Everything She Does Is Magic

It’s Dolce & Gabbana and black and slides over the right bits, conceals the rest. The breasts, the taut belly, the thick ass—the dress makes a promise that I’m more than happy not to keep. But, this is fine. This is written explicitly in my contract. I’m to be a young face, a ready laugh, a woman with a flute of champagne always in hand. Nothing more. THE BOLD SENTENCES (page four) of the staff handbook are meant to scare.

NO PROLONGED CONVERSATIONS

NO GRATUITIOUS FLIRTING

NO EXITING THE EVENT W GUEST/S

INAPPROPRIATE HOSTESSES WILL BE DISMISSED AFTER ______ EVENT

I’m the mystery girl—the paid mystery girl—at the party. The corporate sponsors are worried—the event lacks something. They form a pin-striped huddle and discuss, rubbing their fingers together like drunk Frenchmen on the terrace of the Flore, trying to pinpoint the je ne sais quoi that might be missing.

Aha! Women! Decolletage! Perfumed wrists! Silky skin and stilettos! A sweet voice that will laugh and murmur and make you feel wanted again...

They plant me by the bar or the buffet or the stage. No one knows who I am or why I’m at the MoMa exhibit or the Botanical Garden. The buzz begins. The women in PR and the men at hedge funds whisper behind cocktail glasses and alligator clutches.

This all suits me just fine—as does the pay. Sting’s gig tonight. Maybe he’ll leave me and the other girls a handsome tip. I’ll adjust my dress just so, do the smoky eyes, twist my hair into a blonde chignon… a little piece of magic weaving in and out of the guests, catching their gaze just long enough and then out the door…

Every little thing she does is magic
Every she do just turns me on...