candle wax, the green silk tie from the hotel drapes, the white plastic grocery bag, the neatly cut square of bed linen, stained with what looked like blood. A chill went down my spine.
Monroe saw me shiver and caught the drift of my thoughts. “Have you ever heard the word ‘bitch’ so overused?” he said. “I don’t sleep with women myself, but I certainly like them more than Cassandra’s fellows seem to. And it’s fascinating how similar their notions of the erotic all seem to be. The pervasiveness of popular culture, I suppose.” Monroe played with his little beard. “There’re two or three doctoral dissertations in there, at least.”
“At least,” I said. “Are the other videos as rough as Interview Four?”
Monroe gave it some thought. “It’s one of the grittier ones, I’d say, and mostly on account of Bluto. He required no prompting.”
“Bluto?”
He smiled. “It’s what I call Cassandra’s costar in Four.”
I’d thought of him as Sunburn, for his vivid tan line and the skin peeling off his beefy shoulders, but Monroe’s name was a better fit. I thought about the squat, hirsute body, and about the things he said to Cassandra, and did to her, and I shivered again.
“What do you mean by ‘prompting’?”
“I mean that in some of her later works, Cassandra encourages the men to their extreme behavior. Or maybe ‘goads’ is a better term.” Monroe shook his head. “As if she weren’t taking enough risk.”
More images of Cassandra and Bluto ran through my head: his thick hands on her supine body, the melting wax, the plastic bag stretched over her face, the green cord around her neck. I felt another chill.
Interview Four began no differently from Two, with e-mail messages and hidden camera footage of a first meeting in an unidentified bar. Where Skinny had worn a sedate blue suit, Bluto was dressed in a checked sport coat and chocolate-colored trousers, and where Skinny had been full of stipulations, Bluto was all accommodation, rendered in a high-pitched, synthesized voice.
“Sure, whenever you want— my schedule is flexible and I’m easy…” “Uptown, downtown, it’s all the same to me…” “Around the corner, right now? Hey, I’m good to go.”
Things changed in the hotel room. The colors were more vivid than in Interview Two, and so was the sex, which started out edgy and quickly went over the edge. Each of their encounters began with Bluto explaining— in graphic detail— what he intended to do, and with Cassandra acquiescing.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“It won’t hurt me a bit, baby,” Bluto said, and laughed.
“Will it hurt me?”
“Probably. Do you care?”
“Not much,” she said. Her voice was soft and without affect.
Cassandra’s pursuit of Bluto played out differently, too. Her first phone calls elicited only derisive laughter from him, and following him yielded only distant shots of a bulky man getting in and out of a black Town Car. It took a threat to visit his in-laws, somewhere in the wilds of New Jersey, to get his attention.
Unlike Skinny’s, Bluto’s anger didn’t falter into fear. His was instead slow burning and rumbling, and when Cassandra wouldn’t fuck off as ordered, he seemed almost to welcome the prospect of meeting her one last time. He swaggered into the hotel room, shoulders rolling, and stood by the bed with his hands on his belt. He barely waited until she’d shut the door to speak.
“Okay, bitch, you wanted me and here I am. So drop your drawers and bend over and we’ll get to it quick.”
Cassandra’s laugh was small and tight. “That’s not what I had in mind this afternoon.”
“It’s not your mind I’m talking about, bitch,” Bluto said, and he grabbed Cassandra’s arm and threw her on the bed. He stood over her and unfastened his belt buckle. “Now bend over.”
Cassandra shook her head and pointed to the clock on the nightstand. “What time does that say?” she
Monroe saw me shiver and caught the drift of my thoughts. “Have you ever heard the word ‘bitch’ so overused?” he said. “I don’t sleep with women myself, but I certainly like them more than Cassandra’s fellows seem to. And it’s fascinating how similar their notions of the erotic all seem to be. The pervasiveness of popular culture, I suppose.” Monroe played with his little beard. “There’re two or three doctoral dissertations in there, at least.”
“At least,” I said. “Are the other videos as rough as Interview Four?”
Monroe gave it some thought. “It’s one of the grittier ones, I’d say, and mostly on account of Bluto. He required no prompting.”
“Bluto?”
He smiled. “It’s what I call Cassandra’s costar in Four.”
I’d thought of him as Sunburn, for his vivid tan line and the skin peeling off his beefy shoulders, but Monroe’s name was a better fit. I thought about the squat, hirsute body, and about the things he said to Cassandra, and did to her, and I shivered again.
“What do you mean by ‘prompting’?”
“I mean that in some of her later works, Cassandra encourages the men to their extreme behavior. Or maybe ‘goads’ is a better term.” Monroe shook his head. “As if she weren’t taking enough risk.”
More images of Cassandra and Bluto ran through my head: his thick hands on her supine body, the melting wax, the plastic bag stretched over her face, the green cord around her neck. I felt another chill.
Interview Four began no differently from Two, with e-mail messages and hidden camera footage of a first meeting in an unidentified bar. Where Skinny had worn a sedate blue suit, Bluto was dressed in a checked sport coat and chocolate-colored trousers, and where Skinny had been full of stipulations, Bluto was all accommodation, rendered in a high-pitched, synthesized voice.
“Sure, whenever you want— my schedule is flexible and I’m easy…” “Uptown, downtown, it’s all the same to me…” “Around the corner, right now? Hey, I’m good to go.”
Things changed in the hotel room. The colors were more vivid than in Interview Two, and so was the sex, which started out edgy and quickly went over the edge. Each of their encounters began with Bluto explaining— in graphic detail— what he intended to do, and with Cassandra acquiescing.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“It won’t hurt me a bit, baby,” Bluto said, and laughed.
“Will it hurt me?”
“Probably. Do you care?”
“Not much,” she said. Her voice was soft and without affect.
Cassandra’s pursuit of Bluto played out differently, too. Her first phone calls elicited only derisive laughter from him, and following him yielded only distant shots of a bulky man getting in and out of a black Town Car. It took a threat to visit his in-laws, somewhere in the wilds of New Jersey, to get his attention.
Unlike Skinny’s, Bluto’s anger didn’t falter into fear. His was instead slow burning and rumbling, and when Cassandra wouldn’t fuck off as ordered, he seemed almost to welcome the prospect of meeting her one last time. He swaggered into the hotel room, shoulders rolling, and stood by the bed with his hands on his belt. He barely waited until she’d shut the door to speak.
“Okay, bitch, you wanted me and here I am. So drop your drawers and bend over and we’ll get to it quick.”
Cassandra’s laugh was small and tight. “That’s not what I had in mind this afternoon.”
“It’s not your mind I’m talking about, bitch,” Bluto said, and he grabbed Cassandra’s arm and threw her on the bed. He stood over her and unfastened his belt buckle. “Now bend over.”
Cassandra shook her head and pointed to the clock on the nightstand. “What time does that say?” she
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