“Seventy?” I asked Carol, a local therapist who sometimes sent clients to me. “Seventy. He just celebrated his birthday,” she answered. Carol smiled and took a sip of coffee. We were sitting in a café around the corner from her office when she told me about Larry. By this time I had been a surrogate for roughly three decades, and working with septuagenarians wasn’t new for me. I did a double take not because of his age, but because of the issue he was dealing with: Larry was a seventy-year-old virgin.
“Wow. Pretty brave of him to tackle this now,” I said.
“So I guess I’ll send him your way?” Carol replied.
A few days later Larry called and scheduled his first appointment with me.
He had a full head of straw-colored hair and a grey-flecked beard. His eyes were so dark that the pupil and the iris were indistinguishable. At seventy, he continued to work at the engineering firm he had helped to start nearly forty years earlier. He couldn’t remember a time in his career when he worked fewer than fifty hours a week.
Even though it was January, he wasn’t wearing a coat. When I asked if he was warm enough he said that January in the Bay Area was like the Caribbean compared to the Chicago winters he had grown up with. “They weatherproofed me for life,” he added. I smiled and motioned for him to sit down on my office sofa.
Larry was articulate and insightful, and he had thought a great deal about how his upbringing had shaped his life. He was an only child raised by parents in a miserable marriage. His mother devoted nearly all of her energy and attention to Larry. “My mother sacrificed everything for me,” he said, “and she demanded a lot of me in return.” Academic achievement was everything. While she would never admit it, Larry had believed for a long time his mother expected him to support her after he had completed the advanced degree that would land him a high-paying job.
He knew from an early age that his mother felt trapped. She had little education and at the time there were few career options for women, so she stayed with his father, the breadwinner of the family. She insisted that socializing and dating were luxuries Larry could indulge in later, after critical goals had been achieved and his economic status secured. “Frivolous. That’s what my mother called any extracurricular activity, including dating,” he said. “She thought if I got a good education and then a good job, everything else would just fall into place. It made me think that affection was some kind of prize you earned for accomplishing stuff, not something you just got for being you.” There was a directness that bordered on urgency in how he talked, and, unlike many other clients, I had to do very little to ease his history out of him. Larry wasn’t only ready to have sex, he was ready to tell his story.
When Larry finally suspected he had achieved enough to merit a relationship, he was already in his thirties and so self-conscious and anxious about his lack of experience that his attempts at intimacy fell flat. He recounted one particularly painful story about a woman he dated for a brief time. Kathleen was attractive, funny, and smart and he fantasized about a future with her. “I dreamed of coming home to her every day, of her face lighting up when I walked through the door, of her . . . wanting me,” he said. When Kathleen started to talk about past relationships, however, Larry quickly changed the subject to one he was more comfortable with. His level of education gave him plenty of other topics to choose from, and he became what he called a “master of the creative segue,” a skill he found useful whenever a conversation shifted to talk of relationships.
Their third date was the last for Larry and Kathleen, and the last ever for Larry. He remembered that she wore a tight pink dress and he felt aroused from the moment he saw her that night. As he sat across the table from her at dinner, he felt himself getting hard and he started to panic. He got so jittery he spilled his glass of wine. “In my mind I tried to talk myself down and focus on the conversation as much as I could, especially since I could see my anxiety was making her nervous,” he said. As dinner went on he relaxed and by the end they were feeling close enough for Kathleen to ask him to continue on to her apartment.
They walked hand in hand and there were moments when Larry thought this might be the night that ushered him into a world it seemed every other adult but he had entered already. “I kept thinking that the next day I would wake up a different person—a normal person,” he said. After a quick drink, Kathleen led Larry into her bedroom. They sat on the bed and started kissing, or tried to. When Kathleen pressed her lips to his, Larry’s anxiety escalated to panic. “I felt like I was being speared through my chest and I could feel my stomach convulsing,” he said. He got up, stammered good night to a confused Kathleen, and left. He bolted down the two sets of stairs that led to her apartment and continued to run until he could barely breathe. “I literally ran away,” he said. He looked down at his shoes, and I could hear him saying “okay, okay, okay” softly as he tried to pull back from crying.
“It’s very brave of you to come here, and you’re not alone in your anxiety,” I said.
He leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed for a few seconds and then told me he didn’t want to die without having sex.
Larry had run away from so much that night and it was heartbreaking to think of someone going through his whole life without tasting the joy and intimacy of sex and relationships. While he may have stayed in it longer than most, Larry was in a vicious circle that traps and paralyzes too many of us. He was anxious and fearful because of his lack of experience. This led him to avoid sex and kept him inexperienced, which compounded his anxiety, which, in turn, made him more averse to sex and intimacy. The sad outcome of all of this was the grinding loneliness Larry lived with for nearly all of his seventy years.
We talked for a little while longer. I told him about the surrogacy process and reassured him that his fear was not uncommon and that we would go at a pace that was comfortable for him.
When we got to the bedroom, I closed the blinds, drew back the beige top sheet on my bed, and we both undressed. We lay down on our backs next to each other and I asked Larry if he was comfortable. He wanted to trade sides with me.
Larry was wide-eyed and a film of sweat covered his forehead.
“It’s natural to feel anxious at this stage. It’s why I always start by teaching some relaxation exercises,” I said.
I asked Larry to put his hand on his abdomen and to start breathing deeply enough that he could see his hand rise and fall with each breath. I joined him, and we lay beside each other inhaling and exhaling for a couple of minutes.
“Now, let’s check in with your body so you can free any tightness in it,” I said.
I asked Larry to close his eyes and bring his mind to the top of his head. “In your mind’s eye see the top of your head. Then feel where your head meets your neck. If you’re holding any tension in the back of your neck, drop your chin slightly and see if that makes it more comfortable. As I walk you through your body, make any adjustments you need to be more at ease.
“Now be aware of your shoulders and your shoulder blades and the space between them. Be aware of the contact they make with the bed. Notice where your shoulders and your arms connect. Come down your upper arms, into your elbows, forearms, wrists, and hands. Take slow, deep breaths. Then come back to your chest. Be aware of your pectorals. Then your abdomen.”
We continued to drift down his body.
When we reached his feet, I asked him to wiggle his toes and then let them relax.
Larry and I took a few more breaths together.
“How do you feel now?” I asked.
“Better. More fluid, not as tight,” he said.
We moved on to Spoon Breathing. Larry lay on his side and I nestled behind him. “Just take nice, easy, normal breaths,” I said. I followed the rhythm of his breathing and soon we were breathing in and out together.
Spoon Breathing usually makes clients feel safe and nurtured, and I could feel Larry’s body become ever looser as we snuggled together, breathing in unison.
I stayed in this position a few minutes longer than I normally would have. This was the first time Larry had been touched in a sensual way in decades. I knew he was frightened and I wanted him to have a sense of feeling secure and cared for.
After several minutes, Larry rolled over onto his abdomen and we began Sensual Touch. I started at Larry’s feet. They were bony and he had thick toenails. I cradled his feet in my hands and made circles around the arches and heels.
Larry’s legs were covered in light brown hair and, as I inched my palms up them, I could feel the muscles releasing under my hands. The tightness dissipated just as quickly in his butt and back and neck. Larry’s body was starved for touch. When I got to the crown of his head, I started back down to his toes. His skin had a creamy tone, and, despite his age, he didn’t have many wrinkles.
I moved my hands gradually down and asked him to take a deep breath when I got to his feet. I squeezed his feet gently, and when he exhaled I let them go. Then I said, “When you’re ready, turn over.”
Larry had an erection and he reflexively covered it with his hand.
“It’s okay. It’s a natural response,” I said
He slowly moved his hand away.
I went up his body. When I got to his penis, I glided my finger over it and made my way up his groin and abdomen. I reached the top of his head and then started back down.
When we were finished with Sensual Touch, I asked Larry how he felt. “Like I’ve had a glass of ice water after being in the desert,” he said.
Over the next four sessions, Larry and I engaged in a number of exercises designed to help him become less anxious, more at peace with his body, and better able to express himself verbally and physically. As with Mark and most of my other clients, we had to address not just Larry’s particular sexual issue, but the emotions that shadowed it. He was surprised to learn that many men, no matter how experienced, occasionally feel anxious and tentative in sexual situations. He was also surprised to learn that being over fifty and sexually unfulfilled wasn’t an aberration.
I was careful to take it slow with Larry. Touch was so unfamiliar to him and he had built up so much anxiety from his years of unhappy abstinence that it took some time for him to connect with his body. There were moments when Larry could barely believe he was finally engaging with a woman in a sexual way. It was no surprise that he often felt confused and tentative when we explored each other. Letting him gradually experience varieties of foreplay and slowly learn about my body helped Larry to feel more confident and at ease once he finally lost his virginity.
Larry’s fifth session was scheduled for February 12, and one of the first things he said to me when we he arrived was, “I think this is going to be the first year I’m not miserable on Valentine’s Day.” It was time for Larry to finally have sex.
After checking in with him to see how he had been doing since our last visit, we headed to the bedroom and undressed. We lay down next to each other and did some relaxation exercises. I gently caressed down Larry’s body and unrolled a condom over his hardening penis. I took it into my mouth and it quickly blossomed into a full erection.
We did some deep breathing to keep him where he was on the arousal scale. Then I climbed on top of him and slid him into me. I slowly moved up and down, and after a few minutes we rolled over so he was on top of me. He started thrusting his hips. Soon he had inadvertently slid out of me and I saw a spasm of panic cross his face. “It’s okay,” I said, “That happens. Sometimes you’ll slip out.” I grabbed a pillow and put it under my hips. “This usually helps,” I said. “You’re doing great. Try to not withdraw so far, but it’s not a problem to guide your penis back into me if you do.” I took Larry’s penis in my hand and brought it to my vulva. “Okay, go ahead and push now,” I said. Soon Larry was in me again, moving slowly in and out. “When this happens with a future partner, feel free to ask her to help you back in, or do it yourself—whichever is easier,” I whispered in his ear.
He asked if he could kiss me, and when I said yes he lay flat on top of me, using his elbows for support and softly brought his lips to mine. He explored my mouth and my lips with his tongue. After a few minutes he lifted himself up and started thrusting again. His forehead was slick with sweat and a few drops fell onto my face. Then he shouted, came, and rested his head on my chest. I wrapped my arms around him. At seventy, Larry had lost his virginity.
I could see tears welling up in his eyes. This was a gratifying moment. I had helped this sensitive, smart, and kind man finally have one of the most fundamental and pleasurable human experiences. Larry’s life had been full of accomplishments, but bereft of physical affection and intimacy. Together, we had changed that for him, and it was one of the most tender moments of my career.
I wanted to be sure Larry felt nurtured and cared for after his first time, so I suggested a round of Spoon Breathing and we shifted to our sides. After about our fourth cycle of breathing, Larry stopped and said, “This means so much to me.” I gently pressed myself into him. “You know,” he said, “I once learned there was a rumor going around about me being gay. I didn’t try to correct it because being a virgin who’s eligible for social security is more freakish than being a homosexual.” Then he laughed a little and told me he had never admitted that to anyone.
It isn’t unusual for clients to reveal things to me they keep hidden, even within the safety of their therapist’s office. It is part of what makes surrogacy work fascinating and often beautiful. The surrogate’s bedroom is a unique environment in which both professional and client are vulnerable. Being naked together is a powerful equalizer, and before any touch even occurs the mood can shift and intimacy can deepen so that people begin to talk more freely than they ever thought they would. Mostly, they share experiences that have had an impact on their lives, but about which they’ve always been too ashamed or embarrassed to reveal. Just saying them aloud can be liberating for some clients because suddenly they can gain a perspective few of us have when we hold tight to a secret.
8.
westward
“You’re the devil!” my mother shrieked at Michael from across our living room. She stood behind the recliner as if she were trying to shield herself from him. My friend Marshasue, her boyfriend, Ronnie, and I all froze. Michael remained as loose-limbed and calm as ever. It was a warm Saturday in June and the four of us were heading out to Marblehead for a picnic. It occurred to me then that I should have bought a new can of Off! mosquito repellent instead of swinging by my parents’ house to get the one I had there.
“What are you doing to my daughter?” my mother screamed.
“I’m not doing anything to her,” Michael said in a cool voice.
“You’re evil, evil incarnate.”
“Mom, stop,” I said, through a clenched jaw. “Let’s go. Now,” I added.
I turned to leave and the three others followed behind me.
“’Bye, Mrs. Theriault,” Michael said before closing the front door.
I wanted to kick him. There was no need to make a bad situation worse.
I had hoped that the struggle with my parents was over, that they had resigned themselves to having a wayward daughter, and now they would gracefully recede and let me live my debauched life. If only.
Dave Mallory, my dad’s friend at Kressler Engineering who had recommended me for the job, had talked to my parents about Michael. He told them that Michael was outspoken, hedonistic, contrarian, a rebel of the first order—all the things I loved about him. He let them know that I had latched on to a man who had no future, someone who was incapable of providing a stable life for me. Son-in-law material he was not.
Mallory also told my parents about a bet Michael had made with some of the other guys at work. Michael wagered that he could get me into bed, and one Friday when I showed up with an overnight bag he let them know that he would collect the following Monday. Maybe Dave was looking out for my best interests. That was a pretty crass thing to do, and when I learned about it I
had one of the first inklings that Michael might not be as devoted to me as I wanted to believe he was. At the time I believed that Dave was threatened by Michael, whose intelligence and wit were widely admired at work. A few of the other executives had even talked about funding his return to college because they recognized that Michael could quickly become an asset to Kressler. Whatever his mix of motives, though, Dave had convinced my parents that I now shared a bed with Satan himself.
A few weeks after the confrontation in my parents’ living room, Mom and Dad initiated what they must have thought of as a rescue mission when they showed up at my apartment one evening with my grandmother in tow. Michael and I were kissing on the couch when the doorbell rang and in walked the three of them. What the hell were they doing here?
For a moment we all stood in my cramped living room staring dumbly at one another. I looked at my grandmother. Later she told me that the only reason she came was to make sure that violence didn’t erupt between my dad and Michael.
“Why are you here?” I finally asked.
“We’re here to take you home,” my father replied.
“Dad, I’m not going back home.”
My father turned to Michael, as if he were the one he was arguing with, and said, “We know what you’re up to. You’ve had my daughter practically living with you. If you want to live with her, you marry her.”
“Would you buy a pair of shoes without trying them on first?” Michael retorted.
An Intimate Life Page 9