An Intimate Life by Cheryl T. Cohen-Greene Read Free Book Online Page A

that day. Even though I worried about how I would now eke out passing grades, I was partly relieved that the sisters had intervened. Cheating was, after all, a sin—one that I could now ill afford since I had begun committing the queen mother of sins: masturbation.
    Since the concept of self-esteem had a long way to go before it would become part of the popular culture and something that good teachers would be careful not to undermine, most nights I was racked with anxiety about the humiliation the next day might bring, and unable to sleep. Unfortunately, the antidote was a mortal sin.
    Starting when I was around ten, I masturbated and brought myself to orgasm nearly every night. It was the only thing that helped me relax and fall off. If my nights began with anxiety, my days began with guilt. I became convinced that every earache, every toothache, every injury was God punishing me. Later, I had painful periods that often kept me in bed. These, too, I thought were God’s judgment. I couldn’t escape his gaze or his wrath. Sometimes I imagined my guardian angel looking away in disgust as I touched myself and rocked back and forth in my bed.
    I had displeased God and my Guardian Angel. Not to mention, my mother. One evening she caught me masturbating and bellowed, “Get your hands out from under the blanket now!” as she stood in my bedroom doorway.
    The priests to whom I confessed were equally appalled. Every Saturday afternoon as I reeled off the “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys” that were supposed to absolve me of the sin I committed under the covers, I pledged, again, to resist temptation. My confessors let me know that I was guilty of a particularly vile sin and that I was doing nothing less than letting down Jesus Christ himself with my unwillingness to resist it. They were disgusted and disappointed with me. Soon, they would have even more reason to feel this way.

3.
    irreconcilable differences: brian
    F ather Dennis had a baritone voice that made him sound like he spoke for God himself. In the confessional his full-throated announcement of penance carried with it as much condemnation as salvation and I dreaded it so much that my voice shook as I listed my sins, which invariably included masturbation. But that was a long time ago. It was part of a childhood policed by a God who was as vindictive as he was omniscient. A God, who, by 1976, I no longer believed in. Still, it was Father Dennis’s bottomless voice that I flashed on as I listened to Brian, a client who came to me in the fall.
    I was three years into my career as a surrogate partner at that time and one of around one hundred in the profession. Today there are few trained surrogates in the United States. The International Professional Surrogates Association (IPSA) puts the number at fifty. Even in the late 1970s, when the numbers were at an all-time high, I would estimate that there were no more than two hundred of us, most living and practicing on the coasts.
    Brian met me in the one-bedroom apartment I had converted into an office. I used the living room as a consultation room and the bedroom for the physical part of my work with clients. When I decorated the apartment I did my best to make it a place that clients would feel comfortable and at ease in. I had overstuffed chairs in the living room, and the walls were painted a soft peach. Fresh cut flowers often adorned the end tables and I usually made snacks available. The last thing I wanted was for a client to feel like he was in an austere, clinical environment.
    At thirty-two, Brian suffered from difficulty achieving and maintaining an erection. His penis would only partially stiffen for a few short minutes before turning flaccid again. He had struggled with this since his marriage broke up two years ago, and it was easy to see why. Cecile, Brian’s now ex-wife, was a devout Catholic and she divorced him because she had caught him masturbating in their bedroom one afternoon. I found it