relax but carefully detaching his consciousness, watching Kurt as from a couple of yards away. Studying Kurt’s performance – that low, midnight voice, a seasoned seducer’s voice. Ostensibly having a chat, but the words coming very slightly slower than normal, the tone a little thicker, textured, conveying a conviction – the sense of certainty which must swiftly be impressed upon the subject.
This is the art of
informal
hypnosis. People think you need a swinging watch or a deep, fluid gaze. Not true.
Cindy’s arm falls slowly to his lap. Kurt is telling him he’s simply resting, allowing his mind to relax. Telling him he can hear everything Kurt is saying to him but he really doesn’t have to think about it because he’s so pleassssssantly drowwwwwsy. Talking evenly, to deepen the trance, and after little more than half a minute, Kurt’s voice is pouring into his head like warm olive oil.
‘You hearing me OK, Cindy?’
‘Yes.’ A whisper. Cindy’s whole attention is fixed on Kurt, as though the set and the lights and camera and the studio audience no longer exist. He produces a couple of butterfly blinks.
‘It’s very comfortable here in this chair, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Deepening his breathing.
‘Warm.’
‘Yes.’
‘And getting warmer.’
‘Yessss.’ Should he attempt to sweat?
‘Getting warmer and warmer still under these very strong lights. You’re beginning to perspire and your clothes are feeling tighter. Very
much
tighter.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Cindy squirms a little, gives an apparently involuntary swallow.
‘You’ve simply
got
to take something off.’
A little smile on Kurt’s leonine face. He’s quite a big-boned man, probably has to watch his weight. By middle age, he will be a formidable presence. But already, at twenty-nine, Kurt has an undeniable strength and his influence is growing. His television work is now merely the icing on a very rich cake, filled with the lucrative creamof consultancies – Kurt has his own company, operating in industry, where he motivates sales forces, perhaps even passing on (highly improper, in Cindy’s view) some tricks of the trade which will enable salespersons to apply gentle hypnotic pressure to recalcitrant customers.
‘Your wrists have expanded in the heat, so that the bangles are tight. Take one off.’
Cindy shrugs off a bangle, which clatters to the studio floor. He’s thinking that when it comes to buying himself a castle, Kurt Campbell is a man who certainly has no need of a Lottery grant. Or a Lottery win. Or the Lottery show itself… but perhaps it’s to serve his ego. Or perhaps Kurt also gets that live-television buzz which, coupled with the hypnotist’s power buzz, must make for a
very
intoxicating surge.
‘Hey, Cindy … You’re a star. A performer.’
Cindy smiles, giggles faintly.
‘If you’re going to take off your bangles, you want to make a performance of it. Stand up.’
Cindy comes gracefully to his feet.
‘You … are a
stripper.’
Squeals from the audience, to which Cindy doesn’t react.
‘You know how a stripper performs. You’ve done it soooo many times you could do it in your sleep.’
‘Yes.’
‘So when your music starts up, you’re going to begin by taking off your bangles … like a stripper.’
And so it begins. Apparently oblivious of the audience laughter, Cindy tosses his bangles one by one into the crowd, where they’re scrabbled for as trophies.
Kurt Campbell smiles, but he’s always watchful. A professional.
The taped music – no originality required
here
– bumps and grinds along its languorous, familiar catwalk.
Up comes the skirt, to howls and wolf whistles. Cindy feels a real sweat breaking out. How easy and pleasant it must be to surrender to hypnosis … but what a careful combination of attention and detachment is required to carry out the commands to the letter while remaining
un
hypnotized.
The pop of the suspender, a glimpse of knicker – from the
This is the art of
informal
hypnosis. People think you need a swinging watch or a deep, fluid gaze. Not true.
Cindy’s arm falls slowly to his lap. Kurt is telling him he’s simply resting, allowing his mind to relax. Telling him he can hear everything Kurt is saying to him but he really doesn’t have to think about it because he’s so pleassssssantly drowwwwwsy. Talking evenly, to deepen the trance, and after little more than half a minute, Kurt’s voice is pouring into his head like warm olive oil.
‘You hearing me OK, Cindy?’
‘Yes.’ A whisper. Cindy’s whole attention is fixed on Kurt, as though the set and the lights and camera and the studio audience no longer exist. He produces a couple of butterfly blinks.
‘It’s very comfortable here in this chair, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Deepening his breathing.
‘Warm.’
‘Yes.’
‘And getting warmer.’
‘Yessss.’ Should he attempt to sweat?
‘Getting warmer and warmer still under these very strong lights. You’re beginning to perspire and your clothes are feeling tighter. Very
much
tighter.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Cindy squirms a little, gives an apparently involuntary swallow.
‘You’ve simply
got
to take something off.’
A little smile on Kurt’s leonine face. He’s quite a big-boned man, probably has to watch his weight. By middle age, he will be a formidable presence. But already, at twenty-nine, Kurt has an undeniable strength and his influence is growing. His television work is now merely the icing on a very rich cake, filled with the lucrative creamof consultancies – Kurt has his own company, operating in industry, where he motivates sales forces, perhaps even passing on (highly improper, in Cindy’s view) some tricks of the trade which will enable salespersons to apply gentle hypnotic pressure to recalcitrant customers.
‘Your wrists have expanded in the heat, so that the bangles are tight. Take one off.’
Cindy shrugs off a bangle, which clatters to the studio floor. He’s thinking that when it comes to buying himself a castle, Kurt Campbell is a man who certainly has no need of a Lottery grant. Or a Lottery win. Or the Lottery show itself… but perhaps it’s to serve his ego. Or perhaps Kurt also gets that live-television buzz which, coupled with the hypnotist’s power buzz, must make for a
very
intoxicating surge.
‘Hey, Cindy … You’re a star. A performer.’
Cindy smiles, giggles faintly.
‘If you’re going to take off your bangles, you want to make a performance of it. Stand up.’
Cindy comes gracefully to his feet.
‘You … are a
stripper.’
Squeals from the audience, to which Cindy doesn’t react.
‘You know how a stripper performs. You’ve done it soooo many times you could do it in your sleep.’
‘Yes.’
‘So when your music starts up, you’re going to begin by taking off your bangles … like a stripper.’
And so it begins. Apparently oblivious of the audience laughter, Cindy tosses his bangles one by one into the crowd, where they’re scrabbled for as trophies.
Kurt Campbell smiles, but he’s always watchful. A professional.
The taped music – no originality required
here
– bumps and grinds along its languorous, familiar catwalk.
Up comes the skirt, to howls and wolf whistles. Cindy feels a real sweat breaking out. How easy and pleasant it must be to surrender to hypnosis … but what a careful combination of attention and detachment is required to carry out the commands to the letter while remaining
un
hypnotized.
The pop of the suspender, a glimpse of knicker – from the
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