THE IMMIGRANT (25 page)

How much did Ananda earn anyway? He never told her so she couldn’t judge whether they could afford an extra ticket or whether he was trying to avoid taking her for some other reason.

On the plane to California Ananda had six hours to think about his situation and the lies he had told. He didn’t even know why he had lied. Nina would have been enthusiastic about any move to overhaul himself sexually, participated in the process wholeheartedly, but, he argued with himself, as a husband did he want his wife to expose her most private moments to a sex therapist? Especially when she didn’t have to, the problem was after all his. Of course the therapist would only show sympathy—but he was a doctor and he knew how prurient the curiosity behind the professional facade could be. Then she too would be encouraged to reveal her feelings. Call it inhibition, but he didn’t want to start out with Nina complaining about his sexual shortcomings, though he had to admit she was the one most affected.

This was a journey he preferred to make on his own. If he improved, he could tell her. If he didn’t, this would be one failure about which she need never know.

That was the big comfort. No one need ever know. As he flew through the vast skies of North America he felt liberated. Such an adventure would never have been possible at home. And if he came back with his manhood improved, perhaps he might really turn into an Omar Sharif.

When he had finally taken the step it had been easy, but it had taken marriage to push him. He owed Nina that.

It had been shortly after their last fight that he had phoned Masters and Johnson and described his problem.

Did he have a partner, they asked.

The single word no escaped his mouth, impelled by forces he did not examine.

They were sorry, but they only did couple therapy. If he so wished, they would be happy to give him names of therapists who took on single clients.

Yes, he so wished.

Dr Hansen in San Francisco had had excellent results in this area. Here was the number.

Over the phone, Ananda truthfully answered the many questions Dr Hansen asked him except the crucial one about whether he had ever been in a relationship.

‘Not really,’ he said.

It was simpler that way. It might also be true. All his adult life he had been alone with this problem; it was the background to everything. For years he had felt abnormal, with a hidden disfigurement. There was a lacuna where an erect, virile, nicely performing penis should be, which was reflected in the depths of his eyes when he looked at both men and women.

Two weeks of therapy, Dr Hansen had promised, and he would be a changed man. A changed man. He tried to imagine life without this particular torture and failed. Still he was travelling towards hope, and hope is a very potent thing. He would have two doctors (Dr Hansen worked with his wife) bringing all their expertise and knowledge to bear on him.

It was going to cost him heavily. Each day of treatment was a hundred dollars. With hotel and plane fare the whole thing came to almost three thousand, American. He had told Dr Hansen he needed a cheap hotel; the expenses were already crippling him.

He understood his concerns, said Dr Hansen. Usually they recommended a hotel on Telegraph Avenue to their clients. It was near the clinic, they saved on commuting time and money and they got a specially discounted rate for their two week stay.

It was afternoon when the plane taxied into the San Francisco airport. Ananda took a cab, marvelling all the while at the sun, the tropical vegetation, the palm trees. So this was California. He hadn’t felt such warmth outside India.

The drive was long. They crossed a bridge to enter Berkeley on the other side of the Bay. He felt the smallness of Halifax; the road system here was enough to dazzle. Finally he arrived at the Carlton Hotel. His room was pleasant, with huge windows overlooking the street, a small balcony with an awning, a double bed, muted lilac and blue bedspread. He could see a clock tower in the distance.

He phoned Nina—yes, he had reached all right, the weather was nice and warm, he was looking forward to bringing her here one day. The hotel the conference had booked him into was very nice, centrally located in downtown Berkeley. There were other doctors booked into the Carlton, he looked forward to spending time with them over lunches and dinners. He would probably walk to the conference venue, just a few blocks away. Tomorrow was a long day, he was particularly interested in the sessions on root canals, he might not be able to phone her, but she was not to worry. Here was the number of the hotel, but she was only to use it in emergencies, he was going to be pretty tied up.

Phone call over, he lay down, exhausted. Everything was now in place, he must sleep, his appointment with Dr Hansen was for ten the next morning.

He leaves early, the address of the doctor’s office in his hand. On Shattuck Avenue he finds a narrow white building, no 1214. Up the stairs to the second floor, to an office and receptionist, she probably knows why he is here, but never mind, never mind, there must be streams of people in and out all the time. The floors are wooden, the sofas pale stripes, the cushions silvery green. The door opens: ‘Ananda Sharma?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Max Hansen,’ dressed in jeans and a white shirt, about fifty years old.

Ananda is led into the inner room with big windows, a tree waving its benign branches outside. Here, Max and Carla begin the journey that will explore Ananda’s psyche and root out all offending matter.

First some reassuring facts. This was a condition that was eminently reversible. (They did not use words like cure because that suggested disease.) They gave him statistics about premature ejaculation, percentage of men affected, how often, what ages, rate of improvement. Though sex was ultimately dominated by the mind, the success rate of talk therapy was low; you could spend years, thousands of dollars and still not get anywhere. When frustration built up, performance suffered. Tension led to unsatisfactory sex, which furthered anxiety. Sexual therapy disrupted that cause and effect. Once it was proven to the client that he had staying power, then confidence built, leading to better performance, etc, etc. Their job was to provide methods to enable this process.

Ananda asked apprehensively whether not having a partner would affect treatment. They laughed genially. Some doctors insisted on partners because they felt that emotional commitment made the therapy more effective. While that was true, such an attitude condemned the unattached male to perpetual misery. They themselves had had great success with surrogates.

Now the procedure was this. The surrogate—her name was Marty—would meet him at his hotel. In consultation with them she would set limits on how much and what kind of contact was permissible. There was to be no penetration the first week. It was essential to learn how to relax, and they placed great emphasis on breathing techniques. Marty would also teach him how to exercise the pubococcygeus muscle, pull it back, hold it, let go (same as for urine); you can do it anywhere, and as with all exercise, the more often he did it, the stronger it would be.

In sex there was no goal to be reached, no performance on which one was judged (Nina, are you listening?). They would teach him to take pleasure in his body, to focus on the sensations. He would just feel, that was all he had to do.

After every session Marty would meet the doctors and give them her feedback. Based on this, there would be a counselling session with Ananda. The counselling session would be taped, and Ananda would have to listen to it in the evenings, as often as he could. He would be surprised at how many insights emerged during this exercise.

They sent him back with some books:
Male Sexuality, Male Sexual Response, Together in Bed, Sexual Myths.
Marty would meet him at his hotel at three o’clock. In the meantime he was to read, read, read.

Ananda left 1214 Shattuck Avenue with a light heart. Professionals, the professionals were taking care of him. He was bound to improve. He had no time to waste in restaurant dining; there was a McDonald’s around the block, a burger would be his lunch.

Once done, the good student hurried back to his hotel, only stopping briefly at the drugstore to buy breath fresheners. A surrogate was coming; maybe the books would reveal techniques that would enable him to perform better. He settled down to
Myths about Sexuality
first, flipping the pages quickly to see what information it would yield. Initial arousal, excitement phase, full arousal, plateau phase (this is what he yearned to prolong), orgasm, then resolution after orgasm and the time it took to reach the plateau phase again.

PE was reversible; ten percent of men had it, many more experienced it in varying degrees. Ananda decided he could be included in varying degrees. Hadn’t he known some success with Nina? He looked at his watch. It was already two thirty. He took a shower, shaved, brushed his teeth, used mouthwash, used aftershave, deodorant, and walked around the room chewing breath fresheners. He felt intensely nervous.

The hotel phone rang. Marty here. Come on up, Marty, Room 201. She was dead on time; he liked that in a woman, though of course she was not a woman, she was a person of the medical profession.

The door bell rang. His sexual helper was young, blond, with freckled skin, tight clothes, somewhat plain. ‘Hi. I’m Marty.’

‘Hi, Marty. Come in. Dr Hansen told me about you.’

She smiled warmly. ‘I am so pleased to meet you. I have always wanted to visit India.’

‘Yes. Well.’

‘So here is what we are going to do. I’ll be with you for two hours. We’ll spend at least an hour of that time in bed, maybe more if necessary. Meanwhile you must let me know what goes through your head. Whatever it is, no matter how small. Max says that things that don’t seem relevant are often the most revealing.’

He just stood there, nerve-wracked.

‘Let’s get into bed,’ she said.

Should he draw the curtains?

If it put him at ease.

It definitely did.

A dim and gloomy light filled the room.

‘You prefer it like this?’

‘Should I not?’

‘Hey, there are no shoulds and shouldn’ts. You must go with what you feel.’

‘Alright,’ he said uncertainly.

‘We can take our clothes off now.’

‘Do you want to use the bathroom first?’

‘For what?’

‘To take off your clothes.’

‘Would that make you more comfortable?’

‘I don’t really know how this works.’

‘Would it disturb you if we undressed in front of each other?’

‘Not at all.’

But he couldn’t help turn his back a little. He knew it was irrational; she was going to see him anyway, touch him anyway. Alone with her though, it seemed the most unnatural situation in the world. How had he gotten into it? He heard rustling, the screech of a zipper, the fall of clothes on the floor.

‘What are you thinking?’

He turned. She was standing there naked and he was unable to look at her directly. A covert glance informed him that she had large, high breasts, sturdy muscled legs, narrow shoulders, square feet. Her body made her face more appealing.

‘The whole thing is a bit cold blooded, no?’

‘We are here by mutual agreement. So, no, I don’t feel cold blooded.’

‘But I am a stranger to you. Don’t you feel awkward?’

‘I would hardly be in this profession if I did. I like helping people, makes me feel I am doing some good in the world. Come lie down. Let me know why you are so uneasy.’

He got into bed with her. She started stroking him, running light fingers over his skin, commenting admiringly on its colour. ‘How does that feel?’

‘Nice,’ he said politely.

She laughed, ‘You have such good manners. Now relax, tell me what you are thinking.’

‘Dr Hansen also stressed relaxing. But it is hard in these circumstances.’

‘Yes, in the beginning it’s a bit strange, but you get used to it. Talking helps.’

Encouraged he confided, ‘They keep saying relax, relax—Dr Hansen, the books. Feel your sensations, empty your mind, concentrate on the moment, and if I could, I would, but I can’t.’

‘You are right, it’s difficult. But together we can do it.’

She was clearly a nice girl. A tiny bit of him unknotted.

‘Let your mind follow my fingers. Close your eyes.’

He closed his eyes. There was that light touch on his shoulders, travelling down to his stomach, venturing to his thighs, parting them, stroking the insides, coming back to his chest.

It felt so wonderful, another knot in him untied.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I love what you are doing to me.’

She smiled at him and continued. After a few minutes he grew tense, he couldn’t help it. It made him nervous to just lie there, not reciprocating. He cleared his throat.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re doing all the work.’

This time she laughed, ‘Honey, it’s not work. I’ve just been touching you for seven minutes. It’s fine to enjoy your body, there are no responsibilities attached to this.’

Her fingers moved gently over him. In the dim light he could see her white body against his brown skin. Usually he lay under covers when he was naked, even with Nina, but there was too much activity going on here to allow that. She jumped down to take a bottle of lotion from her bag; she was going to give him a massage. Obediently he straightened himself.

Not like that. Lie on your stomach.

He found she meant to sit on him.

Firmly, on his buttocks she positioned her own fair bottom, shifting every two minutes to continue the sure, steady movements of her hands. No place was too private for her. Eyes shut, he followed her touch with every nerve.

Two hours later the session was up. As she dressed she told him he had been wonderful, did he know that? It took courage to expose oneself, but he had managed to overcome his uneasiness. Most men took a long time to loosen up. He was doing great, just great.

He doubted that, but Marty insisted that it was so. He should trust her, she had the experience.

In the evening he walked down Telegraph Avenue, looking for dinner. The place was dotted with cheap student places. All around he could see people in every kind of ethnic variation. In Halifax you had to look hard to see an Indian, here the place was crawling with them. He spent a long time just walking up and down the sidewalks, enjoying the warmth, the sight of so many young people, the shops open much later than in Canada, the streets buzzing with life. It had been a full and momentous day.