• Hello everybody! We have tons of new awards for the new year that can be requested through our Awards System thanks to Antifa Lockhart! Some are limited-time awards so go claim them before they are gone forever...


The Black Tie Affair

Not open for further replies.

Blackest Night

High Priest of Sloanism
Apr 15, 2004
Depends upon the day and if there is free pizza.
I just felt like writing. I don't really know where this story is going as of yet, but it will likely involve the FBI in some fashion.

You know, in olden times, they used to call us courtesans. I’m not quite sure what people like me would be called nowadays, maybe whores, prostitutes, or Jezebels, which is not quite as nice as it sounds, mind you. I shall also have you know that I am not a whore. Whores sell sex for money. Or drugs. I, on the other hand, partake in a much classier affair. I sell my company for money. And on occasion, drugs. You would be very surprised to find how lonely some of the most powerful men can get. Honestly, you would think their wives just turned off when they stepped through the door. Granted, some of them do, but that’s not really the point. The fact of the matter is that I am by no means a slut and that what I do is a legitimate profession, not a nighttime fancy.
My name is Suzanna Arnette, otherwise known as Sue, Suzy, Suza, Sousaphone (it is a very long story), Arny, and to my clients, whatever they so choose. It is not becoming of a lady to tell anyone of her weight and height, much less to the kind of people who might read this sort of thing, but I feel comfortable enough to tell you that in good heels, I can just palm the top of the doorway to my apartment. I would tell you what my hair color is, but if you were ever to see me, there is a decent chance you wouldn’t be able to tell it was I anyway. I have been a blonde, brunette, redhead, and at one rather unscrupulous party Congressman Reed attended, I was blue-haired. I’ve got about 36 different little black dresses hanging in my admittedly expansive closet, and yet I never have a thing to wear.
However, that’s not what we’re here to talk about are we? No, I do have a story to tell. The life of a courtesan is far from boring, especially that of a girl who works Capitol Hill as I do. It isn’t easy, be sure of that. That doesn’t make it any less entertaining.

Senator Murray’s annual Halloween party went off with only a few hitches. I stayed by his side the whole night, as a good courtesan would, engaging in conversations on topics I did not care about, yet knew of regardless. The president of Montenegro or Monaco, or some country with an M in its name had undertaken a new foreign policy and this was all very interesting, yes, of course of course. Oh, I agree, it’s absolutely dreadful that the prime minister of Malaysia got locked in the bathroom. Yes, yes, quite, quite. As you can tell, some of the conversations are far less than interesting. Once you get in with the wives, or other courtesans, however, things get lively. Who wore this dress instead of that, who’s husband bought the bigger car. We become such girls it’s hard to believe we’re not in high school anymore.
There were some bumps along the way that night. Mrs. Jones, Representative Jones lovely, if eternally tipsy wife had stumbled into the fountain and ruined her good heels. Frankly, I was rather proud of her for making it to the fountain in those shoes, to hell with the falling in. Any girl who can strut her stuff across cobblestone in heels with a drink in one hand and her purse in the other has my support. It is worth mentioning that the drink was not spilled, God be praised. We sat around the table and laughed, giggled at the right places, sighed in the others. Charles-Senator Murray to the rest of you-, sat to my left, playing with the shawl I wore to protect myself from the chilly weather. We did not wear costumes, of heavens no. Those were for the everyday people. We didn’t need to pretend. We will be just fine staying who we are, don’t you agree? Oh, yes, of course.
You have to love the wives.
If only they knew that I lived in an apartment in DC, sharing a floor with three elderly women, two of which acted comatose anytime I tried to ask for a favor, one perpetually pissed off custodian, and two gay men, David the writer and his eternal fiancé Ed the soon-to-be lawyer. That reminds me, I got David something good from the party. I found this little glass paperweight with an etching of a rose on the inside. He loves stupid little things like that. He’s a writer, which essentially means that he can sit around all day and pester me so long as he turns something in to his publisher once in a blue moon. He makes big bucks for it too, most of which goes to helping Ed through law school. At first glance, you wouldn’t even know either of them were gay. They’re not the feather boa, hand-flipping kind. As far as I can tell, they’re both just guys who happen to have sex with other guys. Doesn’t matter much to me, though. So long as David comes to help me pick out a new dress every so often, he can do whatever he likes.
Anyway, we go back to the story. After listening to the wives chatter on about things that would have made a monkey pluck out its own teeth, Charles decided it was time for a little walk. I was to go with him of course, that was just how these things went. We traveled around his palatial estate in Connecticut or Maine or something (I forget which.)The clicking of my heels was echoed by the thumps of his shoes for, despite his political stature, Charles slumped like a depressed teenager on his way to chemistry class. The goose bumps on my back were not due to any sort of excitement. His fingers were cold, as they always were. They slipped under the shawl and I gave him a smile. One must be sociable when one is a courtesan, you know. He kissed my cheek, and I resigned to giggle as best I could. In my experience, I’ve become quite talented at it. His hand slipped down my back and I decided it was time to negotiate business.
“Not tonight, Chuck. You only paid me to be here.”
“Five hundred.”
“Not enough, sweetheart. Valiant effort, though.”
“Nine hundred?”
“No, nein is German for no.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Mind you, I wasn’t doing this to be mean. This is a legitimate business tactic, thank you very much. And, quite frankly, Charles isn’t the best looking man I’ve ever met. A girl has to have her standards.


Purely amazing the story so far, I want more to be written soon.
Not open for further replies.