Homepage10+Giving it up.

Homepage 10 + Giving it up.

This is the first of the final three stories to be published on this website and they are completely separate from each other although they share the same general theme which is: men and women who get to be close to forty years old before they lose their virginity.

The first one, attached, is about an American tourist in Spain who meets exactly the right women to help him out. The second one, that will be published next Monday, is about a woman who is a professional viola player in New York City and the third, which will be published on November the eleventh, is about a Nun and a Priest who lose their faith and find each other.

GIVING IT UP – PART ONE.             10-24-11

Roy Garde.

Two different tour groups collided in the V of converging corridors that led to the marble statue of a Roman senator and his wife that was the most well known work of art in the entire Museum. They sorted themselves out and soon the members of each group were gathered around their guide and they stood still and stopped talking to be able to hear all the words that were directed at them. A few of the ones who were at the back of each group, who thought that they might be able to get away with it and were suffering from having had too many facts thrown at them already for one day and were tired of having to hear any more of the heavily over self-serving comments of their leaders who were – of course, what else is new? – ingratiating themselves with the aim of boosting their tips, dared to examine the statue instead of listening to its history.

After a few minutes two of them, a man from one group and a woman from the other one, figured that they’d gleaned all the culture-by-osmosis from the statue that was ever going to come at them and so, independently, they moved away from the splinter groups to go and check out another statue that was twenty or so feet away.

He was an American named Arnold Price and she was an English woman named Betty Sanders.

When they got there they politely took turns to read a plaque that was on the wall to one side that identified the white marble statue, in both Spanish and English, as being, “An Unknown Roman Athlete,” and then they stood side by side and did some more absorbing.

It was also made of white marble and the athlete was naked and intact except for missing two fingers from its left hand and one penis from its center.

He’d noticed her in the Lobby earlier as they were both looking through the free brochures and he’d admired her open attractiveness. She looked a little like what he imagined Joanne Woodward must have looked like when she was in her thirties but without her strange inner bloom and maybe not quite so attractive overall. He’d been interested enough to keep an eye on her, while they were kept waiting for their guides to show up and do some more shepherding, until he was reasonably sure that she wasn’t with anyone.

She’d seen him glancing her way several times when they were in the Lobby and, although he was way too bald and a little too heavy for her taste, he was the first acceptable man who’d shown any interest in her at all up to then so she held the suggestion of a smile on her face – her mirror had told her that if she didn’t do that her mouth relaxed into what bore resemblance to a grimace – and she made a mental note to be agreeable to him if they met up on the tour of the museum or afterwards in one of the galleries or shops.

He hadn’t heard what language her Group Leader was using and so, seeing that they were in a town that was in Spain but near the French border, he ventured, “Buenos dias, Senorita. Comment ca va, Mademoiselle?” thus covering both bases.

She knew from his accents with both of his greetings that neither one was in his first language so she replied, “Gutten tag, mein Herr. Multo ben, gracia.”

They both laughed and hers nearly covered up the word, ”Really!” and nearly buried in his was the phrase, “Oh! Good one.” Which told them that they shared the same mother tongue.

Because, as is the general rule with people under eighty or so, they’d both come on their tours to find adventure and, hopefully, meet someone compatible they both gave out that hardly perceptible signal that gives the other one permission to take things one step further knowing that there was little chance of being rebuffed out of hand or, at least, of not being made overly embarrassed after taking it.

Just as he was about to make a comment about her having deserted her group and, because of that, would get into trouble with her keeper she told him, disconcertingly, that she’d had to escape from her group because she was tired of listening to the guide because he was continually making up facts that conflicted with the ones that she’d read in her guidebooks just before every new stop . . . “three times in this museum alone!”

He said that while he, himself, was in no position to doubt his own guide’s veracity, due to his having done zero research beforehand, “It’s my guy’s voice that’s turned me off because he seems to be in love with it and he’s rarely stopped using it for four days and consequently I’ve begun to believe that it’s coming at me from all sides and from above and below and whether I’m awake or asleep.”

They saw that their groups were moving on but by then they were introducing themselves, and swapping backgrounds, so they let them go.

Arnold told her that he was an Entrepreneur in Computer Circuitry Design Engineering and she absorbed that in one gulp and then she told him that she was – not a ‘Nurse’ which is what she usually called herself – a Licensed, Certified, Registered, Psychiatric Practical Nurse in order to counterbalance his multi-syllable job description.

On the spur of the moment he asked her if she’d like to take a longer break from her Jailer and have lunch with him in the restaurant whose promising-looking sign could be seen through the window that was to one side of the emasculated statue that they’d been looking at.

She agreed readily and as they left she said, “This statue should be relabeled. Its plaque should read, ‘An Unfortunate Unknown Roman Athlete.’ ”

They knew that they had plenty of time because their buses weren’t scheduled to leave for three more hours – to give the suckers time to buy various ‘adornos’ in the shops where the guides were given a commission on everything that got sold – and so they popped into a small bar for an aperitif before going into the restaurant.

As is often the case in small restaurants in Spain the staff members were all related and these were very attentive and because their first course, recommended by their waiter, turned out to be delicious they put themselves in the chef ’s hands and every course, along with the wines, stayed at the same high standard and two hours went by very agreeably.

They found that they were on the same tours, essentially, except that hers was headed north from Madrid to Paris whereas his had left Paris on its way south to Madrid.

They laughed together a great deal because they both trotted out much used stories that had rarely failed to amuse before and he found himself getting more and more drawn to her.

When they were waiting for his credit card to be returned he took a chance and said that he would abandon his tour if she’d do the same and come north with him in a hired car. Before she could answer he pointed out that because he would be retracing his stops she’d still get to see all the sites that were on her itinerary and with him as her guide, well-qualified because it was all fresh in his mind and he already knew the best places to eat and which ones to avoid and the easiest way to get to the off-track sites that he’d visited and that shouldn’t be missed.

He closed his case by saying, “I promise to not give you any facts that I’m not sure and – Ha! – that guarantees that you’ll never get tired of hearing my voice. Right?”

Later on she presumed that it must have been the wonderful wine that had made her agree to go along with his outrageous suggestion. However, she did so, somewhat reluctantly, with the proviso that he was to agree to let her, as they were driving north, tell him all about the wonders that she’d seen on the first part of her tour. The ones that he’d never get to see for himself because of his strange decision.

Whatever her true motivation was – his were obvious – they sought out their own group’s bus and they asked to be allowed to take away their luggage. By tipping their drivers/guides generously their way was smoothed although they both made them wait until they’d called their head office. Their Supervisor told them to demand signatures on release forms that pointed out, forcefully, that no future request for re-imbursement would be countenanced.

 Arnold called a cab and told the driver to take them to the nearest Avis or Hertz or, whatever.

In the first town that would have been on her route – they had already crossed into France – he pulled into the driveway of a large four-star hotel and when he got to the front desk he booked two rooms and used his credit card to pay for both.

She fully intended to re-pay him later and that gave her leave to ask how much her room would cost and she yelped in protest when she found out.

He asked her to go along with him this one time and promised to explain why at dinner and she did so to avoid causing a scene.

They went up to their rooms and showered and rested up and at seven o’clock he called her and asked if it was all right for him to book a table for dinner at eight o’clock.

When they were seated she gave him more leeway by agreeing that they should both have the locally made aperitif that, he said, was famous all over France, and the half dozen oysters that come with it almost automatically. They then picked their main courses and she heard him discuss appropriate wine choices with the Sommelier.

They kept up a spirited conversation all through the meal – helped enormously by all the alcohol – and, at last, with coffee and brandy to hand, she said, “So, tell me. I’m guessing that you’re going to say that you recently sold a computer company that you started in your father’s garage.”

He replied that she was dead wrong. “I wasn’t one of those nerds who quit college to develop soft-ware and then sold out for millions. No, I was one of those nerds who finished college and then worked in a cubicle for a big company for nearly ten years and lived from paycheck to paycheck.

“But then, by a stroke of luck, I went to my high school’s fifteenth reunion and I met one of my ex-fellow nerds there who had done the drop-out and start-up and sell-out bit and was then so rich that – well – he told me that he had so much money that it had become a joke. I told him that that might be true for him but most people don’t get to find the humor in it.

“Well, the reunion got to be boring so we decided to have a drink in every bar in town which was a regular thing for us way back when. It’s a small town but even so we got drunk and just before we got into separate taxis to go home he told me about a promising IPO that was going to be offered up a few days from then.

“The next morning I didn’t remember much about the night before but I did remember the name of the company that he’d recommended and how enthusiastic he’d been about it and so – it was, after all, advice from a multi-millionaire who had been very sure of himself and no doubt pure envy played its part – so, I emptied my bank account and borrowed ten thousand from my parents and then I called my father’s broker and got him to buy all the shares that he could when they came on the market and, very importantly, on margin.

“Uh, d’you know what ‘on margin’ means?”

“I do.”

“Uh, well sure you do. I should have known that. Sorry.

“Well, they shot up in price and they went so high that when I sold ten percent of them after six months I got enough cash to pay my parents back and to buy myself a new Mustang.”

“Wow. Well done.”

“Yes, thanks, but wait, it gets even better. A year later I couldn’t believe how high the shares had gone up and I didn’t think that they could possibly keep that up so I sold all of them, and then, on the advice of that same broker, who wanted to show his thanks, I bought Apple at just the right time.

“Well, five years later, when my accountant told me what my net worth was, I didn’t think it was possible that there was any more money out there with my name on it, so I sold out and bought bonds and treasuries and I haven’t done any trading since.

“So you see, for me too money is now a joke and paying a few hundred dollars for a room in a hotel, or even a few thousand dollars, means very little overall.”

When she’d digested that last bit she said, “Arnold, I’m happy to know that you’re rich enough to afford all of this luxury but the truth is that none of it impresses me much. Sixty or seventy percent of it is totally unnecessary and is mostly pretentious nonsense and it is certainly a tremendous waste of resources.

“Look around us – there are dozens of tables but less than a half of them have been used in the hour or so that we’ve been here but, even so, they employ a Sommelier and they charge Paris prices for each bottle of wine even though we are in the best wine producing area in the whole country and I’ll bet that bottles of it that are just as good can be bought for much, much less in stores all around the town. Also, there is a Maitre D’ who hovers around to the point of being very annoying and there are four waiters and one or the other fills our wine and water glasses a minute after we drink from either one and I, for one, would much rather pour my own. I like draining each glass when it gets low. Don’t you? It’s satisfying that way. It’s like punctuation. Then there are several waitresses with not enough to do so, to look busy, they snatch away our plates when they think we’ve finished with them and are careful to not make eye contact with us when they do so because they know that that way we can’t make a fuss by complaining. As to that, I like having a salad to pick from while I’m eating the other courses, don’t you? It lightens things up and can be used to clear the palette when needed. True?

“Besides all that, and you must agree with me on this, although every dish is very pretty the food itself only tastes good, not superb, and I know that in this country it’s always at least this good in every little café you can go in. Also, in those little places they never practice Nouvelle Cuisine, thank God, so when they bring each meal to you it looks like what you ordered and not like a composition on a plate that must have taken several chefs to arrange and that means that it was ‘hands on’ by them all in turn. And their sauce concoctions! I was careful to not taste the dribble that was around my pheasant breast because it looked suspiciously like melted chocolate with smashed blueberries in it. What nonsense.

“Another thing. The house wines in those little places are always all that you could ever want in a wine. There’s no reason to have to have a consultation about which one to have with the different courses.

“Best of all, in those little places service is offered only when you ask for it and they’re never – uh – smarmy about it.

“And then there are our rooms.  They’re enormous with two huge beds and not one but two desks and chairs and two TV’s and a mini-bar that is in no way mini. The bathroom is as big as my living room at home and it has two washbowls and a bidet and its shower is separate from the bathtub. Why?

“Worst of all – I don’t feel pampered up there at all. I feel that I’m wasting resources and indulging in sickening excess.”

She saw that Arnold was looking crestfallen so she hurried to say, “Oh dear. I’m sorry about going on like that but that’s what I think so if you still want us to travel north together then I insist that from now on we pick modest hotels to stay in and we’ll eat dinner in small restaurants and we’ll buy a baguette and different kinds of filling for it for lunch everyday and we’ll buy wine from a small grocery store and we’ll eat and drink on a park bench somewhere that is surrounded by grass.

“Oh wait, there’s more. For breakfast everyday we’ll buy coffee and plain croissants because there isn’t a better way to start the day. There, I’ve finished. What do you think?”

After awhile Arnold managed to lift his head up and he told her that he was delighted to be able to say that he agreed to every term except one. That one was that he preferred chocolate croissants rather than plain ones.

He went on to say, “You know, I too have always preferred small cafes, in this country especially as I found out for myself when I was in Paris and on the way down here, because I can simply ask what dish is most popular with the locals and then order that one.

“The same goes for what wine to get and there’s little or no disdain for my poor French and it’s good to see the menu, if there is one, written on a blackboard. It’s a bit like, ‘Today’s catch.’ Right?

“In them, ‘Hunger is accepted as universal and the assuaging of it is their profession.’ As I read somewhere.

“Besides that I always stay in modest hotels because I only use the room to sleep in and all that I need, besides the bed, is a bathroom and a chair to put my clothes on.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said, “but in that case, why all this?”

“Ah. I wanted to impress you. I see now that I should have asked. Sorry.”

He went on to say that there was another proviso that he wanted to impose.

“I want you to agree to let me pay for everything, with never another quibble from you, until we get to Paris and I put you on the train to London. That is a deal breaker so I want to hear a, ‘Yes,’ from you.”

They went for a little stroll around town and they had another brandy in a small bar before going back to their hotel and then they went on up to their separate rooms.

When she’d dumped five of the six pillows from one bed onto the other one and was pulling the covers back she thought that it was a pity that it was too early for him to have asked her if he could sleep with her. It came to her that she’d never slept with a millionaire before and, besides that, she’d grown to like him enough to regret that he wasn’t, at that same moment, pulling back the bed covers over on the other side.

They continued north, making all her scheduled stops but having the luxury of being able to modify the length of time spent at each one to suit themselves.

When they got to Paris it was late and so they had to spend the night there and, in the morning, he had to take her straight to Paris Norte because they’d stretched the trip out for so long that she had to be back in work the next day.

He then drove to the airport and caught a plane to New York.

She had given him her home phone number before boarding the train and when she’d finished waving goodbye she sat down and pondered yet again why he hadn’t made any moves on her throughout the trip.

When, the night before, he’d told her that he’d called his agent in New York and had asked him to book them into the Georg V – he pushed aside her objections by telling her that it might well be the only time that she’d ever get a chance to stay there – she’d fully expected him to ask her if they could share one room and was disappointed when she found out that they had a room each. She was even more disappointed when, after having a superb meal, he’d gone up to her room with her but had then merely kissed her on the cheek before wishing her good night and going on to his own room that was down the corrdor.

He called her at her home several times every week over the following month or so and the calls lasted longer and longer each time because, as was usual, they talked effortlessly and spiritedly of many things.

And then, one night, he told her that he was coming over to London on business and that he’d like her to take time off from work to show him around.

Since seeing him she’d passed her thirty-fifth birthday and that was a particularly large milestone for her because she had long thought – that is, since her thirtieth birthday – of that number as being the undeniable cut-off point for women to any longer harbor illusions about being young still.

She was uncertain as to whether to go on seeing him if, during his coming visit, he insisted on keeping their relationship on a platonic level and she feared that, because he’d shown no interest in bedding her on their European trip, that that was all he would ever want from her. A companion! She already had plenty of those, thank you – although it was true that none of them were millionaires – but what good was their companionship if none of them could service her deep needs, which were ever present and ever more persistent as her inner clock kept on ticking, nor her more superficial ones, which were to be kept warm and snug on winter nights?

To probe that end of things she talked to an old friend to whom she had already related all that had happened with the ‘rich Yank’ that she’d met on her tour.

She told her friend, Marge, about the coming visit and that she wasn’t sure if she should push the issue by being brazen.

Marge reminded her that they both had less than a hundred eggs left and that she, Betty, should do all that she could to see to it that none of them got laid – “Ooops! Sorry.” – in vain or, at least, should endeavor to see to it that as few of them as possible should be allowed to pass on down and out without encountering myriads of those ‘darling little squiggly things.’

She also remarked that ‘rich’ was good and ‘time’ was bad and sex was the best weapon, maybe the only weapon, that she had to get the good one and use it to find shelter from the bad one.

She was wearing filmy lingerie when she left home to go and meet him.

He had somehow gotten a suite in the Connaught Hotel and, as everyone knows, it is difficult to do that on short notice and the prices are unbelievably high but, even though he knew about her disdain about such things, he wasn’t the least bit apologetic and he justified it by saying that he was using the Georg V ploy again but this time for his own benefit.

Seeing that it was her town he gave her carte blanch in all things and so she chose her favorite restaurant in Soho for lunch.

In the afternoon she took him to the National Portrait Gallery – she saw to it that they approached it from Charring Cross Station to spare him from seeing the disappointing extension – and then they walked back to his hotel for afternoon tea. She had insisted on that, to his great surprise, because she’d been hearing about how splendid it was – like at the Ritz – for most of her life and she figured that the Georg V ploy was still viable.

He got the concierge to get them tickets for the play that she picked out and before they left to go and see it she asked him to make reservations there for dinner that night. However, that ploy had nothing to do with Georg V and was everything to do with, ‘Getting Betty Sanders’s eggs molested.’

They enjoyed the show and, afterwards, she led him on a little tour of crowded, cheerful, noisy pubs where the beer was served in huge pint glasses and was easily assimilated and warmly welcomed by their empty stomachs. She directed their pub-crawl so that they ended up within easy walking distance of their hotel and they went in and had a wonderful meal.

They had lots to talk about, as usual, and when he looked up and around for some reason it was to find that they were the last ones still sitting in the place.

 He was surprised that no waiters had come over to give hints, by discrete coughing or by asking, “Would there be anything else, Sir?” so he left a big tip but he took great care to see to it that she didn’t get to see the amount.

By that time it had gotten to be very late and when they were in the lobby she picked her moment and she told him that she wanted to stay the night with him and he wasn’t to even try to book another room for her. “Is that all right with you?”

She undressed in the bathroom and came out wearing only a towel.

She found that he had undressed too and was wearing one of the hotel’s bath robes.

When he saw her let the towel fall he shrugged off his robe and went to her.

Her eyes opened wide when she saw how well hung he was.

He kissed her and then led her to the bed.

They explored each other’s bodies with hands and lips and tongues and he showed very evident fondness for every part of her.

She loved the heft of his penis, it seemed to belong in her hand somehow, but although it got a little longer and a little plumper as they continued with the caressing it did not get hard enough to be put to use.

That was serious indeed and she knew it very well but she accepted the challenge and she redoubled her efforts and she took him in hand, as it were, by introducing it to every part of her body that can be used to excite the male appendage but – it did not rise to the occasion no matter what she did.

Eventually she had to give up and so she sat up in the bed and reached over to put another light on and then she said, “You’d better tell me what’s going on with you. Right? You’re obviously not gay but are you impotent or is it that you just don’t like me enough?”

He had a stricken look on his face, as might he well have, and he said, dejectedly, “Well, it certainly isn’t that last one because I’ve never met a woman who I liked nearly as much. And I’m not impotent because I often have – uh – wet dreams and I always wake up just before I – uh – come and it’s always rock hard.”

“But you’re close to being forty years old man. Surely you know by now what stimulates you best. What do other women do for you to – uh – make it happen?”

“None ever have.”

“What? You’ve got to be kiddi . . . but no – you wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t the truth  . . . . Then you’re a virgin still. Oh, my God! You poor man. Oh, dear me . . . But . . . I don’t understand this. Why didn’t you tell me before or at least saw to it that this never happened. It’s hardly fair to me, is it?”

“No it isn’t and I’m truly sorry about that, but do you think that I haven’t given it a tremendous amount of thought?

“The thing is that, well, I know it’s selfish of me but I was hoping that you’d be the answer. I’ve tried just about everything over the years and my last hope was that going to bed with a woman who I really loved would solve the problem and from the first day that I met you I knew that you were special and I began to fall in love with you back then and it’s grown everyday since.

“I was too scared to actually risk it but you forced the issue earlier tonight . . . Argh! How I wish that we hadn’t done this because I could go on living with hope but now I can’t even do that. Right? Do you see? Arrgh, what’s the use? I’m about ready to give up altogether.”

“Oh, please don’t say that. It’s not the end of the world exactly although it might seem that way for you right now. Well, now. Let’s see what we can do about it. Please tell me all the things that you’ve tried over the years.”

“What? Everything? That would take hours.”

“We’ve got hours. Tell me.”

“Really? All of it?”

“All of it and remember that I’m a Registered Practical Psychiatric Nurse so I’ve heard and seen it all before. Have you got that? Don’t hold back because the smallest detail might be important.”

“Ho, there’s no danger about my forgetting anything about you because I remember everything that you’ve ever told me. Well, let’s see. I found out about it when I was around fourteen and in high school and in college I kept a low profile when it came to dating so my secret was safe but I did try making out with girls, now and again, after drinking bourbon and/or various drugs and, uh, well there was Zen and things like that, hoping that one of them would let me get, uh, excited when I got to touch her. Nothing worked.

“When the rumors started circulating I picked up whores and, uh, displayed them to put everyone off the scent, as it were, and it was then that I found out that using prostitutes was the safest method for my experiments because they didn’t mind in the least, in fact they loved it, when they found out that they wouldn’t have to do anything to get paid.

“And then, when I got rich, I tried dating beautiful women and then thin women and then fat women and then very young women and then older women and I tried very expensive drugs and all kinds of concoctions, but – same thing.

“Over the years I’ve also, of course, seen a whole bunch of Therapists and Psychiatrists and Psychologists and Analysts and, well, if you can name it I’ve tried it, believe me.”

“Well, I’ve got to admit that I’m impressed but I’ll bet that you’ve never consulted a Registered Practical Psychiatric Nurse before. Right?”

“Well, no but what could you know that the others don’t?”

“Nothing, but over here – of course, I can’t speak for what happens in your country -over here RPN(P)’s have to have worked in most of the departments of a hospital, over the years, and have taken extra courses too so we’re uniquely qualified. We never give up, for one thing, and, at ground level, we rarely fail to at least alleviate suffering. We accumulate remedies from all over and we can apply them when we recognize symptoms for what they are in real life and not what some textbook says about each one.

“I must admit that I’ve never before had to deal with your particular predicament so give me a moment to think . . . .

“My word! Look at what I have in my hand. How did that get there? I must say that it fits nicely and just so and I’m somewhat loath to let go of it but I must. Duty calls but isn’t it a pity that it’s never been put to its proper task. What a waste. But, enough already. I’ll have to put some space between us to be able to concentrate . . . . There. Ah, well.”

 She put his robe on and then she covered him with the towel that she’d used, so as to not be distracted, and then she pulled up a chair and sat facing him.

 She pondered for a few minutes and then she asked, “When you go into a public Men’s Room do you have trouble urinating if someone else is in there?”

When he got through gasping he said, “Yes. I have done ever since I can remember. It’s always annoying and inconvenient and sometimes it’s embarrassing too. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you shouldn’t be embarrassed because, like baldness, it’s both common – as many as three adult men out of ten have it to some extent, akin to balding ones although that’s even more common – and it’s a sign of excess masculinity rather than anything else. It’s due to your bladder’s sphincter getting a signal from the primal area of your brain – the part where automatic breathing and the like is controlled – that tells it to not open because it has already put your other systems into the ‘fight or flight’ mode due to the other male’s presence. It makes sense doesn’t it? You can hardly do either thing – fight or flee – when you’re urinating, can you?

“Wow, I’ve never heard that before. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Yes it does and, what’s more, it can be easily and quickly verified by having me, or another professional woman, stay with you for a few hours and have you drink a few glass-fulls of water until your bladder tells you that it needs to be emptied. You then go into the bathroom and you leave the door open and she stands in the doorway and talks to you about the weather, or whatever, and you then lift the cover and the seat of the toilet bowl and see if you can empty your bladder normally and as if she wasn’t there.

“If you can do so that is proof positive that it is the ‘Fight or Flight’ aspect that inhibits you when other men are present. Well now, because of that confirmation we’ve already taken a large step in the right direction but – because we can’t hardly get you a license to use Ladies’ Rooms nor one that lets you take a half dozen women with you into a Men’s Room – we have to experiment until we find the right way to treat your particular case of shy bladder symptom, as it’s called. That means that we’d have to find the way to help you to activate your body’s triggering mechanism that gets your sphincter to relax and we’d try various proven methods – like splashing cold water onto your face which reassures the portion of your brain that deals with water conservation that another supply is at hand; and instead of staring at the wall in front of you bring up an image of a place that has happy memories for you, like building a tree house or playing baseball of football, or whatever and then think of yourself as being there. Also, some men find it helpful to hum a mantra of some kind.

“So, what we do when you’ve tried all those things, that is, after a few months of doing them – if they work out for you, good, if not then we have to take it to the next step which is to examine your mental make-up in order to find out how deeply imbedded your flight or fight syndrome is and then figure out a way to get it to ease off seeing that there aren’t all that many saber toothed tigers or cave bears bearing down on us these days.

“Well OK, enough. Let’s get back to the main problem although you do see, don’t you, that in both cases mental inhibitions are central to the problem which is why I brought the second one up.

“Are you OK with that?”

“I guess so.”

“Wrong answer! What we’re dealing with here is science and no guessing is involved.

“So, let’s look at the question overall. To achieve a viable erection you need the arterial muscles in your penis to relax which increases blood flow in them, which, in turn, restricts your veins and that lowers the amount of blood that can leave the area. Well, you probably know all of that already so what we’re concerned with here, remembering that you don’t have a problem with the mechanics of it, is to track the lack of the triggering process that gets it all started.

“You know, I’ve always thought that Nature made a huge mistake in the design department when she didn’t provide men with a retractable bone that could be called into service when required, like with walruses and some other animals. It would be much more practical and reliable and it would have certainly avoided a whole lot of turmoil in the world.

“Well, that is very interesting but it’s not moving us forwards is it? So, let’s see where we’re at. We have to go back and find out what the problem with the triggering mechanism in your brain is. The question that we have to deal with is – why is your Id so dramatically ranged against your best interests? Perhaps it’s the old, hoary, classical one – all women are either Whores or Madonnas and you aren’t allowed to deposit your seed in either of them because one is not worthy of receiving it and you aren’t worthy of depositing it in the other. What do you think? I guess that you’ve heard that theory several times before, right?”

“Well, yes I have. Uh, don’t think for a minute that I’m not grateful for your efforts here but I’ve heard that Whore/Madonna one many times. From every specialist that I’ve been to, I think, and I don’t buy it. The trouble that I have with it is that I like all women, whores and, well, I don’t know any Madonnas but Ladies too. I have zero prejudices against any of them. I like them all.”

“Well, I did say that that was the classic one, didn’t I? Uh, let’s not be so negative here. It’s a step-by-step process. We have to probe the whole area if we’re going to close in on the basic problem so let’s give that lovely word ‘Holistic’ some room to grow.

“Well, let’s see. Your systems function properly when you’re asleep because no inhibitions are present then or maybe you’ve conquered them already. Yes, that’s the most likely reason – in your dreams you can stay inside the strictly enforced, overly-restrictive parameters that your Id has set up if the completion of the act is allowed to happen.

“Uh, you know, of course, that if it wasn’t for your regular nocturnal emissions you’d probably be in bad shape both mentally and physically so be happy about that part. It is relief writ large for you. Now then, let’s talk about these parameters.

“Do you remember much about your dreams when your reaction to them wakes you up, and, more importantly, do you remember who your partner was? Did she have any outstanding characteristics that we can work with?”

“None. I always glimpse a shadowy figure easing off, in the background, but it fades before I can see what she looks like or if I can recognize her.”

“Well, yes that’s a characteristic all right but not one that we can use, I’m afraid. Uh, if it was your mother you’d know it, right?”

“Ah, another, what did you call it? A ‘hoary old classic’ right? Well, yes. I surely would know and it certainly isn’t her, believe me. Ah, let me help you out here – I’m sure that it’s not a male figure either.”

“That wouldn’t have been one of my questions because I already have first hand proof that you like women’s bodies far too much for that. Not to say, bordering on overly much.

“Now, what else is there? Ah yes. Do you masturbate much?”

“Yes. I can do it successfully whenever I want to because it’s big enough to work with even when it’s not properly hard. I used to do it frequently at one time in my life. I found that if I did it just before going to sleep I didn’t get woken up by it in the night although I sometimes found that I had another erection – a morning chubby – when the alarm clock went off. However, I haven’t done it for years now. It’s demeaning somehow and boring too and I guess that’s because I don’t get hard enough to get the proper motivation.”

“Exactly right. Studies have shown . . . Well, let’s not go there. Uh, tell me, who did you visualize, or fantasize about, when you used to do it?”

“Sorry. No one person, just a woman’s – uh – parts. Any woman’s parts.”

“Oh! I can’t get a break here. Well, let’s try to clear up another point that’s just occurred to me. You told me that you’ve been in love with me for months now, which is very flattering and I have to say that I feel the same way, but have I appeared in any of your dreams.”

“I wish.”

“Yes, me too. It would have made this much easier wouldn’t it? In fact, we would have already solved it and would be going at it hammer and tongs, right? But, to get back to business, if, as you say, I am the first woman that you’ve ever loved why, do you think, haven’t I replaced this phantom woman in your dreams?”

“Beats me all to hell. I’ve been hoping that you’d come into them and I’ve tried to project you into them by concentrating my thinking on you before going to sleep but it’s never happened.”

“Oh, so we can’t try to trick you psychologically, can we?”

She went silent again as she was doing more conjecturing but somehow a question came out of her mouth that her brain had formulated but had almost at once rejected as being too obvious to bother with asking.

“Of course, you’ve tried to fool your Id physically many times, haven’t you?”

“No, never. How do you mean? How could I have done that?”

She wasn’t listening to him and so he had to call her name twice to get her attention and when he got it he repeated his question but then he had to repeat her own question because she hadn’t bothered to register it.

When they were back on the same page she was incredulous. She leapt to her feet and said, “You mean that none of all those women you bedded had the sense to try to trick you into thinking that she was the one. The phantom woman in your dreams?”

“Nope. Narry a one.  How could they have done that?”

“Well, if I’d been one of them I’d have known that if I could solve your problem I’d – uh – be able to demand huge rewards from then on, right? I’d have tried all manner of things to get on your good side. Well, they weren’t a very bright bunch and I guess that that’s partly understandable with lay people but what about all those professional people that you saw? The Therapists? Are you telling me that none of them suggested it either?”

“Nope. Please tell me what you’re talking about and why you’ve gotten so agitated.”

“Well, surely it’s one of the first things to try. Give me another minute here, please.”

She walked back and forth for quite a while and then she said, “Sorry about that. I was wondering as to whether it would be best to talk it over with you first or do it ‘blind,’ as it were, and I think it’s best to leave you in the dark – after all, we only get one chance to do it that way, right?

“Tell me, how long after falling asleep do you have to be, usually, before you’re woken up on the point of ejaculating?”

“Between one and two hours.”

“Is that amount of time shortened if you’ve been – uh – touching a woman a little earlier?”

“Uh, yes, I guess so. Ah. Sorry. Let me think . . . . Ah, yes. I’m pretty sure that it does.”

“Good. All right. Well, there’s one more question before we begin – are you always lying on your back when you get woken up?”

“Ah, that’s one that I can answer at once. Yes. Always.”

“Good. Well let’s get on with it shall we? I’m going to come into bed with you and I want you to touch me for a few minutes, like before, and then, when I get out of bed, I want you to compose yourself for sleep. Remember, you’ve had a long day and added to that is your jet lag in that, for you, it is now around five o’clock in the morning.”

She slipped off her robe and got onto the bed again and he didn’t have to be asked, nor given directions as to how to proceed, and he enjoyed himself by going on some choice explorations.

When she figured that he’d had enough stimulation she moved away from him and got off the bed and then she asked him to stand up so that she could arrange the sheets correctly.

 She stripped off the covers and got him to lie down again and she then pulled just the top sheet over him and told him that he was to try to convince himself that she’d left him alone for the rest of the night and then compose himself for sleep.

She switched all the lights out in the bedroom and then she went into the sitting room and partially closed his door. She put a side light on in there and she moved a chair so that she could sit and look at him on his bed through the little opening that she’d left.

She began to read a copy of The New York Times that he’d brought over with him and she raised her eyes from time to time to check on him. When she could see that he’d fallen asleep she pushed the door further open and then went back to her paper.

She had just reached the last of the op-ed articles when things began to happen.

The part of the sheet that was over his mid-section began to imitate a tent and, as she watched, the tent-pole that was responsible for that got to be close to vertical as he began to move his head around and to murmur things that made no sense.

She put the paper down and she went to him and after switching some lights on she pulled away the sheet and saw that the tent-pole was huge already and was heading towards awesome.

Its size gave her pause and forced her to – not to reconsider because she was wise enough to know that if her endeavors worked out she would be accommodating it so often in the coming weeks that, not only would it no longer hurt her, but she’d be almost certainly very grateful that he was this well blessed – think about how best to protect herself this first time.

She went into the bathroom and read the labels on all of the little bottles until she found one that contained hand cream and she took off her robe and applied the cream liberally and then went back to him.

 She climbed up onto the bed and she straddled him and then she, gingerly but determinedly, eased herself down until she was engulfing him completely.

Through her pain she realized that it was so big that it had opened her up so much that, for the first time in her life, all of her pleasure sensors and enhancers were being brought into play and by doing that, in unison, they made her lose control. Even though the pain was intense her need to get more friction was much stronger than it was and so she had to lift up a little and then drop down and soon she couldn’t stop herself from doing it.

Her original intention had been to engulf him entirely and then to gage his dream’s progress and then wake him up with kisses just before he ejaculated and thus force a fait accompli. However, she couldn’t bring herself to quit moving up and down and, evidently, her timing didn’t conform with what was going on in his dream which woke him up in a state of confusion.

It took some time for him to find out what was happening but when he did so he let out a whoop of joy as he took charge of the proceedings.

He pushed against her knees until he’d straightened her legs and then he pulled at her shoulders until she was lying full out on him and then he grabbed her buttocks and made her turn with him until he was on top of her.

When he was withdrawing the first time to be able to plunge back into her they both knew that the next few seconds were the crucial ones in that it all might come to an abrupt halt if he found that he had nothing left to plunge back in with.

He knew that the only that he could do was to shoulder his way through the moment and he did so and the all-important seconds passed, to their vast relief, without leaving them both bereft.

He let out another whoop and then, understandably, he began to move his hips as fast as he could and he had zero regard for her wellbeing because he wanted to get this first time done and over with, at last.

She did not have an easy time of it because she was getting pounded to a frazzle and she quickly forgot about trying to get any more pleasure from it because she was fully occupied with trying to not get hurt. She put her hands on his hips and pushed up at them on his every down stroke to try to lessen the shocks that her pubic bone was being subjected to and to counteract the pain that it gave her.

Outside of her immediate concern for survival she was happy for him as he rode her while yelling like a schoolboy because he was proud of his continuing prowess and with the feeling of domination and satisfaction that penetration gives all males.

She was also pleased with her success and her cleverness although, even in the midst of her suffering, she had to admit to herself that she had a tremendous advantage over his other therapists in that she had the unquantifiable factor of love on her side and so she hadn’t had to merely hand out advice and then send in a surrogate to do the ‘field work.’

She stoically endured the onslaught until he finished with a roar of triumph that must have been heard down in the lobby.

He was far too heavy to stay on top of her so he pulled out and they lay still for a long time, flat on their backs and side-by-side, and when he’d recovered a little he murmured endearments and told her how much he loved her and how grateful he was.

When he could move his body a little he reached for her and they slept, entwined.

She was woken up by his kisses and more endearments and she saw, from the light that was coming in from the sides of the curtains, that it had to be well into the morning already. She returned his kisses and some appropriate murmurings and then the soreness that she felt at her center reminded her of all that had happened the night before and of their success. His kisses prompted caresses and she then remembered how nice the heft of him had felt so she reached down to renew her acquaintance with it and what she found there made her squeal.

He giggled and then proudly told her that for the first time in his life he had woken it up rather that the other way around.

She was still very sore and she knew that he would want to do it again right then, and she also knew that he would want to do it many times in the immediate future to try to catch up for the years that he’d gone without, and nothing in all of her training was helping her find an answer to the pressing question: When would her poor vagina get time to heal and thus allow her to experience pleasure rather than pain? At the same time she knew what she had to do and what her role had to be.

“Oh, you wonderful man,” she said. “Bring it here to me this instant.”

She turned onto her back and as she composed herself and prepared for the coming fray she found some comfort from the fact that, at least, none of the rest of her eggs had a hope in hell of passing on down and out without encountering, ‘Myriads of those darling little squiggly things.’

He hurried to get on top of her and then he pushed his way in and in the seconds before Nature took over, and banished rational thinking entirely, he let the details flash across his brain of all his many endeavors over the years to get to be able to perform this simple, basic, but oh so important and fundamental act.

And then he had just enough time left to accommodate the thought that surely at least a half of all the many therapists back home should be replaced by RPN(P)’s.