Larry was completely naked and blindfolded next to a piano when the younger woman he was with had a breakthrough. She was 35 years old but gave off the nervous pent-up sexual energy of a wallflower at prom, and with good reason: She had never kissed a man, let alone seen one nude in her Long Beach home. 
 
 She had been carefree and pretty as a teenager—until a car accident sent her flying through a windshield, slicing her face open and blinding her in one eye, according to Larry. Afterwards, she thought, How could anyone ever love me? So she shut herself off to the world, to romantic love and sex. Until now. 
 
 It was summer 1994 and Larry, who was a decade her senior, had instructions. "I want you to stare at me," he ordered softly. "Be scared. Be curious. Be excited. If you're bored, that's good. We'll move on." Soon they did, and—terrifying as it was—she stripped down, too. Then came kissing, caressing, and, eventually, sex. 
 
 Read More: Learning How to Orgasm Without Any Touching 
 
 
 
 Larry Villarin, a 62-year-old Californian, is not her boyfriend. Nor is he a sex worker, although technically he gets paid $150 per hour to have sex, hang out naked, and teach his clients the joys of the erotic. Larry is America's oldest male sexual surrogate, a job in which he risks being arrested in order to help others work through sexual dysfunction during one-on-one "sessions." In the past 35 years, the gig has matched him with dozens of women (and an occasional man) to achieve therapeutic goals. In the past, he says, he has worked with disabled clients, abuse survivors, and people from strict religions backgrounds, as well as with millionaires, geniuses, 40-year-old virgins, and powerful judges. Most of clients pair his hands-on therapy with trips to a psychologist in order to prepare for real-life intimacy. 
 
 She needed to believe I wouldn't laugh at her or run away. It was beautiful to see her open up. 
 
 Only ten men are certified to do this work in the U.S., according to the International Professional Surrogates Association (IPSA). Larry and other rare men in the field must undergo 100 hours of human sexuality studies before becoming certified by the IPSA, which connects patients with surrogates through psychiatrists. As a sexual surrogate, Larry must navigate tricky emotional turf, like what happens when a client falls in love with you, or how to gently bust through body hang-ups or deeply internalized anxieties. In the case of the 35-year-old woman who had survived a car accident, it turned out that she was mostly scared of ridicule. "She needed to believe I wouldn't laugh at her or run away. It was beautiful to see her open up," he says. 
 
 Most of Larry's job is far less sexy than it might seem. During their first hour-long session with him, clients unload their emotional baggage —ranging from social anxiety to PTSD — and set therapy goals. No sexual touching is allowed. If all goes well, they'll move to hand stroking and a face caressing. Later, he'll try a blindfolded "trust walk" to get them "out of their heads." 
 
 His clients, who range in age from 22 to 75, usually invite Larry to their L.A. homes or come to his. Many are referred to him by a psychologist after reaching a frustrating impasse in expressing their sexuality: they can't become "normal" without a partner, and they can't find partner if they don't become "normal." The steamy stuff comes slowly— if at all. "You set ground rules," Larry says, "It's baby steps." He works with some clients for weeks, others for years. Some are never ready to have full-blown sex. 
 
 One of the tools Larry uses in order to help his clients open up is playing naked games. In one, he and the client stand back-to-back with their eyes closed. She opens her eyes first, then it's his turn. Eventually they go to a mirror and talk honestly about their reflections. It helps that Larry, a slow-talking old hippie type, is not at all physically threatening. "I go first and stand in front of full-length mirror. I do an oral meditation, describing my body, tip to toe—how it feels and functions—totally honestly," he says. "It really gets down to image. I say, 'I don't like my saggy buttocks,' or 'I broke my toe when I was 20.' I can do 30 minutes of that, just modeling openness. Then she goes." 
 
 She had her first orgasm. She didn't believe she could ever have one. I'm getting misty about it. 
 
 In addition, Larry says, physical exercises can lead to epiphanies. In one case, a 70-year-old woman had lived her whole life thinking sex was a chore; religious guilt kept her from masturbating. "She was numb — her hips were frozen," Larry recalls. So he told her to stand with her legs apart. "I said, 'Imagine a pencil coming down between your genitals and your anus. Now write your name on the floor. It required movements in her hips." 
 
 Later that night, she took a shower and lay naked on her sheets. A breeze from an open window rolled over her body, and something shifted in her pelvis. "That's all it took. She had her first orgasm. She didn't believe she could ever have one. I'm getting misty about it," Larry says. "It's just: growth — what humans are capable of. Gosh, it's intimate stuff." 
 
 Larry claims that birthdays are the number-one reason women come to see him. Late-in-life virgins, turning 30 or 40, see the date looming and want to take the plunge. "Milestones are a big one. It's anxiety provoking. Women will say, 'This my final hope,'" Larry says. 
 
 Usually, those clients have control problems sparked by something early in life. If they don't address their issues with control, they tend to get worse, and their virginity becomes a symbol of everything wrong with them. "They're embarrassed. Sometimes they can't talk to anyone about it," Larry notes. "They try to fake it with girlfriends. But every new man has to be Mr. Right—perfect—so they run away at the first relationship glitch. The longer they wait, the more the anxiety builds." 
 
 [Birthdays] are a big one. It's anxiety provoking. Women will say, 'This my final hope.' 
 
 Emotional blocks can turn physical for some women. One client suffered from a condition called vaginismus, which caused her vaginal canal to tighten involuntarily, preventing sex. It was painful and embarrassing, so Larry recommended she use vaginal dilators for six months. Unlike a gynecologist, however, he paired that treatment with intimacy therapy and physical touch. It worked, he claims. 
 
 Larry is a sort of a gateway guy, he says: He's low risk because he's not a real lover. "The women are not there to please me; I'm there for them. Somewhere along the line, they stopped trusting men. I have to undo that." 
 
 Although trust is deeply important to Larry's work, it's also important to keep an emotional distance. Larry says that some of his clients have fallen in love with him, which can push him into a tricky emotional and ethical gray area. 
 
 One woman came to him, fresh out of an abusive marriage, on the heels of her son's death. She was sick of being alone and wanted to enjoy sex. "We worked for two years. We had so many firsts together—she didn't want to let go," Larry recalls. When her sessions came to an end, Larry says, the client began sending him expensive gifts and kept trying to see him. "I kind of knew she was in love with me. But I had to be ethical." 
 
 Not long after that, he set up new boundaries: He stopped allowing sessions in his own bedroom and built a "therapy room" instead. After one of his own romantic relationships "fell apart because of the job," he took a break from it. Now, he sometimes holds back sharing with clients because, "by telling [a client] too much about myself, I realized, I am burdening her." 
 
 The job is full of ethical landmines, according to Paula Hall, a British sex therapist. "In the UK, the practice is mostly frowned upon," she says. The surrogate-client relationship is often seen as just too complicated, she adds. To Larry, however, the lines are clear enough. "In a sense, we already know the relationship has to end. It's better that they learn how to be hurt with me, rather than a less sensitive man." 
 
 Romantic feelings aren't the only issue complicating Larry's profession: Paying for sex — any sex —is illegal in the U.S., and there's no law offering surrogates special protection. If a cop were to bust in on Larry during a session, he could be arrested, which is exactly what happened to one of his female surrogate friends. "She was seeing a client and he turned out to be a cop," Larry says. "He said, 'I have to confess: In 10 minutes you're going to hear a knock on the door, and you're going to be busted for prostitution, but I can see that's not what this is." 
 
 IPSA skirts prostitution law in certifying its members because it doesn't acknowledge intercourse is part of the practice, according to Larry and other current and former surrogates. Today, he's baffled that people don't understand the difference between his work, which he sees as primarily therapeutic or socially instructive. 
 
 For instance, Larry once worked with a woman from a strict religious background. Because of her upbringing, she had learned to see kissing as strictly a sexual act, never used for casual affection. She enlisted Larry to teach her the basics of kissing in all different contexts. In their sessions, Larry says, she made the rules. "We tried all of them: A quick kiss goodbye, a hello kiss, a marathon make out. I was never allowed to kiss back," he recounts. After a few weeks, she left feeling "reborn," ready for lovers and friends. "It did increase her confidence, oh my," Larry says. 
 
 But most of the time, Larry never gets to see the positive affects of his work. "The empowerment part comes when they leave me. It's like karate: Once you get your black belt, your training has just begun. With me, they've opened their hearts — and now they can go have a life." ||||| My analyst and I grew more intimately connected each week of treatment...but I never saw this indecent proposal coming. 
 
 It’s the waning moments of my fourth session with a new therapist. I’m holding back — and she knows it. My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. I’ve barely looked into my therapist’s blue eyes at all, and yet I think the hour has gone very well. Of course it has. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together. 
 
 “Well,” my therapist, Lori, says, the millisecond after I become certain our time is up and I might be in the clear. “I don’t think I should let you go until we’ve at least touched on what was put out there at the end of last week’s session.” 
 
 I so supremely wanted this not to come up. My eyelids tighten, my mouth puckers to the left, and my head tilts, as though I’m asking her to clarify. 
 
 “When you said you’re attracted to me,” she continues. 
 
 “Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.” 
 
 Back in session three Lori was trying to build my self-esteem, the lack of which is one of the reasons I’m in treatment. Within the confines of my family, I’ve always been the biggest target of ridicule. We all throw verbal darts around as though we’re engaged in a massive, drunken tournament at a bar, but the most poisonous ones seem to hit me the most often, admittedly somewhat a consequence of my own sensitivity. I’ve been told it was historically all part of an effort to toughen me up, but instead I was filled with towering doubts about my own worth. And since 2012, when I gave up a stable, tenured teaching career for the wildly inconsistent life of a freelance writer, I’ve had great difficulty trusting my own instincts and capabilities. I told Lori that I wish I was better at dealing with life’s daily struggles instead of constantly wondering if I’ll be able to wade through the thick. 
 
 She quickly and convincingly pointed out that I work rather hard and am, ultimately, paying my bills on time, that I have friends, an appreciation for arts and culture, and so on. In short, I am, in fact, strong, responsible and “pretty good at life.” 
 
 Then Lori heightened the discussion a bit. “I also feel that it is your sensitivity that makes you a great catch out there in the dating world,” she said, to which I involuntarily smiled, blushed and quickly buried my chin in my chest. I was too insecure and too single to handle such a compliment from a beautiful woman. 
 
 “Why are you reacting that way?” Lori asked. 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up. 
 
 “Is it because you’re attracted to me?” 
 
 I laughed a little, uncomfortably. “How did you know?” 
 
 She gently explained she could tell the day I walked into her office for the first time, after I flashed a bright smile and casually asked where she was from. 
 
 Now, a week after dropping that bomb, Lori asks, “So, why haven’t we talked about it?” 
 
 “I was hoping to avoid it, I suppose.” I tell her the whole notion of having the hots for a therapist is such a sizable cliché that I was embarrassed to admit it. “For Christ’s sake,” I say, throwing my hands up, “Tony Soprano even fell in love with his therapist.” 
 
 Lori snorts, rolls her eyes. “I knew you were going to say that.” 
 
 I smile, shake my head and look around the room, denying acceptance of my own ridiculous reality. 
 
 “It’s OK,” Lori says, grinning. “We can talk about this in here.” 
 
 I look again at her stark blue eyes, prevalent under dark brown bangs, the rest of her hair reaching the top of her chest, which is hugged nicely by a fitted white tee under an open button-down. She jogs often, I’d come to find out, which explains her petite figure and ability to probably pull off just about any outfit of her choosing. 
 
 I still can’t speak, so she takes over. 
 
 “Do you think you’re the first client that’s been attracted to their therapist?” she asks rhetorically. “I’ve had other clients openly discuss their feelings, even their sexual fantasies involving me.” 
 
 “What?” I cackle, beginning to feel as though I’ve moseyed onto the set of a porno. 
 
 “It’s true,” she says, acknowledging her desk. “What’s yours? Do you bend me over and take me from behind?” 
 
 Nailed it. 
 
 “If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s OK,” she goes on, earnestly, explaining that she’s discussed sexual scenarios with her clients before so as to “normalize” the behavior and not have them feel their own thoughts are unnatural. By showing the patient a level of acceptance, she hopes to facilitate a more comfortable atmosphere for “the work” — her painfully accurate pseudonym for psychotherapy. 
 
 I take a second to let the red flow out of my face, and ponder what she said. I’m a little unsure about this whole technique, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. So I go home, incredibly turned on and completely unashamed. 
 
 * * * 
 
 One of the great breakthroughs I’ve had in the thirteen months since I began seeing Lori (who agreed to participate in this article, but requested that her full name not be published) is a new ability to accept the existence of dualities in life. For instance, I’ve always had a tremendous sense of pride that, if it doesn’t straddle the line of arrogance, certainly dives into that hemisphere from time to time. I’m great at seeing flaws in others and propping myself up above them by smugly observing my character strengths. I’ve never liked that about myself, but the harder concept to grasp is the fact that I can be so egotistical while also stricken with such vast quantities of insecurity. 
 
 In treatment I came to realize that all people have contradictions to their personalities. There’s the insanely smart guy who can’t remotely begin to navigate a common social situation, the charitable girl who devotes all her time to helping strangers, but won’t confront issues in her own personal relationships. In my case, my extreme sensitivity can make me feel fabulous about the aspects of myself that I somehow know are good (my artistic tastes) and cause deep hatred of those traits I happen to loathe (the thirty pounds I could stand to lose). 
 
 My next session with Lori is productive. We speak about relationships I’ve formed with friends and lovers, and how my family may have informed those interactions. One constant is that I put crudely high expectations on others, mirroring those thrown upon me as a kid. I’m angered when people don’t meet those expectations, and absolutely devastated when I don’t reach them. Lori points out that it must be “exhausting trying to be so perfect all the time.” I am much more comfortable than I was the week prior, and can feel myself being more candid. I’m relieved that the whole being-attracted-to-my-therapist thing doesn’t come up. 
 
 Then, a week later, Lori mentions it, and I become tense again. 
 
 “I thought I’d be able to move past it,” I say, adding, “We aired it out, and it’s fine.” 
 
 As definitive as I’m trying to sound, Lori is just as defiant. 
 
 “I’m glad you feel that way,” she begins, “but I think you owe yourself some kudos. This kind of therapy,” she shares, “isn’t something just anyone can take on.” Such honest discussion doesn’t simply happen, it takes tremendous guts, and Lori can see that I am dealing with it relatively well, so I should praise my own efforts. 
 
 “Shit, we both should be proud of ourselves,” she says. “It’s not easy on the therapist either, you know.” 
 
 “Why not?” 
 
 “Because talking openly about sex is risky at any time, much less with a client.” She explains that therapists are warned any semblance of intimacy can be easily misconstrued. “We learn in our training to not personally disclose, for example,” she says, but adds that, occasionally, transparency can be helpful. 
 
 “Still, with you,” she continues, “until I raised the question, I didn’t know for sure that you would go with it; for all I knew you’d run out of here and never come back to risk being so uncomfortable again.” 
 
 She’s building my confidence more, and I’m learning that I play a much bigger role in how my life is conducted than I often realize. My treatment wouldn’t be happening if I weren’t enabling it. 
 
 Then she says, “And don’t think it’s not nice for me to hear that a guy like you thinks I’m beautiful.” 
 
 Crippled by the eroticism of the moment, and combined with the prevailing notion that no woman this stunning could ever be romantically interested in me, I flounder through words that resemble, “Wait…what?” 
 
 “If we were somehow at a bar together, and you came over and talked to me,” she says, then flips her palms up innocently, “who knows?” 
 
 I laugh again and tell her there’d be almost no chance of me approaching her because I’d never feel like I had a shot in hell. 
 
 “Well, that’s not the circumstances we’re in,” she says. “But you might. Who knows?” 
 
 I’m confused — Is she really attracted to me or is this some psychotherapeutic ruse? I’m frustrated — I told her I didn’t really want to talk about it. Shouldn’t she be more sensitive to my wants here? I’m angry — Is she getting an ego boost out of this? Most of all, I don’t know what the next step is — Am I about to experience the hottest thing that’s ever happened to a straight male since the vagina was invented? 
 
 There were two ways to find out: 
 
 1) Discontinue the therapy, wait for her outside her office every day, follow her to a hypothetical happy hour and ask her out, or 
 
 2) Keep going to therapy. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A week later, I’m physically in the meeting room with Lori, but mentally I haven’t left the recesses of my mind. 
 
 “Where are you today?” she asks, probably noticing my eyes roving around the room. 
 
 “I don’t know.” 
 
 “Are you still grappling with the sexual tension between us?” 
 
 Here we go again. 
 
 “Yes,” I say, with a bit of an edge in my voice, “and I don’t know what to do about it.” 
 
 Lori, ever intently, peers into my eyes, wrinkles her mouth and slightly shakes her head. 
 
 “Do you want to have sex with me?” she asks. 
 
 We both know the answer to that question. All I can do is stare back. 
 
 “Let’s have sex,” she announces. “Right here, right now.” 
 
 “What?” I respond, flustered. 
 
 “Let’s go!” she says a little louder, opening up her arms and looking around as if to say the office is now our playground, and, oh, the rollicking fun we’d have mixing bodily fluids. 
 
 “No,” I tell her, “You don’t mean that.” 
 
 “What if I do?” she shoots back. “Would you have sex with me, now, in this office?” 
 
 “Of course not.” 
 
 “Why ‘of course not’? How do I know for sure that you won’t take me if I offer myself to you?” 
 
 “I wouldn’t do that.” 
 
 “That’s what I thought,” she says, and tension in the room decomposes. “Mike, I don’t feel that you would do something that you think is truly not in our best interest, which is exactly why I just gave you the choice.” 
 
 Her offer was a lesson in empowerment, helping me prove that I have an innate ability to make the right choices, even if I’d so desperately prefer to make the wrong one. 
 
 I see what she means. I’m awfully proud of myself, and it’s OK to be in this instance. I’m gaining trust in myself, and confidence to boot. But, as the dualities of life dictate, I’m successfully doing “the work” with a daring therapist, while at the same time not entirely convinced she isn’t in need of an ethical scrubbing. 
 
 * * * 
 
 I don’t have another session with Lori for nearly three months, because she took a personal leave from her place of employment. When our sessions finally resumed, I could not wait to tell her about my budding relationship with Shauna. 
 
 Ten minutes into my first date with Shauna — right about the time she got up from her bar stool and said she was “going to the can” — I knew she would, at the very least, be someone I was going to invest significant time in. She was as easy to talk to as any girl I’d ever been with, and I found myself at ease. Plans happened magically without anxiety-inducing, twenty-four-hour waits between texts. Her quick wit kept me entertained, and I could tell by the way she so seriously spoke about dancing, her chosen profession, that she is passionate about the art form and mighty talented too. Shauna is beautiful, with flawless hazel eyes and straight dark hair, spunky bangs and a bob that matches her always-upbeat character. She is a snazzy dresser and enjoys a glass of whiskey with a side of fried pickles and good conversation as much as I do. 
 
 Things escalated quickly, but very comfortably, and since we’d both been in our fair share of relationships, we knew the true power of honesty and openness. So upon the precipice of my return to therapy I told Shauna about Lori, and admitted to having mixed feelings about what I was getting back into. I told her I was at least moderately uncertain if my mental health was Lori’s number-one concern since she always seemed to find the time to mention my attraction to her. 
 
 The first two sessions of my therapeutic reboot had gone great. Lori appeared genuinely thrilled that I was dating Shauna and could see how happy I was. I wasn’t overwhelmed with sexual tension in the new meeting room, though it wasn’t actually spoken about, and in the back of my mind I knew it was just a matter of time before it would start to affect my ability to disclose my thoughts to Lori again. 
 
 Then, while attempting to ingratiate myself with my new girlfriend’s cat by spooning food onto his tiny dish on the kitchen floor, I hear my phone ding from inside the living room. 
 
 “You got a text, babe,” Shauna says. “It’s from Lori.” 
 
 “‘I’m so impressed with you and the work you’re doing…’” Shauna reads off my phone from inside the living room, inquisitively, and not happily. I stuff the cat food back into the Tupperware and toss it into the refrigerator. I make my way into the living room, angry at myself for not changing the settings on my new iPhone to disallow text previews on the locked screen. Shauna’s walking too, and we meet near the kitchen door. “What’s this?” she says, holding up the phone. “Your therapist texts you?” 
 
 I take the phone from Shauna and say the most obvious, cliché-sounding thing: “It’s not what it seems.” 
 
 As I text back a curt “thanks,” Shauna tells me she’s going to ask her sister, a therapist herself, if it’s OK to text patients. 
 
 “Don’t do that.” I say, a little more emphatically. “I promise, this is nothing to be worried about. We’re not doing anything wrong.” I explain that Lori’s just trying to build my self-esteem. 
 
 “The only reason I’m even bringing this up is because you said you weren’t sure about her in the first place,” Shauna reminds me. I can tell she regrets looking at my phone without my permission, but I completely understand her feelings. 
 
 At my next session I tell Lori that Shauna saw her text and wasn’t thrilled about it. 
 
 “She probably feels cheated on to some degree,” Lori says. “A relationship between a therapist and a patient can oftentimes seem much more intimate than the one between a romantic couple.” 
 
 Lori goes on to point out that the reason she feels we can exchange texts, blurring the lines between patient/doctor boundaries — a hot topic in the psychotherapy world these days — is because she trusts that I’ll respect her space and privacy. “You’ve proven that much to me,” she says. 
 
 On my walk home, instead of being angry at Lori, I understand her thinking behind the text. But I’m also nervous about how Lori and Shauna can ever coexist in my life. 
 
 Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety? 
 
 * * * 
 
 A week later, Lori begins our session by handing me a printout explaining the psychotherapeutic term “erotic transference” written by Raymond Lloyd Richmond, PhD. It says that erotic transference is the patient’s sense that love is being exchanged between him or herself and the therapist — the exact sensation I was experiencing with Lori, of which she was astutely aware. 
 
 According to Richmond, one of the primary reasons people seek therapy is because “something was lacking in their childhood family life,” perhaps “unconditional nurturing guidance and protection.” Upon feeling “noticed” and “understood” by a qualified therapist, sometimes a patient can be “intoxicated” by their therapist’s approval of them. A patient may in turn contemplate that a love is blossoming between them, and, in fact, it sort of is. 
 
 From an ethical standpoint, Richmond argues all therapists are “bound” to love their patients, for therapists are committed to willing “the good of all clients by ensuring that all actions within psychotherapy serve the client’s need to overcome the symptoms” which brought them into treatment. This takes genuine care and acceptance on their part. However, a patient can easily confuse the love they feel with simple “desire.” They’re not quite in love with their therapist, so much as they yearn for acceptance from someone, and in those sessions they just happen to be receiving it from their doctor. 
 
 Lori tells me that, all along, she has been “working with what I gave her” and that because I flirted with her a bit, she used that to her advantage in the treatment. In employing countertransference — indicating that she had feelings for me — she was keeping me from feeling rejected and despising my own thoughts and urges. 
 
 “There’s two people alone in a room together, and if they’re two attractive people, why wouldn’t they be attracted to each other?” says Dr. Galit Atlas. A psychoanalyst who’s had her own private practice for fifteen years, Dr. Atlas has an upcoming book titled The Enigma of Desire: Sex, Longing and Belonging in Psychoanalysis, and I sought her as an independent source for this essay to help me understand Lori’s therapeutic strategies. 
 
 Dr. Atlas explains that there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed between therapist and patient under any circumstances — like having sex with them, obviously. But many other relationship borders can be mapped out depending on the comfort level of the therapist, as long as they stay within the scope of the profession’s ethics, which complicates the discussion surrounding erotic transference. 
 
 “As a therapist, I have a role,” Dr. Atlas says. “My role is to protect you.” She says it is incumbent on the therapist to not exploit the patient for the therapist’s own good, but admits that the presence of erotic transference in therapy brings about many challenges. “[Attraction] is part of the human condition,” she observes. In therapy, “the question then is: What do you do with that? Do you deny it? Do you talk about it? How do you talk about it without seducing the patient and with keeping your professional ability to think and to reflect?” 
 
 I ask her about the benefits of exploring intimacy in therapy, and Dr. Atlas quickly points out that emotional intimacy — though not necessarily that of the sexual brand — is almost inevitable and required. “An intimate relationship with a therapist can [be] a reparative experience — repairing childhood wounds — but mostly it’s about helping the patient to experience and tolerate emotional intimacy, analyzing the client’s anxieties about being vulnerable and every mechanism one uses in order to avoid being exposed.” 
 
 Dr. Atlas says this topic speaks to every facet of the therapeutic relationship, regardless of gender or even sexual orientation, because intimacy reveals emotional baggage that both the patient and therapist carry with them into the session. But this isn’t a symmetrical relationship, and the therapist is the one who holds the responsibility. 
 
 “Freud said that a healthy person should be able to work and to love,” she says. “In some ways therapy practices both, and in order to change the patient will have to be known by the therapist. That is intimacy. In order to be able to be vulnerable, both parties have to feel safe.” 
 
 After I briefly explain all that has gone on between me and Lori, Dr. Atlas steadfastly says she does not want to judge too harshly why and how everything came to pass in my therapy. “I don’t know your therapist, and I don’t know your history,” she says. But she offers that I should “explore the possibility” that I might have created and admitted my sexual adoration of Lori because one of my fears is to be ignored, not noticed. 
 
 Then I offer: “Maybe this essay is being written for the same reason.” 
 
 “Exactly.” 
 
 Maybe I wanted to interview Lori about erotic transference in my therapy sessions for that same reason as well…to stand out as the most amazingly understanding patient ever. 
 
 * * * 
 
 “I want to be very clear that this was never about feeding my own ego,” Lori says about her approach to my treatment. “We were always doing this in your best interest.” 
 
 I’m in Lori’s office, a tape recorder rolling and a pad and pen in my hands. 
 
 “I felt I was doing a disservice to you if I didn’t ‘out’ what I felt was weighing on us, which, honestly, felt like a heavy secret,” she says, pointing out that she discussed my therapeutic process for many hours in her required supervision meetings. 
 
 In order for Lori to advance in her field as a social worker, she has to attend 3,000 conference hours with another professional to go over casework — kind of like therapy quality control. 
 
 We talk about all of this during one of my scheduled sessions, for the entire hour — and go over by a few minutes, too. 
 
 Lori says that when she began her career as a social worker, she decided she wasn’t going to shy away from any subjects. “It’s typical for a client to [have] a habitual desire to sweep things under the rug,” she observes, especially about taboo topics. It can become a cycle of behavior that Lori seeks to break. 
 
 I refer back to the time when, unprovoked, she brought up my attraction to her. 
 
 She says she mentioned it to avoid what therapists call “door-knobbing,” which is when a patient will purposely mention some huge reveal right at the end of a session so as to sidestep a lengthy conversation about it. 
 
 “My only question for you is, was I wrong for bringing it up?” she asks. “Only you can answer that.” 
 
 Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect. 
 
 “I guess when I said I was over it and could move on, that was an example of my strict black-and-white thinking,” I say, throwing back some language she’s used often to describe my challenge in accepting dualities. In my mind, I was either attracted to her and shouldn’t see her anymore, or I wasn’t attracted to her and could still have her be my therapist. There was no in between. 
 
 I realize now that she wasn’t wrong for mentioning my feelings for her, even when I didn’t want her to. Lori noticed that I was frustrated with myself and wanted me to know that an attraction to a therapist is so normal and happens so frequently that there are technical terms for it. 
 
 I turn my attention towards the presence of countertransference in our session. I’m trying to come up with an actual question here, but, really, I just want her to confirm her feelings for me are real. So I say, referring to her feelings, with a great degree of difficulty, “It’s funny that they seem genuine to this day.” 
 
 “They are genuine,” Lori says, adding a moment later: “I think it might be a good idea if we explore why our discussing it suggests a lack of authenticity.” 
 
 “It doesn’t, necessarily,” I begin, then stammer through a few sentences, worried I might offend her by implying she’s been dishonest. I finally settle on, “I guess it comes back to my self-esteem issues. Why would a beautiful woman think I’m attractive?” 
 
 Lying in bed with Shauna a few months into our relationship, I ask her what she thought about me the moment she first saw me. I’m fishing for a compliment. But we met on Tinder and I just hope that seeing me in person wasn’t some kind of letdown for her after swiping right on my hand-picked glamour shots. Obviously she isn’t going to say something so awful after having committed to me for so long. It’s a slam-dunk ego boost. 
 
 She says she liked the fact that I was wearing a blazer and a tie on a first date. She adds that I was a little shorter than she anticipated, but was content with the two of us at least being the same exact height. 
 
 “What did you think when you first saw me?” she asks, turning it around, naturally. 
 
 Staying committed to my honesty-at-all-costs policy, I say, “I thought you were really beautiful, but not to the point where I was intimidated by you, which was very important because if I was, you would have gotten a very unconfident version of me, and we probably wouldn’t have hit it off as well as we did.” 
 
 Shauna thinks about that for a second, and eventually nods “OK.” 
 
 I explain that my insecurity could often get the better of me in dating situations. It was easy to convince myself that I’d be rejected by the girl I was with, especially if I thought she was out of my league. I would then slip into a nervous and reserved state that isn’t at all reflective of my true self. 
 
 I’m essentially saying that I was so thrilled to not find Shauna so extraordinarily pretty that I couldn’t accept her being on a date with me. That thought made so much sense at the time I said it, but I’ve since come to realize it is as ridiculous as it is insulting. After ten months of being with Shauna, I’m still completely floored by her, on every level, including a physical one. It gives me great pride to walk into a room with her, and I don’t imagine that changing. Therefore, she actually did meet a confident “version of me.” The way people look doesn’t drastically change in ten months but a person’s perception of self can. It seems my emotional workouts in erotic transference were just beginning to produce results. 
 
 * * * 
 
 “People fuck up,” Lori informs me during one winter session. “Therapists have slept with clients before, just like politicians have had sex with their interns. But, so you have a full understanding of how this works, we can date.” She explains the parameters as outlined in the social worker’s code of ethics. One of the many stipulations is that we wouldn’t be able to see each other, under any circumstances, for at least two years before dating. She tells me she loves her job, and there’s no way she would ever sacrifice my safety or her career for anything, so she would strictly follow all the dictated rules. “If you truly want to date me, there is the option. But it’s ultimately up to you.” 
 
 I know what she’s doing here — putting the onus on me, just like last year when she said we could have sex. The difference this time is the answer I want to give is on par with all of my involuntary urges. 
 
 “I don’t want to stop the work we’re doing,” I say. “At this point, it’s far too valuable to me, and, really, I know very little about you.” She’s beautiful, exercises, is smart, funny, professional, enjoys good TV…and that’s about it. Aside from whether or not we’d even both be single in two years, and if we’d be in the correct mind frame to explore a relationship, there are several other things I’m considering here: Would Lori and I really be compatible in every way? Would she ever see me as a lover, a partner, an equal, and not a patient? Could I ever reveal a detail about myself, or even just a shitty day of work, without wondering if she was picking it apart and analyzing it? 
 
 Frankly, all those questions could be answered in the positive. But, even if I wasn’t in a happy relationship — Shauna makes this choice much easier, for sure — I wouldn’t go that route. I’d be out a therapist. 
 
 * * * 
 
 It’s a beautiful spring night in New York and only sidewalk seating will do. Shauna and I are out to dinner at a restaurant near her Queens apartment, and we’re both in good spirits. The weather and the alcohol consumption are partly to blame for that, but, on cue with the season’s change, I feel I’ve turned an emotional corner. Work payments that were past due are finally finding their way into my bank account. As it turns out, my short-term money troubles were not an indication that I had no business being a writer, or that my life changeup was as irresponsible as unprotected sex at fourteen years old. 
 
 I’d told Lori as much that afternoon. I took a mental step back from my current situation and realized that in spite of my recent hardships, I was succeeding. I summarize my session for Shauna, who nods in agreement, lovingly pointing out that she’s had the same challenging freelancer experiences as a dancer. 
 
 “You’re doing great, babe,” she says matter-of-factly. 
 
 “Thank you. That means a lot,” I respond. “I guess if I’m going to be a writer I just have to accept all this and have faith in myself. The way Lori put it was, ‘You just have to go all-in.’” 
 
 “Good,” Shauna says. “You should listen to the women in your life.” 
 
 * * * 
 
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– It is one of the most unusual, and rarest, jobs in the country: Larry Villarin is a certified male sex surrogate, one of only 10 in the US sanctioned by the International Professional Surrogates Association. But as a profile at Broadly makes clear, the 62-year-old Villarin is not to be confused with a male gigolo. His role is to help clients "cope with their fears and anxieties about physical intimacy," writes Natalie O'Neill, and sex is just one component of that. The story uses the example of a 35-year-old woman who had shied away from intimacy her entire adult life because a car accident as a teenager left her blind in one eye. She'd never even been kissed until her sessions with Villarin. "She needed to believe I wouldn't laugh at her or run away," he says. "It was beautiful to see her open up." On its website, IPSA says "it is committed to promoting healthy attitudes toward sexuality and intimacy in our clients and in the community," and the story explains that it gets around prostitution laws "because it doesn't acknowledge intercourse is part of the practice." Villarin says his clients range in age from 22 to 75, with milestone birthdays seemingly one of the big triggers. Most are referred to him from a psychologist, with survivors of abuse and women with disabilities among those reaching out. One of the tricky parts is setting boundaries so the clients don't confuse the physical intimacy with romantic feelings for Villarin. "It's just growth—what humans are capable of," he says. "Gosh, it's intimate stuff." Click for the full story. (This study has concluded how often happy couples have sex.)