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"Don't you think you're a little under-dressed?"
Let me back up a little. I'm at a party, an exclusive one where most of the guests are a cut above my usual crowd - I say 'most' because I can count at least half-a-dozen who, like me, have been paid to be here. The rest are a well-dressed bunch - tuxedos or classy suits for the men, elegant dresses for the women. If I kept up with fashion, I'm sure I would be quite astounded by the wealth and taste on display - but I don't, and one little black dress is much like any other to me.
As for those of us like me, those of us who've been paid to be here (and I think with satisfaction that even my pay for tonight is a cut above my usual charge)? We're not nearly so well-dressed; in fact, we're hardly dressed at all. Each and every one of us is, save for footwear, naked as the day we were born. We're the entertainment, you see, and with our fat little envelopes full of crisp pound notes (oh, Yanks, dollar bills if you must!) came very specific instructions. Shoes or boots only, leave your coats by the door, mingle in the almost-altogether.
Well, not quite 'shoes or boots only.' We're allowed to wear two things. One is footwear. The other? Let me point you to the title of this fantasy.
So when I'm told that I'm under-dressed, and I'm only in boots (thigh-high, faux leather, the sort that's expensive but deliberately looks cheap, with high heels to make my 4'11" frame a little less diminutive) I pick up on the implication quickly enough. I know what he means, I know what's coming, I know it's time. And I welcome it.
"My, you're quite right, sir. Help a girl out?"
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