An Intimate Life (13 page)

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

“Y
ou’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.

My father’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets. He lunged for Michael and I screamed, “Dad, no!” I tried to grab his arm, but he was moving so fast I clenched my fingers into an empty fist. “Robair,” my grandmother yelled, reverting to the French pronunciation of his name. He and Michael stood barely an inch apart. Besides being half his age, Michael towered over my diminutive father. He could have clobbered him without breaking a sweat.

“You don’t want to do this,” Michael said, never raising his voice.

“C’mon on, Daddy,” I said, and grabbed his elbow.

My father stepped back and I only let go when he had cleared striking distance from Michael.

“Let’s go,” my mother huffed, glaring at me.

If my parents thought they would intimidate me into leaving Michael, they were proven wrong, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t shaken. My heart raced and my body felt paralyzed and ready to sprint at the same time.

I was mostly angry at my parents, but Michael’s remark had stung too. Likening me to a pair of shoes wasn’t exactly flattering. In fact, it was downright insulting. And to be so crass in front of my parents, even if they were treating him poorly. I loved the freedom—sexual and otherwise—that life with Michael offered, but I also wanted him to think of me as special, and when I thought of metaphors for that, a pair of shoes didn’t come to mind. I let it go, though, because to me Michael represented a one-way ticket out of the provincial life. He was everything my family, the Church, and my teachers were not. My thinking was very black and white back then. If he was their opposite, it could only mean that he was all good because they were all bad. It would be a while before shades of grey became visible to me.

Later that night Michael and I made love and he seemed even more attentive than normal. He was a dream lover and sex could go on for hours. He was slow, sensual, and made me feel like I was the most desirable woman in the world. We mused about what we wanted for our future and for the first time we discussed leaving Boston. We talked as though my parents were done meddling, but they would make a final attempt to separate us, and this time my mother would take the lead.

I never really thought of my parents as bigoted. Salem was a fairly diverse city and both my mother and father seemed to mingle easily with people of other creeds and ethnicities. Rose and Arthur Solomon were good friends of theirs. They went to the movies together, ate at each other’s homes, and took weekend getaways as a foursome. It didn’t matter that the Solomons were Jewish. Yet neither of my parents was happy that Michael was. Friendship was one thing, but when it came to dating and marriage, only Catholics were welcome. When I was older I acknowledged this for what it was—a kind of gentile bigotry. My parents would never have been overtly hostile to someone because of his or her race or religion, but when it came to marriage the lines were drawn.

Mom and Dad assumed that Michael’s mother and father, Sadie and Julius, would be equally dismayed to learn that their son was shacking up with a religious interloper. If my parents couldn’t sever us, perhaps Michael’s could. A few weeks after their mortifying visit to my apartment, my mother put in a call to Michael’s mother. She banked on her news being a bombshell, so she must have been pretty disappointed to find Sadie nonplussed by it.