"Speak to anyone who favors sex education in our classrooms instead of in our homes, and more often than not you will find yourself talking to someone who also favors unrestricted abortion, dangerous gay rights, atheism, and Communism.

"Tonight, my Brothers and Sisters, I want you to listen to some facts-actual facts-that have come to light on the matter of sex education.

"According to the latest available statistics, for youngsters between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, there were over one million pregnancies in a single year-roughly half of them leading to abortions and half to births.

"Obviously, these unwanted pregnancies were provoked by the kind of sex education going on throughout the states of America-the teachings, by untrained or ill-trained instructors, on every sexual subject from the use of contraceptives to sexual techniques to orgasms. This, in the face of the facts produced by a recent Yankelovich, Skelly, White survey that eighty-four percent of parents of teenagers polled feel that it is up to them to inform their children about sexual matters, a responsibility that should be borne only by caring families and not by politicized schools.

"Let me reveal to you a horror story that has recently been exposed in our own backyard. In the high school of San Marcos, California, over twenty percent of the young girl students were found to be pregnant by the year 1984. When the school board learned that fact, the members were quick to reassess the school's sex education program and modify it sharply.

"When you learn the shocking statistic that forty-eight percent of the states have no guideline policies on sex teachings, and leave policy-making up to local school boards, then you realize that you must have a voice in the decision making by letting your school board know you have an eye on it and will hold its members accountable for sinful behavior they promote under the guise of education.

"We must all act in concert with The Women's Committee for Responsible Government, which has already sued the state of California for spending public money on subversive sex education in our schools. We must join hand in hand to stop this systematic corruption of the innocent. We, too, must become the God-fearing, God-loving moral majority of this wonderful nation."

Scrafield droned on and on, and Darlene Young dutifully and attentively listened.

When he had concluded, Scrafield set his script aside and looked up. "What do you think, Darlene?"

"Very good, very frightening," she said. "Are those statistics actually true?"

"True blue, you bet. You ought to know. You hired that researcher, Chet Hunter, to research it for me. He's got a reputation for accuracy."

"Yes, he's good."

Scrafield studied his wristwatch. "We've still got fifteen minutes or more before the limo comes by to take us to the television studio. I could use a little relaxation, I guess, before going on the air. You up to it, baby?"

She nodded with fake enthusiasm. "You know I am."

As Scrafield reached down to the fly of his shorts, she wondered fleetingly why this change had taken place a few months ago. It had always been his habit, in times before, and always before he went on the air, to take her to bed. He had claimed he needed loosening up. He would take her to bed for a quickie.

But lately, there was no more bed. There was only this. She wondered if, turning forty, she had become less attractive to him. Her blond hair bleached brighter, her face puffier, her large breasts drooping further, and a bit thicker around the waistline and hips. Or was it simply that he had tired of her somewhat, become more impatient, and had aged himself and wanted to be relieved more easily without having to work for it?

She could see that he had opened his shorts and bared himself for her pleasure.

Without hesitation, and with a set smile, she had come off the ottoman to her knees before him. She took his flaccid organ in one hand. As she did so, he muttered his favorite non sequitur she had heard from him before. "Like W. C. Fields used to say, 'I never drink water because fish fuck in it.'" Then he chuckled.

Skillfully, with one hand, she was arousing him. He responded quickly. She saw him close his eyes and lie back as she lowered her head between his legs.

In five minutes, he made a throaty sound and then exhaled a great puff of air.

Later, seated across from him once more, Darlene waited for him to fully recover. Scrafield reached out and patted her on the head. "Good, very good, baby. How was I?"

"Wonderful. I love to go down on you."

Scrafield frowned darkly. "You know I don't like that expression. I'm against that kind of talk."

She felt defiant. "Well, it's something. What is it?"

"Just loosening me up before the big show, that's all. It's just diddling, just diddling around."

"Sounds okay by me, whatever the name."

They both came to their feet. "Now, help me with my trousers," he said. "Car should be here for us in five minutes." He picked up his script. "You don't think I sounded like I was against sex, do you?"

"Oh, no, Josh," she said. "Your speech was healthy. It was clearly just against immoral sex. Let me get your trousers."

When Suzy Edwards arrived at Chet Hunter's apartment door, he admitted her at once, welcoming her with an enthusiastic kiss.

She could see that he had the television set on and was eager to get back to it. "Make yourself at home, Suzy." He indicated the television. "I have to watch the end of this. It's almost over."

Unbuttoning her leather jacket, Suzy wondered what had riveted Chet to the television set. He was planted before it once more in his wide broken-down armchair. Throwing her jacket aside, she strolled over to see what he was watching. He patted a narrow place next to him on the seat, and she eased into it close to him.

Filling the television screen was a handsome man in his early fifties, with the beefy face of a Roman senator, broad shoulders, heavy arms, and wearing a clergyman's collar and a dark blue suit. Now he was pausing to take up a glass of water from a table at the side of the pulpit.

Suzy recognized him as the Reverend Josh Scrafield, the most popular evangelist on the West Coast, and immediately she scowled. "Chet, what are you doing wasting your time listening to that bigot?" she complained. "He's awful. I saw him once, by accident, and I turned him right off. He was doing a terrible number against sex education in the schools."

"That's just his usual routine," said Hunter, watching the television screen.

"But you don't have to spend your time-"

"Business," said Hunter. "He's one of my research customers. He assigns me to do an occasional poll for him when he's looking for issues to discuss on his weekly broadcasts."

Scrafield's booming voice began to fill the small room again, and Suzy wriggled out of the chair, jumped up, and shut off the television set. "I can't stand this any longer," she said. "We have more important things to do."

Hunter had begun to protest, but when Suzy returned and fell back into the big chair beside him, he shrugged, then smiled and wrapped his arms around her. "This suits me fine," he said. "I'm sure glad you came over."

Hunter's hand moved across Suzy's blouse, curving around her full-blown breasts. He began to undo her blouse. Suzy tried to stay his hand. "Listen, Chet, I wanted to talk to you about something first."

But his hand was already under her brassiere, his fingers searching for one of her nipples. "Make it second," he said. "I've got something else that's first."

"Chet, I'm serious . . ." Her voice drifted off as she felt her nipples harden and allowed him to pull her atop him. "Chet . . ." Then she felt his erection against her thigh and emitted a little moan.

He was taking off her blouse. "We can talk later, honey. I want to go to bed. This time we'll be great. Come on, honey."

Her resistance had gone, along with her blouse. Her brassiere came loose and she staggered to her feet, unzipping her dirndl skirt. As her skirt dropped to the floor, she whispered, "All right, darling. Let's."

She rolled down her panty hose as he quickly undressed.

A minute later she was on the bed, on her back, her legs wide apart. She watched as he knelt on the bed beside her. She could see that he was ready and her excitement grew.

She reached up for him, and he moved quickly between her fleshy thighs.

"Put it in, darling," she called up breathlessly.

He was bending over her, feeling for the mark, and then he found it and she groaned again.

He began to enter her when suddenly he choked, almost convulsively, and began to have an orgasm.

"Oh, God!" he exclaimed.

Suzy lay there, helplessly, her eyes fixed on his tortured face.

Premature ejaculation.

Again.

A minute later he fell back on his haunches ready to weep. Suzy crawled off the bed, rubbed his head, and walked out of the room. He heard the sound of the shower, and when she returned she settled down near him.

"Jesus, I'm sorry," he croaked. "I'm real sorry. I apologize. I'm as sick of myself as you must be of me."

She placed an arm around his hunched naked shoulders. "I'm not sick of you, darling. I love you as much as ever."

"How can you?" He shook his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Maybe I do," she said, trying to console him. "Maybe I know what's wrong. I know somebody who knows what can be donesomebody who can help. That's really why I came over tonight. To tell you I have somebody who can help us both."

He met her eyes, discouraged. "How? How can anyone?"

"Please hear me out, Chet. You know I took a new job as a secretary a short time ago-a medical secretary . . ."

"Of course."

"Maybe I told you who it was with or maybe I didn't because of confidentiality. Anyway, the man I went to work for is Dr. Arnold Freeberg. Ring a bell?"

"Faintly. Seems like I read-"

"He opened the Freeberg Clinic downtown not long ago. He's a bona fide sex therapist. He's trained six sex surrogates to start working for him, with him."

Hunter wrinkled his brow. "Sex surrogates? You mean the ones who pitch in to help men-men in-in trouble?"

"Exactly. Dr. Freeberg has just accepted four or five patients. He and his surrogates are going to try to cure them. I know all about it. I was transcribing the patients' case histories today."

She began to tell Hunter about the cases, one in particular with a problem precisely like Chet Hunter's own.

"Premature ejaculation," Suzy said. "Dr. Freeberg told the surrogate who will work on it, 'That should be easy. Those are the easiest to set right.' His surrogate is going to put the patient through exercises that should cure him."

For the first time, Hunter had straightened up on the bed. "Sex surrogates," he murmured, "right here in Hillsdale, actual sex surrogates in sweet little Hillsdale."

Suzy was puzzled. "What's so unusual about that?"

Hunter reacted surprised. Obviously, his mind was racing. "Don't you see, honey? Your run-of-the-mill conservative American family city doesn't have sex surrogates on its premises. It just doesn't. That's unheard of."

"I still don't understand."

Hunter jumped off the bed and began to pull on his shorts. "Suzy, it's a story, a big story. If I gave Otto Ferguson at the Chronicle a tip like this, he could put me on the story. And it could lead to my big break, to the job on the newspaper I've always wanted."

Suzy was on her feet. "Forget it, that angle of it, Chet. That's confidential stuff. Even if I broke my word for you, I'm still Dr. Freeberg's confidential secretary."

"I know. Not to worry."

She went to him and placed an arm around his waist. "I told you all this because I want to help us. I can get you to Dr. Freeberg. He'd take you as a patient. He'd set you right, and there'd be no more problem."

Hunter nodded, kissing her. "Of course, Suzy. You're a doll. I'll see your Freeberg . . . I sure will. If he takes me on, everything will be rosy. Of course, I don't know if I have enough money for that kind of treatment."

"Never mind, Chet. I can loan you enough."

"No, thanks. I can get the money on my own. Leave it to me."

She started to dress. "But you will see Dr. Freeberg? I mean, as soon as possible?"

"You know I will. I already promised it, didn't I? You can depend on me. Now, let's have a drink to it. You and me together, making it, making out very soon."

Having completed her first session with her first patient in Hillsdale, Gayle Miller returned to the Freeberg Clinic in midevening, locked herself in one of the three soundproof small rooms downstairs reserved for taping reports, and dictated into the cassette machine all that had transpired with Adam Demski. After that, she left the tape on Dr. Freeberg's desk, so that he could listen to it in the morning, and then she went next door to the Market Grill for a cup of coffee and a cheese croissant.

Now, seating herself at the only free table along the picture window overlooking the street, she recognized a familiar figure enter and search for a place to sit. The five stools at the counter were occupied, and the rest of the tables in the room were also filled. Observing Paul Brandon hunting for a table, Gayle was not certain that she wanted him to sit across from her, remembering his annoying remark to her this morning. Then, watching him cool his heels, she softened. For one thing, he was a fellow sex surrogate. For another, he was damned attractive-about five eleven, she guessed, well-built but lean, with dark mussed hair in need of a trim, and a gaunt angular face. Good chin, shaven. He was wearing a gray blazer over an open-collared checked sport shirt, and faded denims.

Seeing him coming nearer, as he cast about to learn if any place would soon be free, she lifted one hand and signaled to him. When he saw this, she pointed to the empty chair across from her.

Realizing who she was, he smiled, nodded, and gave his order to a passing waitress.

As Brandon came up to her, she indicated the vacant chair again. "If you like," Gayle said.

"I like," Brandon said. "Thanks, Gayle. I wasn't sure you'd want me here, after our little exchange this afternoon."

"Oh, that. Forget it."

Brandon shrugged. "Well, you put me down, and I deserved it." He waited until the waitress had delivered his black coffee and spoon. "Anyway, I apologize for being a smart ass. It's not my style. I think I just wanted to get your attention."

She sipped her coffee. "Why? Actually, I had a feeling you somehow disapproved of me."

His eyes on her, he shook his head vigorously. "No, not at all. In fact, quite the opposite. I approve of you very much. For one thing, you were speaking mostly to the women, and I wanted you to know I was there and aware of you." He hesitated. "For another, I just . . . Well, observing you, I couldn't see how a girl as lovely as you, as desirable, was . . . I don't know-"

"Going to bed with different men?"

"I suppose that's it. I know that's foolish, after all my training."

"Yes. And you did work side by side with all our other female surrogates."

"Not the same. They're a nice group, but I found you younger, fresher, and just an unlikely surrogate. So when you mentioned that you had a patient tonight, I senselessly wanted to get your attention-maybe unconsciously I wanted to keep you from being involved with another man."

"Well, Paul, whatever your good intentions, I simply have no problem seeing and working with men. I do it because I feel that I'm accomplishing something, doing some good, making another human being whole."

He drank his coffee. "Okay, if you want me to feel ashamed, you've succeeded."

"I only want you to understand my motivation."

Brandon nodded. "I do, I think. I've thrown in the towel. By the way, how did it go with your patient tonight?"

"Routinely well. We did both the hand caress and the face caress. He's very shy, so I'm trying to get on some trusting basis with him. I just finished filing my first report for Dr. Freeberg." She nibbled at her croissant and sipped more of her coffee. "By the way, what are you doing here at this hour? You don't have a patient yet, do you?"