I became part of a wonderful, intelligent, and supportive community of people who were questioning, sharing, and seeking genuine knowledge about sexuality. I was on my way to a meaningful career, making lasting friendships, and, frankly, having a hell of a lot of fun.
One thing we didn’t discuss was safe sex and the use of condoms. Because of my Dalkon Shield nightmare I was at very low risk of getting pregnant. In this pre-AIDS era the greatest fear was herpes. Most other STDs could be cured with a stiff dose of antibiotics. I knew this not just because of all of my recent training, but because five years earlier I had a brush with venereal disease when one week after the swingers party in Concord, we got a call from our host: The diva had gonorrhea.
11.
more than a client: bob
In 1979, the Canon AE-1 was a camera that any serious amateur photographer would have been happy to own. When my client Bob handed it to me, along with its motor-drive accessory, I had to use both hands to hold it. It weighed probably five times as much as my Instamatic, and its lens was ringed with number sequences that looked like some kind of code.
“I can’t accept this,” I said.
Just a few minutes ago, Bob had sat in the bathroom chatting with me while I took a shower. When I closed my eyes to rinse the shampoo out of my hair the room went quiet. I opened them and he was gone. I stepped out of the shower stall, towel-dried my hair, and wrapped myself in a terrycloth robe. “Bob?” I called. Just as I walked out of the bathroom I saw him coming down the hall toward me with the camera in his hand.
“It’s way too generous,” I said.
Bob blinked back tears.
“I really want you to have it. You’ve changed my life, Cheryl, and this is my way of saying thank you. Please, let me do this.”
I knew why he had chosen a camera. In one of our early sessions Bob had told me about his love of photography and how he had set up a dark room in his closet at home. I mentioned that I had missed capturing so many precious moments in my children’s lives because I didn’t have a reliable camera or much skill in using the one I had.
“Bob, this is so sweet, really, but I wouldn’t know how to use it.”
“I could teach you,” he said quietly. “How about I come down here on my day off and show you. It’s easy. We can go to the park and take some outdoor shots.”
“Hmmm, I guess so. Okay, let’s do it.” I said.
With that, I made a date with one of my clients. That was the last of our eight sessions together and a personal relationship had tentatively bloomed alongside our professional one for the last few weeks of our work together.
Because of his work Bob was almost always my last client of the day. We started our sessions at around four in the afternoon and he normally stuck around afterward, talking to me while I showered and got made up in my office bathroom before he walked me to my car.
When he first came to see me, Bob was thirty years old, four years my junior. He had a friendly face framed by wavy, shoulder-length hair. He was ruggedly handsome. Perhaps it was the pensiveness in his eyes or the way he hesitated before he crossed my office doorway, but the first thing I thought when I saw him was that he had a gentle soul.
I sensed his nervousness the minute he walked in, so I made small talk. As we chatted, I saw his anxiety abate a little. His shoulders dropped and he let his back, which he had held as straight as a pool cue, relax to the point where he allowed himself to lean back in the overstuffed chair across from me.
During our first session, I’d asked Bob to tell me a little about his sexual history.
The shyness I saw in him had been with him for as long as he could remember. It was one reason why he didn’t have a girlfriend in high school. Another was that he had facial scarring caused by acne that made him too self-conscious. At times it seemed like he was the only boy in his high school who was too awkward to reel in a girlfriend. He was quietly attracted to many of the girls at school and more than once he watched wistfully as a friend paired off with one of his secret crushes.
In late 1968, just as he turned twenty, Bob was drafted into the army; after a year of training, he was sent to Vietnam, where he was assigned to the 101st Airborne Division as a parachute rigger. It was October 1970 when he took his R & R in Bangkok, where prostitution was legal and regulated by the government. The short flight to Thailand was full of raucous and horny young soldiers. Bob sat in quiet excitement and thought about how he would soon accomplish something that he felt was long overdue: losing his virginity. He felt a combination of apprehension, anticipation, and giddiness about this impending rite of passage.
When he arrived in Bangkok he checked into a hotel, unpacked, and then headed into the steamy night. He soon found a taxi driver who drove him along the well-traversed route to a local “massage parlor.” As he opened the front door of a nondescript building, Bob was led by the Mamasan through a dimly lit hallway that spilled into a large room. There stood a small crowd of other GIs with big grins on their faces gazing through a one-way mirror at several scantily clad women perched on plushly carpeted bleachers. They were casually reading or chatting with one another, each with a number pinned to her blouse. “Fifteen, twelve, eight, seventeen . . . ” The soldiers rattled off their choices. It was a scene he could only think of as bizarre and it jolted his middle-class American sensibilities to the core. When it was his turn, Bob quietly selected a lovely, mature-looking woman and paid the Mamasan $25 for twenty-four hours.
He flagged a taxi and went back to the hotel with the woman, whose name was Chamneon (pronounced Chom-Nee-In). Once in his room, she slowly and confidently began to undress herself, while Bob tried to fill the awkward silence with small talk. Bob took off his clothes and they got into bed. Chamneon was exotically beautiful. He had fantasized the whole way back to the hotel about making love to her. They kissed softly and then passionately, their tongues darting around each other’s mouths. He cupped her small breasts and ran his hands along her smooth back and stomach until he got to her vulva. He fingered her clitoris and she wrapped her long fingers around his penis, which, to Bob’s dismay, seemed like it had gone to sleep. What was going on? he wondered. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get erections. He masturbated as much as any healthy twenty-year-old male. Why now, with a willing and naked woman next to him, did his penis remain flaccid?
He reached for his Thai-English phrasebook and thumbed through it frantically. He wanted to tell Chamneon that he would just need a minute or two. He said a few garbled Thai words to his perplexed date. In retrospect he saw how comical this must have looked, but at the time he was too embarrassed and confused to find anything funny about it. He lay with his arm around Chamneon. He tried a few more times to get hard, but each attempt ended in frustration.
It turned out that Chamneon spoke a little English. Bob discovered this as they talked for much of the night. He learned that she was a twenty-five-year-old single mother to an eight-year-old girl. She had left a physically abusive husband and now supported herself, her daughter, and the rest of her family with the only job available to her. Bob started to feel real warmth and sympathy for Chamneon.
While he was disappointed about not losing his virginity, he tried to keep his perspective. He was, after all, in a foreign country with an unfamiliar culture and language. He was with a prostitute who, most likely, was relieved by his glitch. He would give himself a break for his failure and try again.
The next evening Bob returned to the brothel. He ran into some of the same servicemen he had seen the night before, but unlike them he wasn’t there to sample a different woman. He paid to have Chamneon for the rest of the week. He enjoyed her company as she showed him around the enigmatic city.
Chamneon took Bob to The Grand Palace, The Temple of the Reclining Buddha, and the stunning beaches on the Bay of Bangkok, where they walked in the surf. Each night when they returned to his hotel room, he tried unsuccessfully to get an erection and have intercourse. Soon the week was over and he returne
d to Vietnam still a virgin.
“I often wonder what became of Chamneon,” Bob said.
“Did you try again with anyone else before coming home?”
“No, I was too discouraged. I took another R & R in Australia, but stayed away from the prostitutes. I was probably the only one of my friends who did.”
Shortly thereafter, with his two-year commitment to Uncle Sam fulfilled, Bob found himself on a chartered jet with 150 other ecstatic GI’s heading back to “the world.” He had plenty of time for reflection on the fourteen-hour flight.
“I decided to wipe the slate clean, to forget about my experience in Bangkok and to just focus on finding a woman I could love. I thought the sex would naturally follow. I thought I just needed to be in love with a woman for my plumbing to function properly. If I just relaxed, it would happen.”
He returned home from Vietnam more mature and with a good measure of confidence. He could handle himself in tough situations and knowing this gave him hope that he would get past his personal troubles. When he looked around, he saw couples everywhere. If they can do it, so can I, he told himself. Also, he was only twenty-three. Maybe some of his friends got started earlier, but he was still young enough for his virginity to be unremarkable.
Bob met Jane at work. She was statuesque with a pretty face framed by long black curly hair. She was quiet yet friendly, and he was attracted to her instantly. After some shy flirting, Bob took a chance and told her he had two tickets to see George Carlin and asked if she wanted to join him. Bob soon realized, much to his surprise and delight, that his strong feelings of affection were reciprocated.
“I was flying high as a kite. I finally knew what all the talk about the thrill of first love was about,” he said.
That summer Jane quit her job to work at a tiny resort near Yosemite. She encouraged Bob to visit her as soon as he could. Two weeks later he found himself driving with much anticipation up Route 120 for a long weekend tryst with Jane. He couldn’t remember ever having been happier.
He and Jane hiked the enchanting High Sierra backcountry trails together. At night they retreated to his mattress-equipped van, and enjoyed energetic and delicious foreplay. They pleasured each other with their mouths and hands, but when it came time for intercourse Bob suddenly stalled. He felt a familiar sense of dread well up in him. Once again, he couldn’t get an erection. Sweet Jane tried to comfort him. She assured him that this was just an anomaly and soon they would have intercourse that was as sublime as their foreplay.
“I wanted to believe her, but this time I was mortified and deeply disappointed with myself. I couldn’t blame my surroundings anymore,” Bob said.
He tried another few times with Jane, but an unfortunate pattern had been set. The intimacy and excitement would build between them and then he would panic, tense up, and think back to his other false starts. As much as he was attracted to Jane, and as much as he craved sex and intimacy with her, he couldn’t get an erection.
“I tried to reassure Jane that it wasn’t her, but I think she came to believe that I just wasn’t attracted to her.” She didn’t know how to deal with it. She had never encountered a situation like that before.
After several more long weekend visits to Yosemite, Jane lost interest and started avoiding him. His letters went unanswered.
Bob was crushed, and he sank into a depression that didn’t lift for several years. He blamed himself. He was trapped in loneliness and saw no escape. He thought of it as a kind of self-imposed solitary confinement. He was his own jailer, except he didn’t have the key for his release.
“Did you see a professional for your depression at that time?” I asked.
“I saw a psychiatrist for a few months, but it didn’t help. But at my last appointment he did give me the number for the UC San Francisco Human Sexuality Department. He told me that they could refer me to a therapist who worked with surrogates. That was five years ago. I couldn’t call them until now.”
“What made you finally do it?”
“I know I have to change. I can’t go through life like this anymore. I’m tired of being lonely and I’m tired of hating myself. What have I got to lose at this point?”
Bob had a textbook case of performance anxiety. He was mired in the vicious circle that he recognized in himself, and it was my job to help him break it.
Throughout our work together, I did a number of exercises with him. Sensual Touch was one of the most important because it took his focus away from his penis and broadened it to his whole body. I wanted him to experience sensuality and pleasure and let his penis follow along in any way it wanted. We did the Sexological and discovered that he was highly reactive and had many areas of sensitivity. I also taught him communication skills and touching techniques.
Bob gradually overcame his performance anxiety and got better at achieving and maintaining an erection. In our sixth session, Bob and I had intercourse, and he finally lost his virginity. This was a huge victory, but one problem persisted. He had delayed ejaculation. This is not uncommon for men who struggle with anxiety. Bob couldn’t come when he was inside of me or when I stimulated him with my hand or mouth. He could only bring himself to orgasm by masturbating after I had come.
During our last session I encouraged Bob to continue with the exercises he had learned during our time together. I told him, truthfully, that in time I thought he would be able to ejaculate while having intercourse. Then I went into the bathroom to shower and he followed me.
Bob called me the day after our final session to tell me he would pick me up next Wednesday for our photo outing to the University of California’s Botanical Garden. Since Bob was no longer a current client it was easier to give myself permission to date him. When he was my client, it had been difficult to come to terms with what was unfolding on a personal level.
Like therapists, surrogates are supposed to avoid personal entanglements with clients. But I felt such a deep connection with Bob that I couldn’t ignore it. He was unassuming, bright, and thoughtful. I could talk to him, the way I could talk to Michael, except that I didn’t have to contend with an outsized ego or the chronic fear that I somehow wasn’t enough. I didn’t see how anyone could be hurt by what we were doing.
When Wednesday arrived, I packed up my camera and waited for Bob at my home. Michael, who only worked sporadically, lay on our couch reading a book and when Bob rang the doorbell he let him in. I came out of the bedroom and found them chatting.
“Nice day for a visit to the Botanical Garden,” Michael said.
“Yeah, I’m hoping to get some good shots. Great light today.”
“I see you two have met,” I said.
“Well, I’ll let you two go,” Michael said and extended his hand to Bob.
It had been in one of our post-session conversations that I had told Bob about my open marriage and that I had recently broken up with my previous lover. Given the work I do he suspected that my marriage was not of the Ozzie and Harriet variety, but the more I got to know Bob the more I wanted him to know the particulars of my arrangement with Michael. If a personal relationship was in the cards for us he had to know that exclusivity would not be part of it—at least for the foreseeable future. While I wasn’t ready to admit it, I was starting to imagine a life without Michael to be at least possible, if not desirable.
Bob’s reaction was what I expected. He was nonjudgmental, curious, and accepting. He had an endearing quality of being open—even innocent—while still being worldly. It was one of the things I was coming to love about him.
Seeing Michael and Bob side-by-side was an interesting experience for me. I had always been attracted to men with large physiques and Michael was in that category. Bob, on the other hand, was more compact and wiry. And their personalities stood in sharp contrast too. Michael was cocksure about everything. He was a hedonist who always wanted things on his own terms. He felt compelled to foist his opinion into every conversation. C’mon Michael, you’re not delivering the Sermon on the Mou
nt, I sometimes found myself thinking when he bloviated about one thing or another. Yes, he was a smart man, but his pontificating was starting to sound pompous and pedantic, and some people found him abrasive. Although Bob was much less sure of himself, and felt uncomfortable in social gatherings, he was much more present emotionally. There was an honesty and sincerity about him that was lacking in Michael. Being with him was more of a shared experience. And our bodies fit together perfectly. Sex with him was sweeter and more intimate than any I had experienced, even with Michael. Bob still suffered from delayed ejaculation and he could only come by masturbating himself after intercourse, but his performance anxiety was firmly a thing of the past. We both hoped that one day he would be able to climax inside of me. It was particularly important for Bob because he saw it as the final hurdle to achieving the kind of intimacy he had pined for all of his adult life.
As Bob and I drove up the Berkeley hills, the August air got warmer as we ascended. Bob parked just outside of the garden and we slung our cameras around our necks. We walked to one of its main paths where red rhododendron, yellow pansies, maroon-speckled white peonies, and a tapestry of other flowers vied for our attention. It was a clear day and the spectacular explosion of color made even a novice photographer like me eager to snap some pictures.
For someone who didn’t know an f-stop from a shortstop, I soon found myself beginning to comprehend some of photography’s basic concepts and terminology, such as shutter speed, aperture, focal length, and depth of field. It was clear Bob was enjoying our first outing together, and I was grateful for the gentle and patient manner in which he demystified my new camera.
Of all the experimental shots I took that afternoon, the two most memorable are of Bob walking on his hands down a narrow path, and standing on an arch bridge smiling back at me. The first showed his playfulness; the second his kindness.
An Intimate Life Page 15