Rama 3 – The Garden of Rama by Clarke, Arthur C.

When we took off our clothes (in the dark, so Michael would not feel uncomfortable) and lay beside each other on the mats, I discovered that his body was rigid and tense. I kissed him on the forehead and cheeks. Then I tried to loosen him up by rubbing his back and neck. After about thirty minutes of touching (but nothing that would be considered sexual foreplay), I snuggled my body against his in a suggestive way. It was obvious we had a problem. His penis was still completely flaccid.

I did not know what to do. My initial thought, which of course was completely irrational, was that Michael did not find me attractive. I felt terrible, as if someone had slapped me in the face. All my repressed feelings of inadequacy burst to the surface and I was surprisingly angry. Luckily I didn’t say anything (neither of us talked during this entire period) and Michael couldn’t see my face in the dark. But my body language must have signaled my disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

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“It’s all right,” I answered, trying to be nonchalant.

I propped myself up on an elbow and caressed his forehead with my other hand. I expanded my light massage, letting my fingers ran gently around his face, neck, and shoulders. Michael was completely passive. He lay on his back without moving, his eyes closed most of the time. Although I am certain he was enjoying the rub, he neither said anything nor uttered any murmurs of pleasure. By this time I was becoming exceedingly anxious. I found myself wanting Michael to caress me, to tell me that I was all right.

At length I rolled over with part of my body across his. I let my breasts drop gently on his torso while my right hand played with the hah- on his chest. I leaned up to kiss him on the lips, intending to arouse him elsewhere with my left hand, but he pulled away quickly and then sat up.

“I can’t do this,” Michael said, shaking his head.

“Why not?” I asked quietly, my body now in an awkward position beside him.

“It’s wrong,” he answered with great solemnity.

I tried several times in the next few minutes to start a conversation, but Michael did not want to talk. Eventually, because there was nothing else for me to do, I dressed silently in the dark. Michael barely managed a meager “Good night” when I left.

I did not return immediately to my room. Once I was out in the corridor I realized that I was not yet ready to confront Richard. I leaned against the wall and struggled with the powerful emotions engulfing me. Why had I assumed everything would be so simple? And what would I tell Richard now?

From the sound of Richard’s breathing I, knew that he was not asleep when I entered our room. If I had had more courage, I might have told him right then what had happened with Michael. But it was easier to ignore it for the moment. That was a serious mistake.

The next two days were strained. Nobody mentioned what Richard had once referred to as the “fertilization event.” The men tried to act as if everything was normal. After dinner the second night I persuaded Richard to take a walk with me while Michael put the girls to bed.

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Richard was explaining the chemistry of his new wine fermentation process as we stood on the ramparts overlooking the Cylindrical Sea. At one point I interrupted him and took his hand. “Richard,” I said, my eyes searching for love and reassurance in his, “this is very difficult. …” My voice trailed off.

“What is it, Nikki?” he asked, forcing a smile.

“Well,” I answered, “it’s Michael. You see,” I blurted out, “nothing really happened. … He couldn’t . . .”

Richard stared at me for a long time. “You mean he’s impotent?” he asked.

I nodded first and then completely confused him by shaking my head. “Probably not really,” I stammered, “but he was the other night with me. I think he’s just too tense or feels guilty or maybe it’s been too long—” I stopped myself, realizing I was saying too much.

Richard gazed across the sea for what seemed like an eternity. “Do you want to try again?” he said eventually in a completely expressionless voice. He did not turn to look at me.

“I… I don’t know,” I answered. I squeezed his hand. I was going to say something else, to ask him if he could deal with the situation if I tried one more time, but Richard abruptly walked away from me. “Let me know when you make up your mind,” he said tersely.

For a week or two I was certain that I was going to abandon the entire idea. Slowly, very slowly, a semblance of cheer returned to our little family. The night after my period was over Richard and I made love twice for the first time in a year. He seemed especially pleased and was very talkative as we cuddled after the second intercourse.

“I must say I was really worried there for a while,” he said. “The thought of your having sex with Michael, even for supposedly logical reasons, was driving me crazy. I know it doesn’t make rational sense, but I was terribly afraid that you might like it—do you understand?—and mat somehow our relationship might be affected.”

Richard was obviously assuming that I wasn’t going to try again to become pregnant with Michael’s child. I didn’t argue with him that night because I too was momentarily content. A few days later, however, when I began reading

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about impotence in my medical books, I realized myself that I was still determined to proceed with my plan.

During the week before I ovulated again, Richard was busy brewing his wine (and maybe tasting it a bit more often than necessary—more than once he was a little drunk before dinner) and creating little robots out of Samuel Beckett’s characters. My attention was focused on impotence. My curriculum at medical school had virtually ignored the subject. And since my own sexual experience has been comparatively limited, I had never personally been exposed to it before. I was surprised to learn that impotence is an extremely common malady, primarily psychological but very often with an exacerbating physical component as well, and that there are many well-defined treatment patterns, all of which focus on lessening the “performance anxiety” in the man.

Richard saw me preparing my urine for ovulation testing one morning. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell from his face that he was hurt and disappointed. I wanted to reassure him, but the children were in the room and I was afraid there might be a scene.

I didn’t tell Michael that we were going to make a second attempt. I thought that his anxiety would be reduced if he didn’t have time to think about it. My plan almost worked. I went with Michael to his room, after we had put the children to bed, and explained to him what was happening while we undressed. He had the beginnings of an erection and, despite his mild protests, I moved quickly to sustain it. I am certain that we would have been successful if Katie had not started screaming “Mommy, Mommy” just when we were ready to begin intercourse.

Of course I left Michael and ran down the corridor to the nursery. Richard was already there. He was holding Katie in his arms. Simone was sitting up on her mat, rubbing her eyes. The three of them all stared at my naked body in the doorway. “I had a terrible dream,” Katie said, holding tightly to Richard. “An octospider was eating me.”

I walked into the room. “Are you feeling better now?” I asked, reaching out to take Katie. Richard continued to hold her and she made no effort to come to me. After an

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uncomfortable moment I went over to Simone and draped my arm across her shoulder.

“Where are your pajamas, Mother?” my four-year-old asked. Most of the time both Richard and I sleep in the Raman version of pajamas. The girls are quite accustomed to my naked body—the three of us shower together virtually every day—but at night, when I come into the nursery, I’m almost always wearing my pajamas.

I was going to give Simone a flippant answer when I noticed that Richard too was staring at me. His eyes were definitely hostile. “I can take care of things here,” he said harshly. “Why don’t you finish what you were doing?”

I returned to Michael to try one more time to achieve intercourse and conception. It was a bad decision. I made a futile attempt to arouse Michael for a couple of minutes and then he pushed my hand away. “It’s useless,” he said. “I’m almost sixty-three years old and I haven’t had intercourse for five years. I never masturbate and I consciously try not to think about sex. My erection earlier was just a temporary stroke of luck.” He was silent for almost a minute. “I’m sorry, Nicole,” he then added, “but it’s not going to work.”