Chapter 4

Before midnight, I was back at the motel, showered, and in the sack. It had been a long day, I had drunk not-that-much -- but more than I normally did, and I was ready for sleep.

But I didn't go to sleep right away. My mind was on Shirley Kiner. My thoughts were about a possible future relationship with this strikingly beautiful woman. The years hadn't changed her that much. The teen-aged freshness might be gone, but at 32, she remained a true stunner, and with no sign that her past -- however notorious it turned out to have been -- had damaged her in any discernable way.

Surprisingly, I felt that now she was, somehow, more attainable than she had been, back in high school. In those days, she had been the Homecoming Queen, hopelessly hooked up with one of the nameless (at least to me) bull-necked offensive linemen on our Regional Champion football team.

And I had been the nerdy, four-eyed, underweight-for-my-height, clarinet-playing, computer-diddling nobody. The guy with good grades and not-much-else going for him. The idea, back then, of going out with Shirley Kiner was as unthinkable as climbing Mt. Everest -- barefoot.

But fast-forward to Now, I was the Big-time College Professor. All grown up into my own body, no longer making love exclusively to my hand, and (if I did say so myself) something of a catch, as an Eligible Bachelor.

Maybe the present-day version of Chad Prince could be just that -- a prince. That is, if I could get the Beautiful Maiden to kiss the frog.

That should have been the happy fairy-tale note that allowed me to drop off to sleep, but it wasn't. My next thought was about what Reggie had said. I had to admit it, he was right. Shirley Kiner's past -- her California past -- deserved some investigation. Just how bad was it? Was it just those Internet photos -- the ones that Shirley, herself, had mentioned to us?

Or was there more? Had she really been a porn actress? Wow! I wondered if I could deal with something like that. I mean, the morality bullshit wasn't a problem for me. I watched a porn movie now and then, and I was as stimulated by them as any other guy. I didn't necessarily think that all the women who appeared in those films were Ruined for Life, or that they were whores. I didn't regard them as in any way disqualified from polite society.

No. My "problem" with Shirley's being in porno films was a lot more personal than that. I didn't want to compete with the guys who starred in those movies. I'd seen them in action, and I -- quite literally -- didn't "measure up."

And even if size doesn't matter (and, like most guys, I secretly figured that it probably really does matter -- and maybe quite a lot) -- even if size didn't matter, there was the whole other problem of who Shirley Kiner was, today. I knew that if, yesterday, she'd been a porn actress, that had to have some impact on who she was, today.

Probably, a negative impact. She certainly didn't look hard-bitten or used up, but how worn might she be, inside, where it didn't show?

So, OK. I guess I had multiple problems with the possibility of Shirley Kiner, porn star.

Next morning -- Sunday morning, it was -- I had a big, cholesterol-infested breakfast at my favorite Cloverdale diner before hitting the road for the two-hour-plus drive home. I hadn't slept all that well, and the heavy breakfast made me drowsy, but I made it home shortly after noon and, not feeling any need for lunch, settled down with the local, and the St. Louis, Sunday papers.

The Cardinals were comfortably in first place, the All-Star break was still three weeks away, and I had graduated from high school fifteen years ago this month.

It seemed like a good time for a self-assessment.

Let's see, now. You draw a line across the top of a piece of paper, and another line down the middle, vertically, making your big "T." On the left side, you write down all the good stuff -- the degree, the graduate degree, the job, the promotion to Associate Professor, the tenure.

And the women!

You'd done pretty good, there, Nerd-boy. Better, anyway, than you had ever expected, back in high school. So what, if you had still been a virgin when you graduated from high school? You weren't the only one. Maybe you were a member of a pretty small minority group, but it's not like you were All Alone.

Anyway, you'd made up for it, in spades. You lost that cherry, first year of college. Sweet memories! It hadn't even been as much of a disaster, losing it, as a lot of other guys, apparently, had suffered through.

And you've done pretty well, ever since. And without any funny stuff, either. No seductions of coeds in your classes. No crossing-the-line with the wives of fellow faculty members. Nothing but consensual, adult, straight-arrow stuff, and lots of it!

Well. A couple of the girls had been a little exotic; kinky, even. But at least they hadn't been (a) professionals; (b) under duress of any kind; or© sent away unsatisfied.

Nope, the left side of the little-old ledger, there, was looking pretty good -- socially and professionally.

On the other side, the written-in remarks were mostly in code, their meaning discernible only by the writer himself -- yours truly.

On that side, the word "Harvard" appeared, without elaboration.

That single word stood for the fact that, while I might be an Associate Professor with tenure, Southeast Missouri State was, decidedly, not Harvard, or anything remotely close to it. I was in a small pond, here on the banks of the Mighty Mississippi.

Another coded entry -- "No WTCMO". Figure that one out, you e-mail-abbreviation fans. I mean, you might deduce what "Harvard" meant, but "No WTCMO"? What was that all about?

It stood for "No woman to call my own." I had all the fuck-buddies I needed. At that moment, I actually had a choice of two, maybe even three perfectly decent young women that I could call, invite out for dinner, and know with reasonable certainty that they (well, not "they" -- I really mean "she" -- only one at a time, please) would invite me back to her place for a strenuous and rousing all-nighter.

These women were all unattached, reasonably attractive, and willing. And they liked me!

But none of them was in love with me, as far as I knew, and I wasn't in love with any of them, either. They were friends with benefits, nothing more.