Quite different concerns were voiced in the doctor’s office located in the area just below the amusement district of Flintsburgh, the area inhabited by hip musicians and beat poets, far-out artists and swinging models, pseudo-Bohemians and over-age rebels, the area over which hung the aura of the permanent high. Here, the doctor stared across his desk at the young man in short pants and long hair and his recent bride in long jeans and short hair, and listened to their reaction to the proposition he had just outlined.
“Hey, crazy, man!” the male beatnik reacted succinctly.
“Yes-yes-yes!” his mate agreed. “Will they shoot us some LSD, Doc?”
“No drugs are used in these experiments,” the doctor told them. “
“No drugs?” ‘The hubby-nik pouted his disappointment.
“Not even a little pot?” the wife-nik asked.
“Just a stick of tea, maybe?”
“No drugs of any kind!” The doctor was firm.
“That’s like strictly a nowhere scene,” the male decided.
“You’ll be paid for your cooperation.” the doctor reminded him.
“That’s a very cogent point, uncle.” He reconsidered.
“And we never made it that way before,” his spouse trilled.
“Check! Hey, it’s a new gas! Let’s give it a go-go!” He swung over to enthusiasm.
“It might even be existential!” She caught his enthusiasm. “Okay. Let’s.”
“Then if you’re willing,” the doctor instructed them “be at the Venus Bio-Erotic Research Observatory at . . .”
A few hours later, in yet another doctor’s office located in a new suburban development on the outskirts of Flints burgh, the physician confronted a couple who had heard rumors of the project and had come in to find out how to go about volunteering their services. Their eagerness to participate had made the doctor curious. Now he put curiosity into words.
“Of course I think your cooperation is quite laudable Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” he said, “but may I ask why you’re so anxious to be the first married couple to-umm-have relations in this new phase of the Venus program?
Mr. Jones started to reply. “It’s Bill Johnson. He got a new car. One of those sporty foreign jobs and--”
“I don’t see-—” The doctor was puzzled.
“I drive one of the low-priced three,” Mr. Jones explained.
“It’s really simple.” Mrs. Jones came to her husband’s aid. “Bill and Ethel-—the Johnsons, that is-—they were interviewed by the Kinsey people. They never stop talking about it.”
“And Marty Smathers, on the other side of us,” Mr. Jones added, “his wife goes to an analyst—met Wilhelm Reich personally once. She’s frigid.”
“Also,” his wife remembered, “down the block is a couple swears they got written up anonymously in the Psycho-Sexual Review just on the basis of their pre-marital techniques.”
“He was overseas at the time and they claim they used to make it by telepathy.” Mr. Jones was skeptical and indignant. “You believe that? I don’t believe it. But they show us the magazine and swear it’s them, we can’t call them a liar to their faces, right?”
“I see.” The doctor nodded. “And so you feel you want to cooperate because—”
“Status!” Mrs. Jones admitted. “We’ll be able to hold our head up in the neighborhood!”
“All right then,” the doctor told them. “I’ll set up an appointment for next Thursday at two o’clock.”
The Joneses were at the Observatory right on time. Mercy Bilkoo was ready and waiting to interview them. They were to have their wish. They would be the first married couple to participate in the Venus project. The interview was about twenty minutes old when Mercy raised a question which, as a single girl, she had long wondered about in connection with married people.
“Mr. Jones,” she asked, “what is the first thing you do when you get into bed with your wife?”
“He falls asleep.” Mrs. Jones replied quickly before her husband could.
“I work hard all day.” Mr. Jones defended himself. “You think it’s easy selling those crummy houses?”
“I mean on those nights when you don’t fall asleep,” Mercy explained delicately. “What’s the first thing you do on those nights, Mr. Jones?”
“He turns on the television.” Mrs. Jones beat her husband to the punch again.
“I see.” Mercy tried to smooth things over. “And this stimulates you, Mr. Jones?”
“It puts him to sleep.” Mrs. Jones scored again.
“We seem to be having a communication problem,” Mercy observed. “What I want to know, Mr. Jones, is how you approach your wife when you’re—ahh—in the mood, so to speak.”
“I just grab her is all.” Mr. Jones was sullen.
“The ‘physical approach’.” Mercy jotted down some notes. “I understand. And how do you respond, Mrs. Jones?”
“She gives me a shot in the ribs and tells me I should keep my hands to myself.” Mr. Jones was becoming even more sullen.
'“A physical response.” Mercy made another note. “And what happens after this exchange of love taps?”
“I get up and go for the liniment.” Mrs. Jones cackled maliciously. “Paunchy here bruises easy.”
“She’s got a touch! Light like a hippopotamus!” Mr. Jones glared at Mrs. Jones.
“But finally you must embrace.” Mercy managed to distract them from their anger. “What sort of caresses do you exchange in this pre-coital stage?”
“Caresses!” Mr. Jones snarled. “Hah! That’s a laugh!” He went on to describe what he meant.
Mercy took notes and went on to the next series of questions. Some two hours later she concluded the interview, told the Joneses they’d be hearing from her in the next day or two and bid them goodbye. After they’d left she went into Dr. Peerloin’s office to consult with the woman scientist.
“It shakes me up a little to admit it,” Mercy told her, “but from all the non-sexual data I’ve compiled on them, the Joneses may be our typical American couple.”
“And the sexual data?” Dr. Peerloin asked shrewdly.
“I don’t know,” Mercy confessed. “I just don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t.” Dr. Peerloin reassured her. “Nobody does. That’s the purpose of this survey. You must learn not to prejudge, Mercy. And you must set any romantic notions you have aside. Only actual experimentation will give us facts in this area. I suggest you have the Joneses back as soon as is convenient, explain the procedures to them, let them spend some time on their own in our “rehearsal room,” and then set up another appointment for the actual experiment. It’s time, as they say, that we got this show on the road.”
“All right,” Mercy agreed.
So it was that two days later the Joneses returned to the Observatory. Mercy took them on a tour of the premises, finally arriving at the actual room in which the experiments were conducted. Here she started to explain the setup to them.
“This bed can be adjusted to any position,” she began. “However, we would prefer if you just follow the same procedures you use in the privacy of your own bedroom. A color movie projector—or, rather, four such projectors—- will film your activities from every angle and—”
“You mean we have to take our clothes off?” Mrs. Jones interrupted.
“If that’s the way you usually have relations, yes. Just do everything as you normally would.”
“Nobody mentioned before I’d have to take my clothes off,” Mrs. Jones complained. “If I knew that, I’d have waited ’til after I finish the diet I’m on before we volunteered."
“Boy, Tubby, you floor me!” Mr. Jones chortled. “Taking pictures in the hay doesn’t bother you, but they should take them without you’ve got your girdle on, that’s a real trauma!”
“I was thinking more of you,” Mrs. Jones replied sweetly. “Don’t you think I know I can’t get you into a bathing-suit on the beach because you’re so self-conscious about the lard you’re toting around?”