XXIX. Surrogate Story, Step One, Part One

I was twenty-two years old and still a virgin. I had no girlfriend, no prospects, and no clue. Oh, I could make a great introduction – catch a girl’s initial interest, get her laughing and such, but after a few minutes, it inevitably would all go wrong. I’d lose them, talking myself into some corner or worse yet, scare them away with my needy, frenetic energy. It eventually became clear to me that I stank of desperation. I thought that if I could just get laid, it would take the edge off. But how?

I perused the classifieds in the local “alternative” weekly, hoping that somehow, some woman, somewhere, was compatible with my particular combination of neuroses and musical tastes. I focused on the mainstream Women Seeking Men section. I wasn’t ready for the more overtly sexual or fetishistic sections, although I did browse them for entertainment. I don’t remember which section it was in, but when I saw the ad for The Institute for Sexual Surrogate Therapy, I immediately knew it was the Answer. Yet, somehow, it seemed like cheating. Wouldn’t it be the same as going to a prostitute? And if so, why not just go to a prostitute? I had three reasons:
1. It was safe, on a few levels.
2. It was legal, as far as I knew.
3. It was “therapy,” so it was clinically and psychologically sound… right?

I tore the ad out of the paper, stuck in my bedroom mirror, and stared at it every morning for weeks before I got the balls to call.

Before I could meet the actual surrogate, I had to consult with Dr. Myles, the psychiatrist who ran the place – a medically licensed pimp, if you will. He had a thick, graying comb-over and large sideburns; he looked like a cross between Hugh Hefner and a 70s Group Encounter type. I could picture him back in the day, wearing a leisure suit and medallion. He asked me a number of probing, personal questions, jotting down notes. I felt it was in my best interest to be open and forthright, but I didn’t expect the next question – he asked me to describe my ejaculate. I thought about it for a moment, first about why he would ask such a thing, then about how to describe it. “Um… white? Gooey? Viscous?”

“No, no. How does it come out? Does it shoot out? Does it drip? Does it ooze?”

“Kind of drips out, I suppose. Maybe more of an ooze. I’m not really sure of the difference.”

Dr. Myles made another note. I felt like I was being graded. He flipped his notepad shut, slowly nodding to himself in a way which suggested that he was now in possession of the Full Picture. He informed me that before I could meet the surrogate, I would have to prepare, do homework. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a large, rubber, flesh-colored, realistically textured phallus. He cradled the scrotum in one hand. What was I signing up for? I was somewhat relieved to learn it was for use as an instructional prop for masturbation lessons. Then I wondered why I needed masturbation lessons.

“You have to learn how to control your penis,” he explained, “You do this with what we call the ‘Three Part Method,’ working the penis in three discrete parts,” he pointed to each part in turn, “the base, the least sensitive part; the shaft, medium sensitive; and the head, the most sensitive. Make short strokes, focusing on only one section at a time,” he demonstrated on each section, “You should spend most of your time on the base and shaft. If you spend too much time on the head, you’ll get too excited, that’s no good. If you are too excited and feel you are about to lose control, slow down and take deep breaths. If it’s absolutely necessary, stop completely and let yourself go soft,” he let the phallus droop, the head swung like a pendulum, “When you’re ready, completely relaxed, you can return to it. Don’t worry,” he chuckled a fatherly chuckle, “your penis will wait for you,” and he swung the phallus back up.

“Now it’s absolutely necessary that each of your sessions last at least twenty minutes. That’s when you know you have control. I suggest you buy an egg timer.”

“Once you’re consistently making twenty minutes, you may proceed to what we call ‘Tromboning.’ In ‘Tromboning,’ you work the entire penis,” he stroked the phallus from base to head in full, confident strokes. “Eventually, you can even mix the methods – long strokes, short strokes, long, short, short, long, long, long, short, short, short…” And he got into it. He was playing that phallus like jazz. He was changing rhythm, changing tempo. He was hitting high notes. He was in the Zone.

Watching him, I found myself getting a little… aroused. I slid down in my chair and crossed my legs, waiting for him to finish and questioning my sexuality. When he finally came around, he stopped and cleared his throat, “You, uh… think you have it?”

“I think so.”

“Would you like to try?” he offered me the phallus, head first, from across the desk

“No, I’m good. Thanks anyway,” I didn’t particularly like the idea of us both holding it at the same time, even in passing.

“Suit yourself,” he dropped the phallus back in the drawer. It landed with a thud. He interlaced his fingers and brought them to his chin, “Now, let’s talk price.”

To be continued…