred of scientific evidence that masturbation can harm you."
Hunter agreed. "I'm aware of that. I've done a lot of research for my own writing, so I've learned that. But I guess I'm still tied down by the fears of my childhood."
"Well, childhood fears shouldn't inhibit you any longer. The old Kinsey report discovered that ninety-four percent of all men masturbate at one time or another. A more recent study shows that nearly one hundred percent of all males have masturbated at some time. I don't mind telling you that I've masturbated."
"You mean when you were a kid?" Hunter interjected.
Freeberg shook his head. "Not only when I was a kid. In more recent years, when my wife was away and I was under tension and needed relief."
Hunter blinked. "You're pretty honest, I will say."
"And pretty normal," added Freeberg. "Mr. Hunter, trust me when I tell you that masturbation isn't a sin. In your case, when we're trying to retard prematurity, it can be a virtue. Masturbation, with Miss Miller doing it for you, with you doing it for yourself, can lay the foundation for teaching a man to control himself. I'd suggest you follow Miss Miller's advice. At home, masturbate yourself to erection, and ten seconds before ejaculation, use the squeeze method."
"That's another thing I don't like," said Hunter. "I can accept it when a young woman prevents my premature ejaculation. But I don't like to do it to myself."
"Well, there's something else you might do that can be equally effective."
"Oh, yeah? What?"
"The surrogates call it the stop-and-start method. Therapists call it the Semans
procedure, after urologist James Semans, who began to use it in 1956. You stimulate yourself almost to the point of ejaculation, then stop cold and wait until your arousal subsides and your erection goes down, and then you repeat it, stop, and then start again."
"At that point, I'm afraid I couldn't stop, couldn't hold it in," Hunter confessed unhappily.
"Then go back to the squeeze method. Disagreeable as you may find it, you will always find it effective."
"I suppose if I can let her do it to me, I could somehow do it to myself."
"That's better. When you go home tonight, try it. If you are slow in getting aroused, look at something you consider erotic or pornographic . . ."
"You mean like those frontal nudity shots in the girlie magazines?"
"Exactly. Look at them, and fantasize, until you are ready for your orgasm. Don't worry about losing your erection. The erections you can have at your age are countless. You won't run out of them. Once you terminate an erection, stroke yourself until you have a new one. Do this five or six times tonight, and tomorrow resume it with Gayle Miller. Will you do it?"
"If you think it'll help me make out with a woman."
"Gayle Miller has promised you it will lead to normal intercourse. I can almost guarantee it." Freeberg rose and put out his hand. "Good luck, Mr. Hunter."
"Can't we do this together?" Nan Whitcomb asked.
She was lying on Brandon's bed, propped on an elbow, watching him take off his trousers and then shed his briefs.
"Together?"
"The non-demand genital pleasuring."
Naked, Brandon sat down on the bed, puzzled. "To be honest with you, Nan, I don't know. I only know the standard practice. You lie back, close your eyes, relax, and I caress you from head to toe. After that, you do it to me."
"But doing it together is the same thing. Aren't you permitted to do some things differently sometimes?"
"I suppose so, as long as we stick within the parameters of the exercise. Actually, Dr. Freeberg wants us to be fairly flexible when something innovative is called for."
"Then let's touch each other at the same time."
Brandon was still hesitant. "Any reason for that?"
"I don't know. It's just something that might feel good. I mean, when you touch me, and after that, separately I caress you, it's sort of like two things apart—not entirely, but somewhat. I'd like to have simultaneous contact with a man."
"Well, why not?" said Brandon suddenly. He had a few misgivings, unspoken, but the exercise seemed reasonable enough. "I'll lie down beside you. We'll both shut our eyes. I'll caress you, and yes, you can caress me, doing to me what I'm doing to you."
For a few moments she searched his face. "You're sure you don't mind, Paul?"
"I'll enjoy it," he said with a smile.
He dropped down next to her, maneuvered himself closer until their bare hips touched. He saw her close her eyes. He reached toward her head, then closed his own eyes and began passing his fingers through her hair, around her ear, down her cheek, along her neck.
At the same time, he felt her warm fingers on his face, imitating his own caressing.
Gradually, he slid his hand down to her breasts, cupping them lightly. They were soft except for her nipples, which had hardened. As he did this, he felt her fingers on his chest, rubbing the hair on his chest, rubbing his nipples, because she had not forgotten that this could be an erogenous zone for a male as well.
They continued their stroking, until fifteen or twenty minutes had passed. At last his free hand inched down until it could feel the upper rim of her pubic hair. It was when she was about to do the same to him that his major misgiving surfaced. For he knew that he had a growing erection. Once her fingers reached it, he was concerned about his control.
Just as he felt the bud of her clitoris under his touch, he also felt her fingers encircle his hard penis.
It would take Spartan effort to hold himself in check, and he knew it would be difficult because he knew that he was swelling and rising toward an orgasm.
With greater rapidity, his fingers massaged her clitoris. A sound escaped her lips, and her strangled words broke the silence. "Oh, my . . . my, don't—don't stop!" Then her voice cracked, "Keep going!"
His massaging became more intense but so did his own desire for an orgasm in her hand.
"Ohhh!" she cried out, and as she did so, her torso arched and shook, and her fingers gripping his penis tightened hard around it.
At once, all desire to have an orgasm ceased within him. Involuntarily, she had applied the squeeze technique. "I'm coming," she choked out.
He nodded dumbly in their self-imposed darkness. "Good," he heard himself starting to say. "Good." He was grateful to her that she had accidentally prevented him from letting go.
When they both sat up, their eyes open now, she was instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry, Paul. I couldn't help myself."
"You did absolutely nothing wrong. I think Dr. Freeberg would agree it was beneficial for you, for your therapy. You loosened up, let go—"
"Fully," she filled in. "First time."
"And that can only be helpful."
She looked down at him. "You didn't get much pleasure out of it."
"All that I needed. It was, after all, a non-demand exercise."
In his mind, he questioned the surrogate use of "non-demand." He supposed the usage was technically correct. It meant the man did not have to perform, could just absorb pleasuring, as well as give it back, with no sexual demand on him. This time, he had wanted to respond, and been able to, in a sense. It was something he must talk out with Freeberg. But then he realized that it was nothing he need discuss. Because deep inside he knew that while it had been Nan's hand pleasuring his penis, his mind had fantasized that it was Gayle Miller who had been stimulating and exciting him.
He saw Nan strapping on her gold watch. "A gift from Tony," she said, "for my birthday he forgot about. I'll have to leave soon. He'll be home for dinner."
"This early?"
"He likes to eat early, watch some television, and go to bed. I hate to go to bed early."
"You mean because you hate what happens when you go to bed. What are you going to do about it tonight?"
"I'm going to try to fight him off." She hesitated. "Paul, I've still got ten minutes before putting my clothes on and leaving. Do you mind if we just lie here together?"
"That would be nice."
After they lay back against the pillows, Nan turned her head to him. "Paul, would you hold me? I mean, put your arms around me?"
"I'd like to."
He slid an arm under her bare back and embraced her closely, letting her protruding breasts flatten against his chest.
"You're wonderful," she whispered, "the most wonderful man I ever met. Don't get upset if I kiss you. I'd like to kiss you."
He brought her face to his and pressed his lips to hers, and meant to keep it at that. But her moist mouth had opened, and her tongue darted out, into his mouth, searching for his tongue. When the French kiss was done, he gently pushed them apart as she whispered, "I really adore you."
He could not answer because this worried him.
Shortly after, she hastily dressed. Examining her hair and features in the mirror, to make sure there were no telltale signs, she carefully combed her hair and made up her face. During this she spoke only once.
"What do we do next time, Paul?"
He swallowed. "Penetration. First attempt."
She smiled down at him. "It'll work," she said. "I'm sure it will."
With that, she left the bedroom.
Nan returned to the house only minutes before Tony Zecca arrived from work.
The dinner was already on the table when Tony lumbered off to take his ritual pee and wash his hands before dinner. She went into her own bathroom to soap and wash her hands, then came back to join him across the table.
He was already in his place, gorging himself on a rare steak like a cannibal. Picking at her own dish
, she cast him a covert look that mingled both distaste and fear.
"You're giving me a lot of trouble, babe," Zecca said, chewing hard on his steak, then halting to clear a hiccup with a swallow of beer.
"How?"
"By being fucking absent all the time. I hired a cashier and wound up with a fucking prima donna. You're costing me a goddamn fortune with all the part-time help I got to hire to replace you while you go running off to some goddamn doctor. The new girl at the register, the spick, is worse than the nigger one."
"Costing you what?" she said, her annoyance surfacing. "You pay them almost zero. You're using slave labor."
She hated him, among other things, for his vicious references to blacks and Hispanics.
"They steal from me, from the register," he growled, chomping at another piece of steak. "They're all goddamn crooks."
Look who's talking, she wanted to shout. She wondered how he'd ever survived Vietnam. She didn't mean how he'd survived fighting against the Vietcong. She meant how he'd ever escaped being killed in the field by one of his fellow infantrymen, black or Hispanic, that he'd abused with his racist remarks. But maybe when they had all carried equal weapons, he had kept his mouth clamped shut and his attitudes to himself.
"They're not all crooks," Nan managed to say.
"What in the hell do you know? Anyway, thank Christ that's coming to an end tomorrow. You see that you're back on the job at nine sharp."
"I can't, Tony."
"What?"
"I have an appointment with the doctor."
"Goddammit, no way!" he roared, slamming his open palm on the table, making his empty plate dance. "I told you that you could go to that fucking doctor one more time —one more shot—and that was today."
"And I told you he has to see me for a week or two more. I told you that."
"Not on your life!" Zecca bellowed. "Why is that fucker dragging you out to see him every day? To pile up more bills?"
"Tony, stop it. I won't have that kind of talk. This is one of the best gynecologists in the profession. He has to see me a week or two more—he'll decide how much longer tomorrow. I'm still not in shape . . ."
The Celestial Bed Page 17