"Would you like to try?" Dr. Klein held the phallus out to me.

"No, I'm good," I said. I was anxious to try out the techniques, but I didn't particularly like the idea of holding it so soon after him. 

"Suit yourself." He dropped the phallus back into the drawer, where it landed with a thud. Then he leaned forward. "Now... let's talk price."

---

When I told Scott, he immediately called to book his own appointment.

Three days later, after his first session, we compared notes. Dr. Klein had given Scott the same lessons, and the same homework assignment, but he'd told him he could practice three times a week, instead of two. Scott made sure I knew that he considered this a personal victory (I wondered, though, if the doctor just thought he just needed more practice than I did). Armed with our own egg timers, we completed our assignments with focus and diligence. Living with a fellow student was helpful, even motivational. We regularly compared our best times.

Finally, after weeks of perfecting my solo performance, Dr. Klein decided I was ready for the next step. I sat in the Institute's waiting room, psyching myself up to meet my surrogate: the woman with whom I would be having sex. I was going to have sex!

But not yet. Today, according to Dr. Klein, was a day for "getting acquainted." There was a master plan at work here, and I had to respect it. I was starting to worry that this experience might be a little too clinical, so I was relieved when the door opened onto a pretty standard therapist's office. There was a couch, a chair, a filing cabinet — and a rolled-up futon in the corner. The receptionist told me to make myself comfortable; my surrogate would be with me shortly. I panicked. Where should I sit? Should I roll out the futon? Would that be helpful, or presumptuous? I decided to sit on the couch, with my arms across the back cushions, my right ankle resting on my left knee. I hoped I looked casual and confident, like there was nothing unusual about the situation. Still, my eye kept wandering over to the futon.

Thank God, she was attractive.

There was a light knock on the door, and suddenly there she was: my surrogate. With her long, lean body, tightly curled blond hair, jeans and black leather jacket, she had a sort of casual biker-chick look. I breathed out. Thank God, she was attractive. I really didn't want this to be any more difficult than it had to be. Her name, she told me, was Jan. After about twenty minutes of small talk, Jan suddenly stood up, clapped her hands together and announced, "All right, let's get to work." She rolled out the futon with her foot.

"I, uh, thought... Dr. Klein said this was just a 'getting acquainted' day..." I stammered.

She laughed. "I'm only going to give you a massage, to get you used to me touching your body. You don't have to do a thing. Just get undressed. Leave your undies on, though."

I stood up and tentatively began to disrobe. When I took my shirt off, Jan's eyes widened. "Man, are you hairy!" she said.

"Is that going to be a problem?" I asked weakly.             

She shrugged and told me not to worry about it. "A lot of women," she said, "find it sexy."

"Do you?" I asked, hoping.

"Not really."

Later, when Scott got home from his own "getting acquainted" session, we realized we both had the same surrogate. Maybe Dr. Klein had planned it that way for some mysterious therapeutic reason. Or maybe Jan was the only surrogate who worked for him. Either way, once Jan found out that Scott and I were roommates, she sensed our natural competitiveness and played us off each other. She would fill us in on each other's sessions, telling us how well the other had performed. Sometimes, she would make it sound like we were getting away with something, going beyond our prescribed allotment of sex. "Oh, we shouldn't be doing this," she would tease. "Don't tell Scott, it'll be our little secret." After our sessions, we'd brag about our milestones. Soon, it became unclear which was more important — losing my virginity or beating Scott. 

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