She was twisting, exhibiting, clearly enjoying center stage.
Keep it bright. I want to see it. See everything.
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. Felt them.
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.
He stared at Sharon, raised his eyebrows, mugged for the camera.
She pointed to her crotch, gave a pained expression.
Scratching his head, he consulted his clipboard, then put it down and removed the stethoscope. He stood over her, bent his knees, and put his head between her legs, poking, probing. Looked up, shrugged.
She winked at the camera, pushed his head down, writhed on cue.
He came up, pretended to be gasping for breath. She pushed him down again. The rest was predictable- close-up of his trousered erection, she forcing him down, sucking the fingers of one of her hands.
She pushed him off, worked his zipper. His pants fell to his ankles. She removed the coat. He was shirtless, wore only a tie. She pulled the tie until he hovered. Took him orally, wide-eyed and gulping.
As he got up on the table and mounted her, Chantal’s fingers began spider-walking up my thigh. I placed my hand over them, preventing further progress, gave a friendly squeeze, and deposited them gently in her lap. She made no sound, didn’t move a muscle.
Comically rapid shifts in positions. Close-ups of both their faces, contorted. He saying something- cuing her- a series of rapid thrusts, withdrawal, the milky proof of climax flying through the air.
She retrieved some from her belly, licked her fingers. Winked at the camera again.
Blank screen.
A checkup turned carnal. Follow-up visits…
I felt suffocated, angry. Sad.
The room stayed mercifully dark.
“Well,” said Gordon finally, “there it is.”
Chantal got up fast, smoothed her dress. “Excuse me, I have something to attend to.”
“Everything all right, hon?”
“Just fine, dearie.” She kissed his cheek, curtsied, and said, “Nice to see you again, Lawrence. Nice meeting you, Dr. Delaware.” She left the vault.
“The late Mickey Starbuck,” I said. “How’d he die?”
Gordon was still staring at his wife’s exit route. I had to repeat the question.
“Cocaine overdose, several years ago. Poor Mickey wanted to break into straight films but couldn’t- there’s terrible discrimination against explicit stars. He ended up driving a cab. A sensitive soul, really a fine young man.”
“Two actors, two suicides by overdose,” said Larry. “Sounds like a jinx.”
“Nonsense,” said Gordon sharply. “Explicit films are like any other aspect of show business. Fragile egos, instability, big ups, big downs. Some people can’t cope.”
“The production company?” I said. “Creative Image Associates- a shadow for Kruse?”
Gordon nodded. “Protection. Foolish of me not to smell something rotten when he set it up- if he’d really gotten University approval, why the need for a shadow? When I saw the finished product I knew precisely what he’d done, but I didn’t call him on it- he was the doctor, the expert. At the time I thought he was brilliant, visionary. I figured he had a reason.”
“What had he done?”
“Sit back down and I’ll show you.” He returned to the rear of the vault, the room returned to darkness, and another movie came on the screen.
This one had no title, no actors’ credits, just grainy, jumpy action, the camera work even more amateurish than the first, but clearly its inspiration.
The setting: a doctor’s office, same kind of furniture, same square of framed diplomas.
The stars: a gorgeous woman with wavy blond hair, long-legged, stacked, but several inches shorter than Sharon, the bones smaller, the face slightly fuller. Similar enough to be Sharon’s twin.
Twin. Shirlee. No, that was impossible. The Shirlee I’d met had been crippled in childhood…
If Sharon had told the truth.
Big if.
Film number two was barreling along at a Keystone Kops pace: striptease, hair-fluffing, a tall dark man entering through the door.
Close-up on him: fortyish, shiny hair, pencil mustache. White coat, stethoscope, clipboard.
A crude resemblance to the late Mickey Starbuck, but nothing striking.
And no leer. This doctor seemed to be showing genuine surprise at the sight of the naked blonde lying spread-legged on the table.
No shifts of context, either. A stationary camera, fullview long shots and occasional close-ups that seemed less concerned with eroticism than identification of the actors.
Of him.
The blonde got up and rubbed herself against the doctor. Showed herself, pinched her nipples, stood on tiptoes and licked his neck.
He shook his head, pointed to his watch.
She held him to her, ground her hips.
He started to pull away again, then loosened- like something thawing. Allowed himself to be caressed.
She moved in.
Then the same progression as in Sharon’s film.
But different.
Because this one wasn’t staged. This doctor wasn’t acting.
No mugging for the camera, because he didn’t know there was a camera.
She knelt before him.
The camera concentrated on his face.
Real passion.
They were up on the table.
The camera concentrated on his face.
He was lost in her, she in control.
The camera concentrated on his face.
Hidden camera.
A documentary- real peep-through-the-window stuff. I closed my eyes, thought of something else.
The blond beauty working like a pro.
Sharon’s twin- but from another time. His Alfalfa hairdo and pencil mustache authentic.
Contemporary…
“When was this made?” I called back to Gordon.
“ 1952,” he said in a choked voice, as if resenting the interruption.
The doctor was bucking and gritting his teeth. The blond woman waved him like a flag. Winked at the camera.
Blank screen.
“Sharon’s mother,” I said.
“I can’t prove it,” said Gordon, returning to the front of the room. “But with that resemblance she’d have to be, wouldn’t she? When I met Pretty Sharon, she reminded me of someone. I couldn’t remember who, hadn’t seen this film in a long time- years. It’s quite rare, a real collector’s item. We try to avoid exposing it to unnecessary wear and tear.”
He stopped, expectant.