Sex Surrogate: On the Job

It's now 8:30 a.m. Most people are counting their bus tokens; my wife, Vanessa, is packing condoms in her purse. For the rest of us, it's a trip up the elevator into just another day. For Vanessa, every sunrise promises a new adventure through the mystery of the male sexual psyche. When we're kibitzing around the water cooler, Vanessa is engaging a man in an intimate conversation about his genitals. And while we're hunkering down at our desks, Vanessa is on her back in her "office," making love to one of her clients.

Don't jump to conclusions, Vanessa is a sexual surrogate. She prefers the term "surrogate partner." It's her job to help men with their sexual problems. And we're talking hands-on assistance here.

Today, Vanessa's first client is Stan, a 38-year-old assistant actuary. It's Stan's third session. He and Vanessa spent the first one merely talking in Vanessa's office-slash-living room. She shares part of an old house that has been converted to offices for a non-profit organization. This space is cozy, with mood music oozing over the couches, and Stan allowed himself to get comfortable as Vanessa's practiced tones eased revealing information out of him.

Next session, the touching began. An appointment is generally two hours, providing Vanessa with plenty of time to teach Stan some tricks—including how to touch faster, slower; firmer, softer.

Stan, like all of Vanessa's clients, is a sensitive soul and hasn't had much contact with women. Vanessa concentrates her touching sessions on the hands and face so as not to frighten him off.

I struggle to get a mental image. The best I can come up with is a Les Nessman-type weighted down with pocket protectors and thick-framed spectacles trembling on a corner of the couch while my outspoken Vanessa encroaches like an overcast afternoon, flipping feminine wiles, inspiring fear with every eyelash flutter.

I'm not that far off. Vanessa sees men who have problems ranging from premature ejaculation and erectile difficulties to guys like Stan, who is utterly unable to approach women. But she's made headway with Stan. On to session three.

The third session is almost always reserved for the feet. (My wife explains: "The feet get very little attention from most people. But they have a lot of nerve endings. They're incredibly sensual.)

Vanessa and Stan strip off their socks and shoes and sink their shamelessly naked extremities in a tub of warm water. Vanessa starts.

"I usually have to show them how to do it," she explains happily.

When she has finished bathing the last of Stan's toes, he's invited to return the favor. Next, Vanessa reveals a trove of massage oil and baby powder. She takes Stan's taintless tootsies into her lap and proceeds to administer "foot caress."

When she's done, as a professional therapist, she plunks her feet up onto Stan's lap, and Stan is expected to demonstrate all he's mastered. So passes two hours of this working day for Vanessa. It's time for coffee.

The year is 1983. Vanessa and I are happily married and have been for three remarkable years. But this story begins five years earlier, in the spring of 1978, when I meet Vanessa in a history course at the tail end of a semester at UMass. The exact moment still feels like yesterday.

My heart stands still as I am approached by the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She moves with the same confidence and grace as her long and voluminous brunette hair. I will never forget the way we lock eyes with each other. In that instant, I know only two things for sure; this is the best moment of my life, and it will be over as fast as two trains passing in opposite directions.

"You're the spitting image of Sally Field," are my first words to my future wife.

I immediately apologize for drawing a comparison. Vanessa is far more beautiful than the actress. Fortunately, she smiles, taking it as a compliment.

"No worries, I'm not offended, Sally Field is very attractive," she replies, "Smokey and the Bandit isn't my cup of tea, but I simply adored her in that movie."

Vanessa hands me my textbook, which I had forgotten in the lecture hall. On the inside cover, she writes, "Your secret admirer," next to her phone number.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Before I get a chance to call, I run into Vanessa at a pizza joint near campus. We sit together and, within minutes, recognize that we have a lot in common. Besides agreeing our prof is a pompous ass, we both scored above 130 on I.Q. tests in elementary school, isolating us from our peers. As a result, she'd skipped a grade. Even though Vanessa is two years ahead of me, she is only a year older. The reason we're in the same course is complicated — Vanessa received special permission to complete a dual degree over five years.

As we talk, I notice Vanessa has a Southern accent, which she tries to hide. I am mesmerized by her gorgeous green eyes. I feel an immediate connection with her.

The first thing I learn about Vanessa's personality is that she is incredibly idealistic. Our first date is to a demonstration against a nuclear power plant. The second date I'm proofreading her impassioned article on the war in Rhodesia for the student newspaper.

Vanessa asks, "Are you sure you don't just want to get into my pants?"

"No, that's not the reason I'm here," I protest, "I knew you had a beautiful face; now that I've read this, I know you have a beautiful heart."

Vanessa rushes over from her typewriter, gives me the biggest hug and, biting her lip, whispers, "It's all right if you just want to get into my pants."

I'm pulling off her Nordic-look sweater, platform mules, and skin-tight jeans between kisses; we make love in the offices of the student newspaper. We start in a squeaky office chair, then move to a sofa, and finally end up naked on the floor.

It's a revelatory experience. I've had my fair share of lovers (you know... mid-seventies... still the era of "free love"), but none compare to Vanessa. Though I'd been with a wide variety of chicks, practically every shape and size, most fell into a surprisingly narrow range in terms of sexual skill. My last girlfriend, Katie, proudly declared she was a fully liberated feminist only to find her disappointingly passive and shy in bed.

Despite her "girl next door" looks, Vanessa's a real tiger cat between the sheets. She confidently straddles me, lustily rocks her hips, clenches her pussy, and leaves me completely spellbound. I never really knew what great sex was until I met Vanessa.

After, as Vanessa clips her bra back on, I visually inhale her slim figure and perfectly-proportioned breasts. She's wearing these cute cotton panties with little flowers on them. We put the rest of our clothes back on and walk to her residence hall, holding hands for the first time.

The next thing I learn about Vanessa is that she cares deeply about other people. Her driving desire is to help those in need. It is no surprise that she is studying to become a nurse.

While I finish my last year of college, Vanessa is hired for her first nursing job at the hospital. The problem I begin to discern is that she cares too much and is way too emotionally invested.

Vanessa commonly cries with and for her patients. She gives her patients her home phone number, even though there is a rule against that. Vanessa takes terrible shifts, does whatever the supervisor asks, and gives far too unselfishly of herself. She is devastated whenever a patient dies.

After a particularly strenuous and challenging operation, she walks into a stairwell and bursts into tears. Vanessa knows her dream of being a nurse is over.

It's a good thing we have each other. Vanessa and I are falling in love. I write love poems and hide them in her apartment for her to discover later. Between classes, we sneak back to my dorm room for some "afternoon delight."

This is the best of times — and the worst of times.

I graduate. There are no jobs, economists call it, "stagflation."

Vanessa no longer wants to be a nurse. I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I'm afraid I will end up living in a cardboard box. I consider going back to school for my M.B.A. Instead, I work as a repo man for a short time.

Then a doctor in the psychiatric wing gives Vanessa the book, "Human Sexual Inadequacy," by Masters and Johnson.

This seminal work reports on the treatment of a series of patients with this affliction. It demonstrates how people can learn about sexual intimacy only by experiencing it. They show an amazingly good five-year therapeutic result, with an overall cure rate of 80%. Such a success rate is phenomenal in the treatment of inadequate sexual functioning, which is notoriously resistant to correction using traditional psychoanalysis.

Since most of their subjects are unmarried, to aid in a series of exercises designed to overcome sexual dysfunction, the researchers pair them with "surrogates." Initially, these are female volunteers from the student body. Now that their methodologies of sexual therapy are spreading across the country, there is a growing need for professional sex surrogates. Nursing schools are a significant source of recruitment.

Vanessa becomes obsessed; this is the answer. She has now found her calling.

"I no longer have to do a job which makes me feel miserable about people dying," she tells me excitedly, "I'm helping people who are living to experience all of life's joys."

I'm supportive, even enthusiastic, from the start. Most of all, I want Vanessa to be happy. Then, as I learn more about sexual surrogacy, and her decision to be a surrogate becomes more and more real by the day, I'm increasingly sick with worry.

I ask Vanessa to marry me. She says, "Yes," without hesitation.

Our engagement doesn't help entirely numb the pain of her imminent departure. Never before have I felt such anguish as when Vanessa boards the jet to St. Louis.

She begins her training at the controversial Masters and Johnson Institute.

We are too broke to talk on the phone. The first minute is the most expensive. Long-distance rates are so steep that you can fill up your tank with gas for the price of talking on the phone for an hour. We make our calls super quick and write each other long letters.

Vanessa writes in her first letter:

Dearest Steven, my darling boyfriend (or should I say, fiancé?),

I'm so excited, my love. This has been an incredible day. I've met so many new people. Currently enrolled in the surrogate program are more than a hundred young women who've come from all over the country and decided to step into this profession. Almost everyone has at least an undergraduate degree. They're all so pretty, too. Anyway, I'm not so bad-looking myself! Nevertheless, brains are more important than beauty when helping a client resolve their issues with intimacy and sexuality. I must do everything I can to ensure the well-being of the client. It will require all of my intelligence, my sensitivity, my compassion, and my openness. Honestly, I'm a little bit overwhelmed. There are a few girls who decided to go for this right out of high school, and I wonder if they have enough life experience yet. Nobody's backed out though; we are all super stoked about this. It's like we are pioneers in a burgeoning new field. Who knows? In another 10 to 20 years, this will probably be seen as a perfectly normal job. Well, I guess I better go. I'll be late for my next activity. Please write me a long letter. I love you till my heart could burst.

For always and ever,

Vanessa

P.S. I lust thee and "boil and bubble" inside whenever I see ya.

It takes all my effort not to think about what my fiancée is doing each hour of every day. I knew in advance that she will be assigned to a male training partner. I also understand that they would begin a relationship and move towards intimacy.

I manage to put on a brave face for Vanessa. During the time she is away, my emotions vacillate between depression and rage, feeling complete despair in one moment and then burning anger in the next. Rationally, I know that Vanessa is suited to this career and that sexual surrogacy is based on real science, but I feel discontented nevertheless.

We agree beforehand that Vanessa will not communicate certain aspects of the training program. I accept that "going all the way" is a necessary part of her internship. However, if I learn too many details, I'm fearful of the negative emotions this could awaken. (Of course, now I regret this, I wish she had told me all the details.)

Vanessa finally completes the M & J training. Instead of her flying back, we meet at her parent's pecan farm in southwest Georgia for the wedding. Her pastor has agreed to marry us in their backyard. All our friends and family make the trip. When I arrive, I find out Vanessa's parents are rich. Their white-columned mansion on a graceful property seems a million miles away from the working-class neighborhood in which I grew up in Dearborn, Michigan.

The final week before the wedding is hectic, and we barely have any time together. There is no opportunity for sex since we are all sleeping over at her parent's house.

On the wedding night, we drive all the way to Atlanta to stay at the Hilton.

Vanessa radiates beauty in her magnificent empire waist bridal gown. If there is a difference between the most eye-catching model in a fashion magazine and the slender beauty standing in front of me, I can't see it.

I'd only been vaguely aware during the wedding, now I am focused on it; Vanessa's wedding dress has a cream-colored fabric.

"Was the choice of color intentional?" I ask with a wink.

Vanessa giggles and puts on her thickest drawl, "I'm so sorry mamma, I can't wear that white dress, but there's this nice off-white gown on the rack next to it."

I chuckle, "What kind of dork wants a virginal bride on his wedding night anyway? The Ayatollah?!"

Laughing, Vanessa spins around, inviting me to undo her wedding dress. I slowly pull the zipper down her back. Unexpectedly, I find she's not wearing anything underneath the dress.

"Surprise!" Vanessa says with a broad smile, "I didn't need to wear a bra with this custom-made dress, and then I thought to myself: why should I bother with the rest?"

She was naked under her dress as she walked down the aisle, had our first dance, and thanked our guests during her toast!

I push Vanessa onto the bed. My heart is beating fast. I take a long look at her beautiful vulva, encircled by her light brown pubic hair, and think about how it has been pleasured by someone else since I was last here. I feel a mixture of excitement and dread, the reality of it is impossible to fully grasp. This is when I discover I might have some sort of kink about Vanessa sleeping with other guys.

I wonder if I suffer from the "Madonna-whore complex." It's in Vanessa's introductory psychology textbook. I underline the definition: "A psychological complex in men who see women as either saintly Madonnas or debased prostitutes; these men desire a partner who is degraded (the whore) while unable to desire the respected partner (Madonna)."

There is a bizarre duality to my attraction to Vanessa. I clearly have nothing but admiration and affection for Vanessa's intelligence, empathy and spirit. I think I would still be in love with Vanessa if she existed only as a brain in a vat, or her mind was a sentient supercomputer like HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Yet, I objectify Vanessa. Here she is, splayed out before me, and all I see is an exquisite female body. Vanessa's gentle curves are a work of art. My only desire is to pillage and plunder her remarkable physique if it's my last dying breath.

Vanessa turns over and crouches on all fours. I smile inwardly, surprised by this unexpected move on her part. I contemplate putting her in a more traditional position for our first coitus as a married couple but, gladly, choose to go with the flow.

I get up on the bed and fuck her more vigorously than I thought possible. She responds with equal urgency. With Vanessa, I don't just pound her from behind; her body meets my every thrust as she bounces, swings, and rolls her hips.

Eventually, Vanessa slides onto her back. Almost immediately after I push in, I feel the familiar squeezing sensation of a female orgasm. I'm surprised by how quickly it happens.

Vanessa hops on top and adroitly works her pelvis up and down. I appreciate the soft skin of her perfect breasts against my face as she leans forward, and the tantalizing view of her legs positioned on either side of my body. Even more intoxicating is thinking about my wife giving this exact same experience to another man, his dick enjoying the same delicious feeling of Vanessa's warm and wet pussy. A man or men? At this point, I still don't know what happened in St. Louis! I'm pondering this question as I shoot deep inside her. Goddamn, it's satisfying.

Afterwards, Vanessa tears up. I ask her what the matter is.

"You don't understand, he was an expert," Vanessa emphasizes, "My trainer taught me to love sucking his cock, to savor it; when I had him in my mouth, it was always for my own pleasure."

I'm taken aback, but stay silent to let her continue.

"I knew I was giving my body, including my genitals, to this," she says shakily, "what I didn't know, and wasn't prepared for, was that I would be giving my heart; that I would feel love and connection to another human being."

I'm too stunned to react.

"It was a deliberate process, communication and love are essential to successful sexual relationships," she continues, "so we are put in a situation where we talk openly, share secrets never before told, and by the time our genitals connect, we actually 'make love' with our trainer."

I interrupt, "What are you trying to tell me, Vanessa?"

"I'm sorry," tears roll down her cheeks, "right now, I feel like I cheated."

It takes me a moment to collect my thoughts. I reassure Vanessa that nothing has to change our world if we don't want it to. I compare the feelings that she had for her trainer to a fleeting crush, something I'm sure happens from time to time in a marriage.

Vanessa appears relieved, "Ideally as a surrogate, you experience love, affection and intimacy with a client, and they experience this with you. I can't imagine any more meaningful work than this."

There is a lump in my throat; I try to lighten the mood, "Two questions: Do you still love me? And, are you going to teach me what you have learned?"

Vanessa begins shedding tears of happiness; she wraps her arms around my neck, "Sweetie, the answer is 'yes' and 'yes.' My love for you keeps getting stronger. I would do anything for you."

I ask, more seriously, "Sweetheart, is this gonna work?"

Vanessa answers, "Yes, I think so, after the trainer we are assigned real clients to practice on; it's a difficult process, but we learn how to get involved in every way possible and then how to say 'goodbye' and get closure at the end."

She gives me a bigger hug, pressing her nude body tight against me. I become aware that I have another erection, resting against her bare stomach.

The night is not over. We fuck three more times before sunrise. My new wife is almost as surprised as I am. I have an unquenchable thirst for each and every inch of her lissome body. I lick Vanessa everywhere from her shaved armpits to her ankles, marking my territory with saliva.

Up to this point, Vanessa's decision to be a surrogate felt like a nightmare; I had no choice but to endure the painful experience of Vanessa having sex with other men. On our wedding night, I fully embrace my wife's chosen career.

At breakfast, I say to Vanessa, "So, I guess we should order some business cards from the printers for your new venture."