Coastal Connecticut was unseasonably warm last May as my Metro-North train rattled past the familiar landscape of my youth. Church steeples, colonial white houses, and country club greens whizzed by in a nostalgic blur as I looked around for a window to open. It wasn’t the weather that was getting to me, though. I was on my way to have sex with a woman for the first time since the Clinton administration.

Gazing out the window, I thought back to that long-ago encounter. I had been 17, a virgin and determined not to be. I gave it my best go with a female classmate, even employing the hot tip I’d received from a more knowledgeable friend—something about forming the letters of the alphabet with my tongue. The whole thing was decidedly not for me, and I never did it again.

The next year, I fell in love with a fellow tenor in my all-male a cappella group at Yale, easily the gayest thing I’d done to date. In the decades since, I’ve come out to my mother, marched against California’s draconian Proposition 8, and begun moisturizing daily—confidently identifying as a gay man.

Yet, a subtle attraction to women persisted. MMF pornography—featuring two men and a woman, often in a bisexual configuration—became a cornerstone of my fantasies. I once gleefully described the genre to an older gay man in Greenwich Village as a “Neapolitan ice cream sandwich”—the best of both worlds. He curtly dismissed the revelation as “self-loathing nonsense.” OK, boomer would’ve been an apt reply, but I let it slide. Especially in older gay circles, men are often expected to be either gay or straight. Rarely do they acknowledge what lies between.

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Then came Gen Z, which seems to consider sexuality anything but binary. According to a 2024 survey from the Public Religion Research Institute, fully 28 percent of them now identify as LGBTQ+, seven times the rate of the eldest generations. But only 5 percent say they are strictly gay or lesbian. Fifteen percent are bisexual, and 8 percent say they’re “something else.” What that “something else” entails seems not to matter. Younger generations are ditching labels in favor of a more fluid perspective that refuses to be boxed in.

I noticed this myself during a recent Euphoria binge. The rawness of the characters’ unbridled exploration as they grappled with the mess of being human was exciting, unnerving, and strangely familiar. I saw a distant yet aspirational part of myself in them. Maybe I, a 45-year-old gay man, could be “something else” as well.

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MMF.

Those three letters stood poised atop my Grindr profile for years, like a defective bisexual bat signal that had thus far failed to conjure even one lousy bat. But then, last April, a man named Emilio tapped and messaged me to inquire if he and his wife could have sex in my bed. He wanted me to watch and eventually “take over.”

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“Absolutely,” I replied in a flurry of excitement. Seemingly without a shred of internal deliberation, I blurted out, “Let’s do it. I have two tanks of Costco rosé in the fridge.”

The unease hit straight away. I hadn’t “taken over” anything with a woman in the bedroom for decades. And even then, I had only gotten up to the letter K. What exactly were they expecting me to do?

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My virginlike consternations led me to Paul Nelson, a sex therapist at Maze Men’s Health in New York. Unlike my catty colleague in Greenwich Village, Nelson reassured me that my orientation anxiety—and my unexplored interest in women—was perfectly normal. “The idea that you would go through life never changing, expanding, or exploring your sexual expression is an unrealistic assumption,” he told me. “You’re not confined to being homosexual, heterosexual, or any-sexual. You’re uniquely Brian-sexual.”

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Then he suggested I try something called surrogate partner therapy, an experiential practice pioneered by sex researchers William Masters and Virginia Johnson in the 1970s. Originally intended to help people navigate sexual dysfunctions like premature ejaculation and low libido, the practice employs a hands-on learning approach to building physical and emotional intimacy skills. Sessions are priced in the talk therapy range, and treatment periods range anywhere from a few weeks to many years. During that time, surrogate partners practice a number of relational and nonsexual exercises with their clients to build foundations for healthy connections with themselves and others. They demonstrate how to develop healthy relationships, understand social cues, flirt, give and receive touch, manage eye contact, verbalize boundaries, process body shame, and use appropriate etiquette on dates. Sometimes sex is involved. Far more often it is not. SPT tends to be pretty effective at treating sexual dysfunction either way.

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Occasionally, SPT is also employed to help “orientation-curious” clients: people like me who may be attracted to certain genders but need some guidance exploring what that means. This facet of SPT has become an increasingly large part of Nelson’s practice. Often, he pairs hetero-curious gay men with female surrogate partners and homo-curious men with male surrogates. (Other therapists do this for female clients and surrogates too).

Nelson offered the example of one of his clients, a fiftysomething man with a wife whose medical problems limit her sexuality. He requested they open the marriage, but his wife was worried he’d fall in love with any woman he started to see. The client had mentioned to Nelson he always regretted never having sex with a man. He now wondered about the possibility of connecting sexually with one—preferably a man who would respect his boundaries and not desire any sort of emotional connection.

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To his surprise, his wife felt scarcely threatened by the idea of him experimenting with a trained professional, so Nelson sent him to a male surrogate in New York, with much success. “A lot of people had to ‘pick a side’ a long time ago,” he explained. “Suddenly, they’re feeling the freedom to scratch a lifelong itch.”

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Nelson partners with several surrogates in New York and recommended I see a woman named “Ana Cortez” (her chosen name for SPT work). On an introductory Zoom call, Ana’s kind smile, apple cheeks, and playful brown curls reminded me of my second grade teacher. Her easy greeting came with a polite but stern disclaimer: “This is not conversion therapy,” she said, referencing the discredited and justifiably maligned homophobic practice that falsely claims to be able to change a person’s sexual orientation through intense (and now widely illegal) “therapy.”

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“The goal is not to become straight,” she told me. “That would be a stupid goal. From what I’m hearing, you’re just trying to fully expand your sexual expression and enjoyment.”

I assured her that I wasn’t looking to be any “less gay” and would be thrilled to sing the complete 1974 studio album of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat as proof. I was simply underprepared to have sex with a woman. Ana seemed well equipped to help.

I texted Emilio and his wife that I’d be out of town for a month visiting family back east but was looking forward to connecting upon my return. Gulp.

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My train left me in the heart of a picturesque New England village, with a 10-minute uphill walk to Ana’s doorstep. She runs her practice out of a tastefully furnished corporate studio apartment. Upon my arrival, she greeted me with the warmth of an Airbnb superhost, running me a shower, offering an iPhone charger, and casually asking if I liked steamed milk and sugar in my coffee.

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“That reminds me,” I said, supplying a negative STI test—a prerequisite for all her clients to take advantage of the complete array of choices. As I looked at a large chest of drawers filled with every type of condom conceivable, my mind fixated on a much more provocative notion: If everything went according to plan, I’d soon engage in unprotected doggy-style sex with my therapeutic referral. A queen-size bed dominated the space behind her, its implications unavoidable.

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Typically, surrogates don’t launch into conversations about sex with their clients right away. Instead, they start by building a genuine connection and assessing how secure or frightened their client may be by the prospect of intimacy. They take things very slowly until the client feels comfortable—this models healthy behavior and teaches them how to ease into an interaction with trust and care. Being a journalist, however, I couldn’t help but steer the conversation in that direction. I had questions about what we were going to do, and Ana was ready with answers. Compulsively nibbling on the assorted nuts provided, I listened as she told me that although we’d remain fully clothed today, subsequent sessions could become more intimate—if I wanted them to.

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Delicately, she then brought up the topic of transference, or how clients sometimes develop attachments to their therapists (and vice versa), projecting unmet needs and desires onto them. The relationship can even begin to feel like a boyfriend/girlfriend dynamic, but in SPT that’s by design: For clients to learn real skills around sex and relationships, they must develop trust, vulnerability, and intimacy with their surrogates.

Nelson had primed me for this. “The whole idea of partner surrogacy is that you get an ally who creates a safe space for you to learn what a healthy, happy, intimate relationship looks like,” he explained. “It would be extraordinarily difficult for you to walk up to a woman in America and say, ‘Hi, I’m gay, but can I have sex with you?’ You may even get arrested.” In other words, some semblance of a relationship has to form—just like it would in the wild—but it’s still important for both parties to remember that it will end. “Rest assured,” Ana said with a smile, “we’re not gonna run off into the sunset together.”

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As promised, the intimacy intensified on the second day. Nudity and nongenital touching were on the docket, and I soon found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with Ana in front of a full-length mirror. We wore matching fluffy white bathrobes with nothing underneath.

“Ready?” she asked, loosening the tie on her robe.

“Not sure ready is the best word for what I’m feeling,” I said. “But let’s do it.”

We dropped the robes from our shoulders, letting them slip into puddles at our feet. Then we stood there, just looking at ourselves.

Our reflection—two bare beings, arms dangling, similar but different—brought to mind a high school anatomy depiction of the male and female forms. People toss around the word surreal, but standing naked with your kinda-therapist in front of a mirror as part of a midlife sexual awakening is certainly the sort of experience that qualifies.

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The feeling began to fade when I noticed how gray my pubic hair had become. With a pang, I also gently reminded myself that it takes more than a month of intermittent fasting to achieve meaningful results in the midsection.

Ana seemed to sense my inner dialogue. “This can unsettle some folks,” she said. “We all carry insecurities about our bodies. Even me. I got a breast enhancement way back in my 20s, and can’t help but feel a sort of odd apology for them.”

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“No need to … I mean, you don’t …” I stammered, eyes pinned to her nipples. “I think they’re great.”

And I did. In fact, I couldn’t stop staring at her breasts. I wasn’t expecting to have such a visceral reaction.

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Earlier, Ana had playfully challenged me to seize a spontaneous moment for a kiss. With a surge of anticipation, I closed my eyes and leaned in. We exchanged breath, then I remembered to also move my lips.

Kissing a woman after three decades reignited more memories. The gentle touch of her lips stood in stark contrast to the ruggedness and stubble of previous male partners. But gradually, I found myself easing into the moment. It was hardly romantic, but kissing a woman felt authentic. I had unlocked something.

In the next session, Ana explained why SPT goes so heavy on the nongenital, nonsexual touch exercises: It takes away the pressure to “perform,” establishes comfort between the client and the surrogate, and helps to create a safe environment in which clients can explore intimacy while gradually building an emotional connection. At the same time, moving slowly with someone you trust can feel so safe that long-held anxieties and traumas sometimes bubble up. Without the pressure of impending sex, these feelings can be processed with the surrogate as they arise.

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Lying face down on the bed, I became acutely aware of Ana’s presence as she hovered over me and traced the curve of my elbow with her finger. The gentle brush of her wild curls against my back offered another sensory contrast to decades of clean-cut male partners. Five minutes in, we reversed roles. While running my fingers over the entire backside of Ana’s body, I became keenly aware of the differences in texture and shape, particularly between the male and female ass. Ours has always felt utilitarian, almost functional in form. Ana’s curves were a revelation, generously sculpted and fluid. What I had anticipated as terror and helplessness was instead a novel challenge blending bemusement and wonder.

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To regain my composure, I followed Ana’s advice to “count the moles or other distinctive features.” Like adding up sheep to doze off, focusing on something mundane can serve as a relaxant, easing the anxiety of a sexual encounter. A moment of solace presented itself in a small tattoo along her bikini line. She had had it done when she was 19, during her brother’s battle with cancer.

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“That’s so strange,” I said softly. “My little sister also got a tattoo when she was 19. I almost died that year too.”

The traumatic brain injury I survived in 2012 wasn’t something I typically disclose in carnal moments, but I’d already shared parts of myself with Ana that I’d never said out loud, and something about the vulnerability felt right. We were silent for a moment, lying there together on a cloudlike bed in a beige suburban apartment, the hum from an air conditioner filling the space with a calming drone. The setup may have been contrived, but the connection felt right—however surreal.

In SPT, a licensed therapist supervises every step of the client-surrogate process, and both are required to check in with the therapist after each session to determine next steps. On the train back to my brother’s house, at the halfway point in the two-week intensive, I told Nelson that it felt as if I had been finally granted permission to explore out-of-bounds territory. The weight of social constraints was lifting; scolding voices grew softer every day.

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SPT often extends beyond physical intimacy to enhance social skills outside the bedroom. That’s how I found myself on a “date” with Ana at a nearby coffee shop so she could assist me in capturing a woman’s attention in public without coming off as a complete psycho. I took the opportunity to ask her about the legal status of SPT, which is currently undefined in the U.S. and most countries around the world. Generally speaking, there are no laws regulating the profession, though organizations such as the International Professional Surrogates Association govern it, provide ethical guidelines, and offer professional training. Surrogates do not have to be part of IPSA to practice SPT, but they do have to work with a licensed therapist. In fact, all of Ana’s clients are referrals from Nelson.

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This more institutionalized format is one of many factors differentiating SPT from traditional sex work, which often involves immediate sexual gratification and short-term relationships. By contrast, surrogate partners teach clients nuanced sexual and relational skills over a much longer period, and their interactions rarely progress to sex. In fact, some studies estimate that only 13 percent of a surrogate partner’s job is devoted to sexual activities. The vast majority of what they do mirrors what a healthy relationship looks and feels like—including taking their clients on mock dates.

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Sitting across from Ana, I realized that I hadn’t been on a prescribed encounter like this in years, a fact I found both humorous and absurd. I was a middle-aged man feeling nervous about having overpriced coffee with a woman, when I was hardly ever nervous around anyone. In hindsight, the initial sessions and mock dates were rife with impostor syndrome, whispering doubts about whether I even belonged in these situations in the first place.

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Over two weeks, my sessions with Ana transitioned from nurturing, nonsexual touch exercises (hand-holding, observing, stroking of nonerogenous zones) to more intimate activities, including mutual genital exploration. Occasionally, my curiosity swerved us into an almost clinical, impromptu female anatomy lesson, as when I found myself captivated by the intricate details of the labia.

And like any fumbling teenager trying to feel his way to the promised land, there were missteps. Once, I pinched the flesh of Ana’s back in an attempt to unclasp her halter bra.

“No, ouch, no,” she playfully corrected, then demonstrated the hook-and-eye function, like Jane Goodall giving a precocious chimpanzee a tutorial on human tasks. “Here. And here. See? See? Good. Good.”

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Patiently, Ana navigated us through a progression of intimate encounters, including digital penetration, eyes-closed digital penetration, oral sex, and, as promised, penetration-penetration. I began to realize that what truly mattered wasn’t the act of sex itself (and least of all the position). I was authentically connecting with another person while maintaining a receptive presence. Warm orifices being what they are, gender ended up not mattering much at all.

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A sense of bemusement and wonder permeated our final sessions, and Ana kept things focused on my goals. Aware of my threesome aspirations, she would say things like “Emilio’s wife will probably start getting wet at the bottom here, so you’ll wanna bring that moisture up,” demonstrating a fluid wrist motion that I determined would require more practice on the plane.

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Toward the end of our final meeting, I gathered the courage to ask Ana if she thought I could pull this off. “Relax,” she assured me. “You’re good at this.”

Landing back at LAX with newfound confidence, I approached the planned rendezvous with an unexpected serenity that felt like the true proposition of SPT for people like me. Contrary to initial fears, my interaction with Emilio and his wife was passionate and satisfying. Moments of panic still arose, like when two breasts unexpectedly landed on my nose, but the “Count the moles and other distinctions” technique I had learned from Ana proved remarkably effective at reducing anxiety. It turns out that “taking over” is fun and, let’s face it, pretty easy. I’m an able-bodied man with normal testosterone levels who lives alone in the Hollywood Hills—I may have been overthinking all of this.

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That feeling of granted permission has persisted in the months since, including an additional MMF date with another couple. It’s been fun to catch a woman’s attention as I stroll down the streets of North Hollywood now that it’s within the realm of possibility that we’ll smash one day. (I’m learning straight-bro lingo too.) I’ve even swiped right on a few solo women, but I have yet to meet any in person.

Meanwhile, I’m still very interested in men. Grindr remains a well-worn app on my phone. This experience was never intended to “turn me straight,” and thankfully, it hasn’t. But it has opened my mind to a future in which my life partner might not necessarily be a gay man. Their gender is suddenly—and thrillingly—not very relevant. Oh, and if you’re wondering, I did update my dating profile: 45-year-old bisexual man.