“Nothing. I’m just restless- always have been. I have trouble sleeping anywhere but my own bed. Are you angry?”

“No, of course not. Is there anything I can do?”

“Take me home. When you’re ready.”

I accommodated myself to her needs: rut and run. Some of the edge was taken off my pleasure, but enough remained to keep me coming back for more.

Her pleasure- the lack of it- preyed on my mind. She went through passionate motions, moving energetically, fueled by an energy that I wasn’t sure was erotic, but she never came.

It wasn’t that she was unresponsive- she was easily moistened, always willing, seemed to enjoy the act. But climax wasn’t part of her agenda. When I was finished, she was, having given something to me, but not her self.

I knew damn well that it wasn’t right, but her sweetness and beauty- the thrill of possessing this creature I was sure everyone wanted- sustained me. An adolescent fantasy, to be sure, but a part of me wasn’t that far past adolescence.

Her arm around my waist was enough to make me hard. Thoughts of her trickled into idle moments and filled my senses. I put my doubts aside.

But eventually it started to nag at me. I wanted to give as much as I was getting, because I really cared for her.

On top of that, of course, my male ego was crying out for reassurance. Was I too quick? I worked at endurance. She rode me out, tireless, as if we were engaged in some sort of athletic competition. I tried being gentle, got nowhere, switched and did the caveman bit. Experimented with positions, strummed her like a guitar, worked over her and under her until I dripped with sweat and my body ached, went down on her with blind devotion.

Nothing worked.

I remembered the sexual inhibitions she’d projected in practicum. The case that had stymied her: communications breakdown. Dr. Kruse says we have to confront our own defense systems before being able to help others.

The attack upon her defenses had brought her to tears. I struggled to find a way to communicate without breaking her. Mentally composed and discarded several speeches before finally coming up with a monologue that seemed minimally hurtful.

I chose to deliver it as we lay sprawled in the back of the Rambler, still connected, my head on her sweatered breast, her hands stroking my hair. She kept stroking as she listened, then kissed me and said, “Don’t worry about me, Alex. I’m just fine.”

“I want you to enjoy it too.”

“Oh, I do, Alex. I love it.”

She began rocking her hips, enlarging me, then wrapping her arms around me as I continued to swell inside of her. She forced my head down, smothered my mouth with hers, tightening the pressure of her pelvis and her arms, taking charge, imprisoning me. Arcing and swallowing, rotating and releasing, heightening the pace until the pleasure was squeezed out of me in long, convulsive waves. I cried out, gloriously helpless, felt my spine shatter, my joints come loose from their sockets. When I was still, she began stroking my hair, again.

I was still erect, began to move again. She rolled out from under me, smoothed her skirt, took out a compact and fixed her makeup.

“Sharon-”

She placed a finger on my lips. “You’re so good to me,” she said. “Wonderful.”

I closed my eyes, drifted away for several moments. When I opened them she was gazing off in the distance, as if I weren’t there.

From that night on, I gave up hope of perfect love and took her selfishly. She rewarded my compliance with devotion, subservience, though I was the one being molded.

The therapist in me knew it was wrong. I employed the therapist’s rationalization to quell my doubts:

It did no good to push; she’d change when she was ready.

Summer came and my fellowship ended. Sharon had completed the first year of grad school with top grades in all her qualifying exams. I’d just passed my licensing exam and had a job lined up at Western Pediatric come autumn. Time to celebrate, but no income until autumn. The tone of the creditors’ letters had turned threatening. When the opportunity to earn some real money presented itself I grabbed it: an eight-week dance-band gig back up in San Francisco, playing three sets a night, six nights a week at the Mark Hopkins. Four grand, plus room and board at a Lombard Street motel.

I asked her to come north with me, spun visions of breakfast in Sausalito, good theater, the Palace of Fine Arts, hiking on Mt. Tamalpais.

She said, “I’d love to, Alex, but I’ve some things to take care of.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Family business.”

“Problems back home?”

She answered quickly: “Oh, no, just the usual.”

“That doesn’t tell me a thing,” I said. “I have no idea what the usual is, because you never talk about your family.”

Soft kiss. Shrug. “They’re just a family like any other.”

“Let me guess: They want to haul you back to civilization so they can fix you up with the local scions.”

She laughed, kissed me again. “Scions? Hardly.”

I put my arm around her waist, nuzzled her. “Oh, yeah, I can see it now. In a few weeks I’ll pick up the paper and see your picture in the society pages, engaged to one of those guys with three last names and a career in investment banking.”

That made her giggle. “I don’t think so, my dear.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because my heart belongs to you.”

I took her face in my hands, looked into her eyes. “Does it, Sharon?”

“Of course, Alex. What do you think?”

“I think after all this time I don’t know you very well.”

“You know me better than anyone.”

“That’s still not very well.”

She tugged her ear. “I really care about you, Alex.”

“Then live with me when we get back. I’ll get a bigger place, a better one.”

She kissed me, so deeply I thought it signaled agreement. Then she pulled away and said, “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Things are just… complicated. Please, let’s not talk about this right now.”

“All right,” I said. “But consider it.”

She licked the underside of my chin, said, “Yum. Consider this.”

We began necking. I pressed her to me, buried myself in her hair, her flesh. It was like diving into a vat of sweet cream.

I unbuttoned her blouse, said, “I’m really going to miss you. I miss you already.”

“That’s sweet,” she said. “We’ll have fun in September.”

Then she began unzipping my fly.

At ten-forty, I left to meet the real estate agent. The mild summer had finally begun to wilt, surrendering to high eighties’ temperatures and air that smelled like oven exhaust. But Nichols Canyon still looked fresh- sun-washed, filled with country sounds. Hard to believe Hollywood- the grifters and geeks- was only yards away.

When I got to the house the lattice gate was open. Driving the Seville up to the house, I parked it next to a big burgundy Fleetwood Brougham with chrome wire wheels, a phone antenna on the rear deck, and plates that said SELHOUS.

A tall dark brunette got out of the car. Mid-forties, aerobics-firm and shapely in tight acid-washed jeans, high-heeled boots, and a blousy, scoop-necked black suede top decorated with rhinestones. She carried a snakeskin purse, wore large onyx and glass costume jewelry and hexagonal, blue-tinted sunglasses.

“Doctor? I’m Mickey.” A wide, automatic smile spread under the glasses.

“Alex Delaware.”

“It is Dr. Delaware?”

“Yes.”

She pushed the glasses up her forehead, eyed the coat of dirt on the Seville, then my clothes- old cords, faded workshirt, huaraches.

Running a mental Dun and Bradstreet on me: Says he’s a doctor, but the city’s full of bullshit artists. Drives a Caddy, but it’s eight years old. Another phony putting on the dog? Or someone who once had it and lost it?