Louise meticulously avoided doctors. Her avoidance was strictly sexual, of course. Being a psychologist at a NY recruiting agency regularly involved job dealings with doctors. At bedtime she was choosier, though.
As a Jewish girl, Louise by definition had a Jewish mother. But hers was the proverbial one. "Take care of your looks and marry a doctor," Louise had heard throughout her childhood. "No need for pretty girls to go to college." Louise had to work herself through college, soon suffused with sexual aversion towards eligible doctors.
Hereafter she would blithely bed virile victims from all walks of life - from A-rtisans to Z-ookeepers. But never ever had a doctor crossed her busy bedroom threshold.
"Except for now," she said in a troubled tone to Astri, a slightly bimboish-looking creature in its late twenties. They had been brooding for some time at the Waldorf Astoria bar, sipping green tea. "To get turned on by a doctor! With my background."
Following some pensive scrotum-scratching, under the strictly striped satin skirt, Astri baritoned: "Why, useless in bed, or something? Try me, then!"
"I don't know. I'm just going to find out. See you later!" Louise hurriedly picked up her purse, grabbing a cab to his place. As expected, Harry O'Harley, MD, was already waiting by his door, smiling awkwardly in plain erotic anticipation.
It took her fifteen minutes to ascertain that her inchoate turn-on had been out of place. He had left her completely cold.
So she left him even colder in return, instrumentally aided by his brown leather belt. He had been a rather nice-looking doctor, if you disregarded the present bluish tint on his face, she thought, looking appreciatively at the inert body on the bed. But then newly strangled people look that way, she knew.