“When was this?”
“Seventy-four,” he said. “October or November.”
Not long after Sharon began grad school. The bastard had been a fast worker.
“It was supposed to be part of her research,” said Gordon. “Now we weren’t born yesterday, we thought that was pretty thin, but Kruse assured us it was all on the up-and-up, showed us forms approved by the University. He even brought Sharon to meet us, here in our home- that was the one time. She seemed very vivacious, very Marilyn- down to the hair. She verified it was all part of her course work.”
“Marilyn,” I said. “As in Monroe.”
“Yes. She projected that same innocent yet erotic quality.”
“She was a blonde?”
“Platinum,” said Chantal. “Like sunshine on clear water.”
“The Sharon we knew had black hair,” said Larry.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Gordon. “Kruse may have been lying about who she was. He lied about everything else. We opened our home to him, gave him free access to our collection, and he turned around and used it to pander to the bluenoses.”
“He gave a speech in front of church groups,” said Chantal, stamping her foot. “Stood there and said terrible things about us- called us perverted, sexist. If there’s one man who isn’t sexist it’s my Gordie.
“He didn’t use our names,” added Chantal, “but we knew he was referring to us.”
“His own wife was a porn star,” I said. “How’d he explain that to the church groups?”
“Suzy?” said Gordon. “I wouldn’t call her a star- adequate style, but strictly second drawer. I suppose he could always claim he saved her from a life of sin. But he probably never had to explain. People have short memories. After she married him, Suzy stopped working, disappeared from view. He probably turned her into a docile little hausfrau- he’s the type, you know. Obsessed with power.”
It echoed something Larry had said at the party.
“Onward,” said Gordon. He went to the back of the room and began fiddling with the projection equipment.
“Kruse has just been appointed head of the psychology department,” I said.
“Scandalous,” said Chantal. “You’d think someone would know better.”
“You’d think,” I said.
“All cued,” Gordon called from the back. “Everyone get comfortable.”
Larry and I took the front end seats; Chantal got between us. The room went black; the screen, dead white.
“
The screen filled with dancing lint followed by flickering count-down numbers. I sat rigid, holding my breath, told myself I’d been an idiot to come. Then, black-and-white images floated in front of me and I lost myself in them.
There was no sound track, only the whir of projection breaking the silence. Lettering that resemb
CHECKUP
STARRING
SHAWNA BLUE
MICKEY STARBUCK
A CREATIVE IMAGE ASSOC. PRODUCTION
Creative Image. A name on a door. Kruse’s neighbors in the Sunset Boulevard office. Not a neighbor after all, but the two faces of Dr. K…
DIRECTED BY
PIERRE LE VOYEUR
A jumpy black-and-white sweep of a doctor’s examining room- the old-fashioned kind, with enameled fixtures, wooden examining table, eye chart, chintz drapes, a square of six framed diplomas on the wall.
The door opened. A woman walked in.
The camera pursued her, spending a long time on the sway of her buttocks.
Young and beautiful and well-endowed, with long, wavy platinum-blond hair. She wore a clinging, low-cut jersey dress that barely contained her.
Black-and-white film, but I knew the dress was flamecolored.
A flickering close-up magnified a beautiful, pouting face.
Sharon’s face. Despite the wig, no doubt about it.
I felt sick and regretful. Stared at the screen like a child at a squashed bug.
The camera pulled back. Sharon pirouetted, gazed into the mirror, and fluffed her hair. Then a quick zoom- more pout, big eyes gazing out at the viewer.
Boring into mine.
A full body shot, shift to buttocks, a series of quick bounces from mouth to hands to bosom.
Shoddy, the cheapest of the cheap. But perversely magical-
I gripped my armrests. My heart was pounding, filling my ears like a winter tide.
She stretched languidly and licked her lips. The camera got so close her tongue resembled some kind of giant sea slug. More close-ups: wet white teeth. A purposeful bend forward, flashing cleavage. Moon- cratered nipplescape. Hands stroking breasts, pinching.
She was twisting, exhibiting, clearly enjoying center stage.
I thought of angled mirrors, started sweating. Finally, concentrating on the choppiness and relentless zooming helped restore her to something two-dimensional.
I exhaled, closed my eyes, determined to maintain a sense of detachment. Before my breath had been totally expelled, something dropped on my knee and settled there. Chantal’s hand. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She stared straight ahead, mouth slightly parted.
I did nothing, hoped she wouldn’t explore. Let my eyes settle back on the screen.
Sharon was performing a slow, sinuous striptease, peeling down to black garter belt, mesh stockings, and high-heeled shoes- a Frederick’s of Hollywood parody- touching herself, bending, spreading, and kneading, playing for the camera.
I watched her hands move.
But something was wrong. Something about the hands- off-kilter.
The more I tried to figure out what it was, the further it receded: Chinese finger-puzzle time. I stopped trying, told myself it would come to me.
The camera got gynecologic, moved upward, inch by inch.
Sharon, on the examining table now, fondled herself, looked down at her crotch.
The camera swung to the doorknob as it rotated. The door opened. A tall, dark, broad- shouldered man walked in carrying a clipboard. Late thirties, long white coat, headlamp and stethoscope. A narrow, hungry face- down-slanted eyes, broken nose, thin wide lips, five o’clock shadow. The eyes were jumpy, those of a hustler on full burn. He’d greased his hair to shoe-polish sheen and parted it in the center. A pencil-line mustache traveled the length of his upper lip.
Classic Gigolo meets Dumb Blonde.
