Page 8 of The Lessons

The Story was an important part of Plan B. Averyimportant part.

I was seeing the sex surrogate because my life had run off the track. Not in any dramatic, television-movie kind of way, but in a sufficiently bothersome manner. I was thirty years old, and instead of being married with two kids, I was still single. Single and completely sexually inexperienced. To make up for lost time, I knew I’d need to skip a few steps of the original Plan. Using a sex surrogate to check ‘losing my virginity’off the list seemed like a very expedient and efficient way to do this. After I had thatbumpout of the way, I’d be free to fast-track my selection of a partner, which was a critical component of The Plan. Yes, I would finally be able to meet someone and sleep with them after a few dates.

I would finally benormal.

But I couldn’t tell this to the therapist. Their website was explicit.

“Use of a sexual surrogate is clinical in nature, and each candidate is closely evaluated to see if their personal sexual goals meet the ethical guidelines of the surrogacy field. Surrogacy is not a quick fix; it is only enlisted if a variety of criteria are met.”

After a brief telephone chat with an intake specialist, I had managed to decipher exactly what that meant, and I had crafted a story to fit. I congratulated myself again on my decision to move to San Francisco. Here, no one would be able to poke holes in my story because no one knew me.

Pretty smart, eh? Told you I'd thought this through.

Once on the fifth floor, I made my way down the hall until I was outside a door withSFCSin gold letters. I opened it, and inside, a young Indian woman with dark, shiny hair smiled at me from behind the reception desk.

“Hello. May I help you?” she asked as my phone started to ring in my purse.

“Uh, yes.” I fumbled for my phone. “Natalie Reese. I have an appointment with Dr. Lerner at two o’clock.” I looked at my screen. It was Josh. Of course. Nice timing. I switched the phone to silent.

The woman made a quick scan of her computer screen. “Yep, I’ve got you right here, Ms. Reese. If you’d have a seat, Dr. Lerner will be with you momentarily.”

I nodded and took the seat nearest to the door. Trying to lose my nerves in an old copy ofLife & Style, I was about halfway into an article about the latest celebrity pregnancy when a tall figure appeared in the doorway.

“Ms. Reese?”

I glanced up. It’s so funny when you meet someone in person after having only chatted on the phone. Based on her laissez-faire approach to sex talk, I’d imagined Dr. Lerner as something of a free-love hippy. In reality, she was understated and graceful, her ash-blond hair drawn up in a sleek knot. She was wearing gray trousers and a white silk blouse and was much younger than I’d pictured—probably about thirty-five, thirty-six.

I stood up to shake her hand. “Dr. Lerner. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said, gesturing for me to follow her down the hall. “How did the move go?”

I chuckled. “It’s still going. Half my things are in a truck somewhere in Missouri, but so far, so good.”

“Are you enjoying San Francisco?” she asked as we entered her office. It was a bright space, with one large window framing a view of downtown. As I looked around, I expected to see a bed and maybe some clinical sex gadgetry. Nope—the office was pretty standard-issue therapist. My eyes first caught a cream-colored leather couch with a matching chair opposite it and then moved over a couple of bookshelves lined with provocative titles likeUnleashing The Orgasm WithinandSex After 50before landing on a fish tank.

I eyed the tank. “What? Oh, yes. It’s a great city. I like your fish.”

“Thanks. Larry is the striped one, and Lucius is the orange one.”

I nodded and looked at the couch. “Am I supposed to lie down?” Despite the urging of the hospice workers, I’d never been in therapy of any kind and wasn’t sure of the protocol. I chuckled to myself; I suppose I was taking a pretty deep dive for my first time in the therapy pool.

Dr. Lerner smiled and shrugged. “Up to you.”

I chose to sit.

“So, Natalie, I know we talked about this on the phone, but I always find it useful to review the process with patients in person, in case any new questions have come up. Does that sound like a good way to get started?”

I nodded. My throat was a little dry, so I bent over and retrieved a water bottle from my purse.

“Good. So to begin, I want to reiterate that this process is two-fold. In addition to meeting with the surrogate, you’ll continue to meet with me. Generally, we suggest two sessions per week with the surrogate and one with the therapist. This allows us to keep close tabs on yourprogresswithout interfering with theprocess.”

I took a sip from my bottle and nodded again. That sounded fine, and I desperately wanted to get through this meeting so I could get on with it. But I knew that if I showed any impatience it would be a red flag, and I couldn’t afford that. The application process alone had taken a month, and I wasn’t about to startthatagain. So I sat silently on the couch.

“As we discussed, you’ll have six sessions with the surrogate. That’s more than enough for ninety-five percent of cases.”

I said a silent prayer that I wouldn’t be in that last five percent. In fact, I was hoping I’d be done after only one or two sessions. Having sex with a stranger wasn’t exactly something I was looking forward to. It was simply the means to the end, something to get over with. The website explained all the psychological and physical testing surrogates went through before being licensed, and like I said—I figured it was safer than a prostitute or even a one-night stand. The practical side of me appreciated the one-stop-shop nature of it all.

I took another sip of water and tried to act casual. “And you said the surrogate is pre-selected for me, correct?”

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