waiting when she came into the living room. He complimented her on her hair. She accepted the drink without smiling. “It’s the same way I’ve been wearing it for a year.” He refused toallow her lack of enthusiasm to penetrate his sense of tranquillity. “Well, it looks particularly good tonight,” he said, as he raised his glass.
She stared at him suspiciously. “You’re home on time. What happened? Did Robin Stone stand you up today?”
He was so angry he choked on his martini. Mary accused him of being flustered and he stormed out of the room. A tight knot of guilt began to form in his throat. Robin had stood him up. Well, not exactly, but when Amanda was in his office, she had begged off at four thirty, claiming she had a five o’clock modeling session. Secretly he had been pleased: Robin would be alone at the Lancer Bar. He called Robin the moment she left the office. “Lancer Bar at five?” he had asked.
Robin had laughed. “For Christ’s sake, Jerry, it’s my first day back in town. Amanda is cooking for me. I’m skipping the bar today, see you tomorrow.”
His face had burned with anger. But after a few minutes he cooled off. Big deal! So he’d see Robin tomorrow. And it was high time he surprised Mary for once and got home early.
Of course he had made up with Mary. She had come up to the bedroom waving a fresh martini as an overture of truce. That night Mary didn’t cream her face or use the fat pink rollers, but when they went to bed together he couldn’t get it up. This had never happened before! Sporadic as their sex life had been during the past year, the few times they had been together, it had always been fully consummated. She had turned away from him and he knew she was crying. He buried his own fears and apologized to Mary—blamed it on himself, on the martinis, on the pressures of the new Christie Lane Show. Then he even went for a checkup and asked for a B-12 shot. Dr. Anderson said he didn’t need B-12. When he finally stammered his real problem, Dr. Anderson recommended Dr. Archie Gold.
He stormed out of the office. He didn’t need a psychiatrist! God—if Robin ever dreamed he even considered such a thing he’d—well, he sure as hell wouldn’t waste time on him. Robin would look at him in disgust, he’d be a weakling.
He didn’t care what Dr. Anderson said. He didn’t care how many healthy normal men went to psychiatrists when they stumbledon some kind of “block.” He would never go to a shrink!
But it was Mary who broke down his resistance. She greeted him with a smile each night. She never wore the pink rollers anymore. He noticed she had new eye makeup. She took to snuggling against him in bed, and twice he had tried—but it hadn’t worked. Now he was afraid to try. Each night he pretended to be exhausted. The moment he hit the bed he’d fake the even breathing of a man who has fallen asleep. Then he would lie awake and stare into the darkness as Mary crept into the bathroom and removed her diaphragm. He could hear her muffled sobs.
Dr. Archie Gold was surprisingly young. Subconsciously he had expected a guy with thick glasses, a beard, and a German accent. But Dr. Gold was clean-shaven and nice-looking in a subdued way. He accomplished very little in the first session. Jerry had come right to the point: “I can’t make it with my wife in bed, yet I love her and there is no other girl. Now, where do we go from there?” Before he knew it the fifty minutes were over. He was stunned when Dr. Gold suggested three visits a week. Jerry had been positive that whatever was bugging him could be straightened out in an hour. It was ridiculous! But he thought of Mary—the muffled sobs in the bathroom… . O.K. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays.
On his third visit, he did the entire session on Robin Stone. Gradually Amanda crept into the sessions.
At the end of two weeks he felt better. After some intensive Freudian soul-searching and probing back to his childhood, he had come to
She stared at him suspiciously. “You’re home on time. What happened? Did Robin Stone stand you up today?”
He was so angry he choked on his martini. Mary accused him of being flustered and he stormed out of the room. A tight knot of guilt began to form in his throat. Robin had stood him up. Well, not exactly, but when Amanda was in his office, she had begged off at four thirty, claiming she had a five o’clock modeling session. Secretly he had been pleased: Robin would be alone at the Lancer Bar. He called Robin the moment she left the office. “Lancer Bar at five?” he had asked.
Robin had laughed. “For Christ’s sake, Jerry, it’s my first day back in town. Amanda is cooking for me. I’m skipping the bar today, see you tomorrow.”
His face had burned with anger. But after a few minutes he cooled off. Big deal! So he’d see Robin tomorrow. And it was high time he surprised Mary for once and got home early.
Of course he had made up with Mary. She had come up to the bedroom waving a fresh martini as an overture of truce. That night Mary didn’t cream her face or use the fat pink rollers, but when they went to bed together he couldn’t get it up. This had never happened before! Sporadic as their sex life had been during the past year, the few times they had been together, it had always been fully consummated. She had turned away from him and he knew she was crying. He buried his own fears and apologized to Mary—blamed it on himself, on the martinis, on the pressures of the new Christie Lane Show. Then he even went for a checkup and asked for a B-12 shot. Dr. Anderson said he didn’t need B-12. When he finally stammered his real problem, Dr. Anderson recommended Dr. Archie Gold.
He stormed out of the office. He didn’t need a psychiatrist! God—if Robin ever dreamed he even considered such a thing he’d—well, he sure as hell wouldn’t waste time on him. Robin would look at him in disgust, he’d be a weakling.
He didn’t care what Dr. Anderson said. He didn’t care how many healthy normal men went to psychiatrists when they stumbledon some kind of “block.” He would never go to a shrink!
But it was Mary who broke down his resistance. She greeted him with a smile each night. She never wore the pink rollers anymore. He noticed she had new eye makeup. She took to snuggling against him in bed, and twice he had tried—but it hadn’t worked. Now he was afraid to try. Each night he pretended to be exhausted. The moment he hit the bed he’d fake the even breathing of a man who has fallen asleep. Then he would lie awake and stare into the darkness as Mary crept into the bathroom and removed her diaphragm. He could hear her muffled sobs.
Dr. Archie Gold was surprisingly young. Subconsciously he had expected a guy with thick glasses, a beard, and a German accent. But Dr. Gold was clean-shaven and nice-looking in a subdued way. He accomplished very little in the first session. Jerry had come right to the point: “I can’t make it with my wife in bed, yet I love her and there is no other girl. Now, where do we go from there?” Before he knew it the fifty minutes were over. He was stunned when Dr. Gold suggested three visits a week. Jerry had been positive that whatever was bugging him could be straightened out in an hour. It was ridiculous! But he thought of Mary—the muffled sobs in the bathroom… . O.K. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays.
On his third visit, he did the entire session on Robin Stone. Gradually Amanda crept into the sessions.
At the end of two weeks he felt better. After some intensive Freudian soul-searching and probing back to his childhood, he had come to
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