An Intimate Life

by Cheryl T. Cohen Greene

  “Good. Really good.”

  I went around the coronal ridge, which is located at the very edge of the head of the penis and asked him how that felt compared with the other areas I had touched.

  “Not as sensitive as the one before.”

  “The frenulum?”

  “Yeah, the frenulum is more sensitive.”

  Brian’s penis was starting to stiffen. I held it with my left hand and made three strokes up and down on the right, middle, and left just below the head. I did the same at the middle of his penis and just before the base. I asked Brian for feedback at each section and he told me that being touched on the right side just below the head of his penis felt best.

  I did the same movement on the right, middle, and left of the scrotum and asked Brian to tell me how each area felt. I ran my finger along his perineum. Then I traced the Raphe line, the seam that forms when the fetus differentiates into a male, and runs from just below the head of the penis to the scrotum. Like many men who are circumcised, Brian’s Raphe line was crooked and veered right. Brian told me that his perineum was more sensitive on his right than anywhere on his Raphe line.

  Brian’s breathing started to quicken and I asked him to close his eyes.

  I smoothed a little lubricant on my hands. I closed my fingers loosely around the base of his penis and twisted my wrist as I moved my hand upward toward the head. I did this spiraling motion first with my right hand and then with my left. I asked him if one felt better than the other. He said that he felt more excited when I used my left.

  Brian was fully erect and his scrotum tightened. I asked him to take a few deep breaths and then I led him on a scan of his body so he could identify and loosen tight muscles. “It’s natural to tense up with arousal, especially in the abdomen, butt, and thighs, but letting go will help you prolong this feeling you have now,” I said.

  I snatched one of the tissues that lay next to my thigh and wiped away the lube.

  “Now I’m going to use my mouth,” I said.

  I bent further at my waist and took his penis into my mouth. I arched my knees slightly to make it easier to bend. Because Brian’s legs were over mine, they raised a little as I did this and he tensed up.

  “Relax your legs onto mine. Let me do the work here,” I said.

  He released his muscles and his legs rested loosely on mine.

  I swirled my tongue around the shaft and the head. I could feel it against the roof of my mouth. I withdrew so that my lips pouted around the head of his penis. Then I released my lips.

  “How does that feel?”

  “Good,” Brian took a deep breath. “Great, actually.”

  “Did you prefer the oral or hand stimulation?”

  “Oral.”

  I sat up so that my back made a straight line. This is the point in the exercise in which I stop exploring the client and reflect on what we have discovered. Together, Brian and I gained a lot of knowledge about where his body was most reactive and sensitive to stimulation.

  “I just learned a lot about where you like to be touched. Your frenulum, your perineum, the right side of your penis—these are all very sensitive areas for you. You also really responded to oral stimulation and liked it when I swirled my left hand down your penis. That’s a lot to work with.”

  I asked Brian if he was comfortable and if he needed to use the bathroom or wanted a break. When he said he was okay, I asked if he was ready to explore me, and he nodded.

  I slipped my legs out from underneath Brian’s. A layer of sweat had collected between us and my legs glided out easily. I placed them on top of his, so that our legs continued to make a V shape, but mine were on top now.

  I handed Brian the mirror and asked him to turn it to the magnifying side.

  With my fingers I spread my large labia so that the rest of my vulva came fully into view.

  “So, if you take the mirror and position it right about here you’ll be able to get a good look,” I said, pointing to a spot on the bed. “I’ll take you on a tour of my vulva.”

  I put a little lube on my finger.

  Starting at the top of my vulva, I pointed out my clitoral hood, my clitoris, and my small labia. Then I noted my urethral opening. Brian asked if it was sensitive. I answered that I don’t enjoy having it stimulated, but that’s not true of all women, so always ask a partner. I also reminded him to wash his hands before touching his partner’s genitals so he didn’t introduce bacteria and to be sure that his fingernails were cut short with no rough or sharp edges.

  I pointed to just below my urethral opening and said that my G-spot is on the other side of this. “It’s on the periurethral sponge, just about an inch inside on the roof of my vagina.”

  I showed him the vestibule, the area just before the vaginal opening and noted my hymenal remnants, which look like four raggedy skin tags located on the top and bottom of the vestibule. Then I inserted my finger into the opening.

  I took my finger out and moved it along my perineum.

  Brian was breathing heavily and I saw that his scrotum had moved up closer to his body. His penis leaked pre-come. I asked him how he felt. “Good, but a little scared,” he said. When I asked why, he told me that he was afraid he was going to come too soon because he hadn’t been with a woman for so long. It had been two years since he had last had intercourse and his attempts had ended in frustration. I reminded him that he had stayed fully hard for about fifteen minutes now, longer than he had in a while. Then we took a few deep inhalations. I asked him to release any tension in his abdomen, butt, and thighs on the exhale. His erection relaxed, and we moved on. I invited him to put a little lube on his fingers and to start exploring me.

  I lifted my clitoral hood and asked him to touch my clitoris. “Mmmm . . . that feels really nice. Some women find direct touch too intense, but I like it. It’s a good idea to start on the side of the clitoral hood and ask your partner if she likes to have her clitoris touched. She may not in the beginning, but that may change as she gets more aroused. Start with a light touch and then ask your partner to tell you how much pressure she likes. It’s best to explore with lubrication, either natural or something bought.”

  I was starting to become aroused. I felt my butt and abdomen tighten and a flush of heat spread through my body. I took some deep breaths and released my muscles.

  Brian moved his finger around the curve of my small labia. “That feels really nice, especially on the left side.”

  I asked Brian to insert his finger into me up until the first knuckle and to curl it up toward the roof of my vagina. “You’re on my G-spot now. Mine is not as sensitive as my clitoris, but it still feels good to have it stimulated.”

  Brian explored me with his finger a little deeper, and I started to lubricate more. He moved his finger in and out slowly. “I’m noticing that I feel more on the right than on the left,” I said. He eased his finger in deeper, until he reached my cervix. He asked what it was, and I told him. Then he asked if I liked having my cervix touched. I told him I didn’t, but some women do, so always ask a partner how it feels to her. Brian eased his finger out. I took it, led it along my perineum, and told him how sensitive it is.

  Then Brian closed his hand around the shaft of his penis and moved it quickly up and down. When he thought he was going to come, he stopped and did some deep breathing. He smoothed on some lubricant and then wrapped his hand around his penis again. He moved up and down more slowly for a few minutes and then picked up the pace. He cried “oh, oh, oh” and came. He leaned his head back against the pillows, his arms flopping out to the side.

  “Brian, how do you feel?”

  “Good.”

  He dropped his head to his right shoulder. He closed his eyes and his breathing became slow and even. I thought he was sleeping, until he said, “And not guilty.”

  I told him what tremendous progress this was and added that he now had a valuable skill at his disposal. “You are in complete control. If you want to prolong arousal and pleasure
more before climax you can. It’s up to you how long you want arousal to last.”

  Our fourth session was a turning point for Brian. It was the first time he had been able to masturbate himself to orgasm in over two years, and it was the only time he had done it with someone else present.

  Like talk therapy, progress in surrogacy work is rarely linear. Often, we take two steps forward and one back. As a surrogate, I’m concerned that we move toward healing, and I expect to double back at times. This was the case with Brian. We began our fifth session with him telling me how he had once again begun to have difficulty maintaining an erection. “Frustrated, incredibly frustrated,” he said when I asked him how he felt. I reminded him that overall he had made tremendous strides and assured him that setbacks are not uncommon. “Try to be patient and compassionate with yourself. You’re doing great. One setback doesn’t negate all of the work you’ve done,” I said.

  In our remaining three sessions we did a number of other exercises. Brian pulled out of his slump and continued to improve. When he returned for his seventh appointment, he told me that he had been able to bring himself to orgasm several times.

  At our last session he celebrated a month of guilt-free, satisfying masturbation and he told me about a wonderful woman he was seeing that Saturday night.

  “I wasn’t afraid to ask her out,” Brian said.

  “Fantastic! That’s really great, Brian.”

  It is immeasurably rewarding to see a client become more confident and better able to connect with others in what I always hope will be a satisfying and loving way.

  “Brian, I want you to know that if you ever have any questions or need some encouragement you’re always free to call me.”

  Brian and I hugged.

  “You’re wonderful. Don’t forget it,” I said as he walked to the door.

  Whenever I see a client overcome the kind of issue that Brian struggled with, I make it a point to note how far he has come and how much he has changed. For many years before I became a surrogate, I had to remind myself of the same.

  4.

  sex maniac

  In my freshman year at Salem High School I came down with the kind of flu that I thought for sure was a preview of my afterlife if I didn’t curb my nightly sinning. My throat was so sore and inflamed that I could barely swallow. Both of my ears were plugged up and I was chilled even beneath two quilts. When I coughed it felt like steel wool was scraping out the lining of my throat. Getting out of bed to go to the bathroom exhausted me. No way could I drag myself to school. As a result I missed the first week of October, and when I returned I had a pile of catch-up work to do.

  On my first day back, I went up to a second-story science classroom to retake a lab. As I approached the door, a few lanky members of the basketball team stood chatting in the hall. At fourteen, I was self-conscious and shy. I would have never dared to talk to them. I might have been a teenage raconteur with my girlfriends, but around boys I became timid.

  My outgoing personality may have masked it, but I harbored deep insecurities about my appearance. I didn’t think I was pretty enough and I had plenty of complaints about my body, starting with breasts that I thought were too floppy. I wanted the ones that stuck out like rosebuds. When I compared myself to some of the prettier girls in school or the movie stars of the time, I came out painfully short. Around these high school jocks I instantly felt hyperconscious of my physical flaws.

  One of the boys milling around the hall was a good-looking guy with short blond hair and blue-grey eyes. I walked past them and knocked on the door to the classroom, but no one answered. I waited a few seconds and knocked again. Nothing. Just then the cute guy walked over and knocked on the wall and, almost instantly, the teacher came to the door and let me in. “See?” he said, and flashed a bright smile. “Thanks,” I said, wondering who the hunk with the magic knock was.

  In those days dances were a popular social event. In the last week of October I attended the Freshman Frolic, which was held every fall in the gym at Salem High School. When I walked in Ritchie Valens’s “Come on, Let’s Go” was on the jukebox and a group of my friends were standing on the rim of the dance floor, sipping Cokes, laughing, and bopping to the music. Becky had on a teal strapless taffeta dress with a wide skirt and white high heels. Marcie wore an emerald green pencil skirt and a white collared shirt with a sweetheart neckline. I wore a red dress with a fitted bodice and a pleated skirt. In retrospect I think I probably looked pretty good, but at the time all I could feel was self-conscious about not being pretty enough, not sophisticated enough—not anything enough, except maybe for fat. I was definitely fat enough. Never mind that I was a normal weight; like many young women, I still considered myself too fat. I chatted for a few minutes and then I saw him. Actually, I think I saw her first. Judy Tolton walked by hand in hand with the guy from the hallway outside of science class. She had a chain around her neck with a ring dangling from it. “Hi Judy, hi Bill,” Becky said when she saw them. So, now I knew his name. Of course, I also knew that he was going steady with the snootiest girl in town, and I guess I could see why. Judy Tolton, who had been in Miss Duffy’s Dancing School with me for years but barely spoke a word to me, was gorgeous. She had lustrous beige-blonde hair that hung down to the middle of her back and pouty lips. She also had a slim waist and long legs. But what a snob! My heart sank. I slunk away to get a Coke. Since seeing Bill that day outside of my science classroom I had lost myself in fantasies that we would become a couple and that he would fall madly, hopelessly in love with me. It made me feel giddy with excitement. Now I just felt like a fool. I was only thankful that I had kept my longings secret. He was Judy Tolton’s boyfriend. Judy Tolton, the girl everyone wanted to look like.

  A few weeks later, when I had pretty much dismissed my fantasies of being Bill’s dream girl, my friend Angela told me about Teen Town. Teen Town sprouted up every Saturday night at the Salem YMCA. You could dance, play pool or ping-pong, or just hang out. “It’s so much fun. You’ve got to go,” Angela said. When Saturday night finally arrived I put on a jersey dress, a bolero jacket, and pair of dressy suede flats. My stomach fluttered with nerves. The kids who went to Teen Town came from both the public and Catholic high schools and from all grades. At the time, mingling with seventeen-year-old seniors seemed pretty special. After all, they were within inches of adulthood and I was just out of grammar school. I checked myself for probably the tenth time in the mirror, got into my dad’s car, and within a few minutes we were at Teen Town.

  I scanned the room for my friends, and when I didn’t see them I bought a Coke and sat down at one of the empty tables. Did anyone even notice me? What if none of my friends showed and I spent the night alone sipping Cokes. I was imagining just what a pathetic sight I would be when I heard someone say, “Wanna dance?” I looked up and there was Bill. I felt my stomach tighten. I took a deep breath, tried to settle down, and said “sure.” We headed to the dance floor and Bill gently took my hand in his. It was then that he noticed I was shaking and asked if I wanted to wear his jacket. I almost said yes so he would believe that I was shivering from cold, instead of trembling with nerves. He asked me my name and then asked how old I was. I wished he hadn’t because I wanted him to think that I was older than I was. I confessed to being fourteen and asked him how old he was. “Seventeen,” he said. We started dancing and I felt myself loosening up a bit. Finally, I felt composed enough to ask him about Judy. “Aren’t you and Judy going steady? Why isn’t she here?”

  “Oh, we broke up.”

  Suddenly I felt like my whole body was smiling. “Oh . . . really,” I said, trying to play it cool. Bill and I danced all of the slow dances together that evening. When it was over he asked if he could drive me home, but my father had already made arrangements to pick me up. “Well, let me meet him” was his response. Whoa! This guy was really confident. He was confident and sweet, a great combination. I introduced Bill to my father, and, to my delight, my dad said Bill could drive me
home from Teen Town the following week.

  I couldn’t wait to see Bill again. As I got to know him, I realized how truly nice he was and how much he had going for him. He was a star athlete. He played varsity basketball and baseball, and he was a good swimmer. And was he cute! I couldn’t believe my luck.

  Looking back I realize that it wasn’t exactly luck that drew Bill to me. I’m fairly certain that Bill fell for me because of my personality. After all, I was no Judy Tolton. If I could have remade myself then it would have been in the sultry image of Kim Novak or Marilyn Monroe or other popular actresses of the time. I thought of myself as cute, but nothing special. I was vivacious and had energy to burn. I am an extrovert by nature and I thrive on social interactions. In those years, I was everyone’s friend. My vibrant, outgoing personality was my best feature, and I used it to the fullest extent I could. Other kids wanted to be around me, and I often found myself at the hub of my social scene. My energy was magnetic, and when they were around me they had fun whether we were going to the movies, ice skating, or just hanging out.

  Bill and I soon spent every moment we could together. We not only had electric physical chemistry, but also a real friendship. I learned a lot about myself and what I liked with him. We spent hours in his car on Kernwood Road in the neighboring town of Beverly, where everyone went to park. It was wooded and just off the town’s golf course. At the time there was a rumor going around that a rogue cop was pulling girls out of cars and raping them, but Bill made me feel safe. “I would never let that happen to you,” he assured me.

  It wasn’t just the specter of a criminal cop that frightened me. My Catholic training told me that what I was doing was a mortal sin. I had taken the next logical and sinful step after masturbation. Once again, I was torn in two. Experimenting with Bill felt so good. He was almost as new to sexual play as I was and we fumbled around together, trying different things and having fun. We kissed passionately, exploring with our tongues. I had heard of French kissing before and now I was doing it. At the same time, I felt crushing guilt and shame. I wondered, again, why something that felt so good had to be so evil. Now, my Saturday confessions included two hell-worthy sins.