Love, Lust, & Other Little Dangers (Closed to ForeverIllinois and Alice2015)

"That was beautiful, Greta!" the photographer called out, rising to height and handing the expensive digital camera to one of his four assistants. When you took on a job with Greta Green, you didn't skimp on people to stand by and do any thing and every thing that either you or your client demanded. "I'll have the file sent to..."

He went quiet as I waved him off, already heading off the boudoir set and into my private office with my own personal assistant hot on my tail. Once Rick had closed the door behind him, I turned on him and screamed, "Is she dead yet?"

The 25 year old assistant stared with wide eyes and a trembling body as he watched me -- his employer of three long, difficult years -- stomp off to the wet bar to pour myself a whiskey. Tentatively, he asked, "You, um ... mean her blog ... not ... not her herself ... right?"

"Either! Both! I don't give a flying fuck!" I ranted draining the tumbler, then throwing it across the room where it shattered against an eight foot tall replica of Michelangelo's David statue which had been enhanced in the penile length department to put it more in line with my business. "Why is she still publishing that ... that filth!"

A chuckle slipped out of Rick's throat before he realized what he'd done. He was thinking that if there was anyone on this planet who shouldn't have been talking about publishing filth, it was me. I owned or controlled the content of more than 10% of the pornography-related businesses on the internet; I owned wholly or in part six of the ten most popular gentlemen's magazines; and I owned or operated more than three dozen businesses that were, at their heart, bastions of loveless sexual gratification, exactly what Amy Williams was railing against in her online blog Bite Me!

"Well ... ma'am," the assistant began, trying to pick his words carefully in the knowledge that, first, his job could be on the line; and second, there were a lot of phallic objects on display around the office that he could suddenly find shoved up his ass. "She's ... she's not really publishing ... or posting, I mean ... blogging filth. She's actually blogging against filth."

"That's what makes it filth, you fucking idiot!" I snapped, my hand already holding a second drained tumbler that the assistant was hoping to God I wasn't going to throw his way ... or shove into a tender hole. "It's my constitutional right to publish what I publish. The Constitution says so ... the Supreme Court says so ... and that fucking coward ..."

I turned to face Rick. "Where is he? Right now! Where is that rat fink son of a bitch?"

"I assume you're talking about Senator Davis?"

"Yes!" I was pacing a circle around the office now, occasionally passing behind the assistant with the tender hole. "I gave his campaign over a hundred grand ... and he sits down with that ... that ... what the hell is that big titted bitch's name again?"

"Amy Williams."

"Amy Williams!" I repeated with a venomous tone. I looked to Rick and asked, "Did you see those tits?"

His lips spread in what I could only assume was an appreciative, lustful smile ... which immediately faded when he caught me glaring at him. He only nodded.

"God...!" My tone was appreciative now. "What I couldn't make putting those tits in my films. Why... what is a girl with a shape like that doing talking down sex...? I don't get it. She should be embracing her shape and putting it to good use."

"Well, ma'am ... I ... don't think it's about her body shape, I think it's about--"

"I know what it's about you idiot!"

I went quiet for several minutes as I stomped about the office, often passing the nervous assistant who eventually said, "I'm ... I'm not sure why you're so upset, ma'am. She's just a blogger--"

"How many followers does she have?" I snapped.

Rick looked down. "She says in her blog--"

"A few hundred!" I interrupted. When Rick acknowledged that number, I asked, "When did she post that number?"

Rick looked back to the tablet in his hands that had Amy's blog on it, but he didn't get a chance to answer. I was fully aware of the answers to my own questions.

"Two weeks ago, you idiot. Two weeks! Two weeks ago, she had a few hundred followers. Do you have any idea how many she has now ... now that she's talked to Senator Davis and is getting ready to post her interview concerning that Bill ... the one that I've spent tens of thousands of dollars to defeat?"

When Rick looked back to his tablet, simply because he couldn't withstand my gaze, I snapped, "Three thousand! Three thousand followers! And they are all going to hate me because...!

I couldn't even say it. I couldn't even imagine it: Senator Davis had been so entranced by the big, luscious tits of that little internet harlot that he'd actually named me as one of the largest promoters of everything Amy Williams stood against.

"She has to be shut down," I murmured. "Before she posts that entry, she has to be silenced."

After a moment, Rick asked, "What would you like me to do, ma'am?"

I thought for a long moment ... then ... I smiled ... a wide, evil smirk. I turned to look at Rick. "Nothing. You're going to do nothing. Nothing but give her a call ... you have her contact info...?"

"Her email address is in her blog."

"Send her an email," I said, moving in toward the nervous looking assistant with that scary look in my face. "Don't tell her who I am. Use an alias ... make it ... Alice Black. Tell her I have information about the Senate Bill, about Senator Davis ... that I will only talk to the courageous author of Bite Me! herself."

"Yes, ma'am," Rick said as I stepped up so close that he could feel the heat coming off my emotion-heated body. "Consider it done."

I reached out and grab his package, something that caused him to flinch but not withdraw. It wasn't the first time I'd touch him inappropriately. It was just something I did and something most people expected from me. I looked into his eyes, kissed him full on the lips, and said, "One of these days, conversations like this will get you hard. And when that day comes, you'll be ready for this business. Until then..."

I turned and gave him a shooing gesture, as if to say You're bothering me.

"God damn it..."

I practically whimpered, waking up after tossing and turning a few times. Ugh, I must have feel asleep on my stomach and as any big boobed girl could tell you, sleeping on your stomach is the most uncomfortable thing in the world. My breasts practically spilled out of my loose t-shirt in the night, going over the top and out, and were squished between myself and the mattress, my nipples poking against the rough fabric of the mattress. I sighed as I placed them back inside of my loose shirt; I'd wear a more tight fitting shirt, but it was just so hot out here this time of year...

I glanced at my clock and saw the illuminated digits telling me that it was 12:05 AM and I groaned as I turned to my side. That's when my phone gave me a notification that a new email was sent to my blog email...which was a little unusual this time of night. My eyes slowly opened more, my body practically cringing at the light my phone gave out as I read the email:


In my insomnia, I did a quick Google search for Alice Black but nothing relevant came up. I figured that, if the information was crucial enough to prevent the follower from just emailing me it, that he or she would have gone through the trouble of using an alias. I tossed my pillow to the side and rolled on top of it. I'd go to Cafe Noir tomorrow, but I swear that this better not be some sort of scam....

Morning came and I called in sick to my job at the call center. With a cup of coffee, I made sure to get all my information in order as I typed on my laptop. I put it all on my Drop-box account, where I kept all my post ideas organized and tidy, and was sure to bring my laptop with me with my meeting later with Alice Black. Seconds became minutes and minutes became hours and before I knew it, I was taking the bus to 3288 Main Street.

I made my way to the Cafe and it looked like a respectable place...much better than any place near my crummy apartment. I opened the door and saw several tables and seats and all the way in the back, a mature (though from her complexion, it was really difficult to tell) woman with sunglasses, sipping some coffee. She was dressed in an elegant black dress, which I figured was probably picked to suit her alias. The dress made me feel a little insecure about my get-up; a stripped top with my laptop back hanging from my shoulder, and a pair of denim jeans...at least until I reassured myself that I'm a journalist, not a damn model.

I walked towards her and asked:

"Are you Alice Black, by any chance?"

Greta had one hand on a coffee mug and another on a folded newspaper, behind which she was reading a spread sheet concerning an up and coming sex club in which she was considering investing. From behind her very expensive, fashionable sunglasses, she'd been very often glancing up at the door for Amy but slacked off for several minutes when she heard one of the two men beside her whisper to his buddy, "My god ... look at those."

Greta looked to the two men, then looked to where their gazes were set: on the beautiful money makers lightly bouncing their way toward her table, separated diagonally down the middle by the inch wide strap of a laptop bag.

Greta leaned her head a bit toward the two men and whispered with a devilish smile, "She'll cost you a thousand an hour ... each."

She turned away from them again, tickled with the continuing whispers that her lie was causing behind her.

ForeverIllinois said:

"Are you Alice Black, by any chance?"

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Greta stood and, as she took Amy's elbow, said, "This corner's a bit crowded, I think. Yes, I'm Alice Black."

She steered Amy toward the back of the café to a little room that sat off from the main seating area. She removed the Reserved sign just as a barista stepped up and asked Miss Black if the two of them needed anything. It was obvious from the young waitress's tone that Greta was a regular; and -- if Amy was fortunate enough to catch sight of it -- it would have been obvious from the little smirk on the barista's lips that there was a secret between her and the supposed Miss Black.

"Yes, I'll have another cup of the black Sumatra," Greta said, and gesturing to Amy added, "and what ever my new friend her wants ... and a couple of those mini muffins, too."

The barista looked to Amy for her order, then departed. As the pair of them sat down, Greta ogled Amy's impressive endowment for a brief moment. Then, removing the shades, she repeated the look for Amy to observe. There was no reason to pretend she didn't see Amy's tits. Upon entering the café, every man -- and many of the women -- for an entire block already had.

"I would assume you garner a lot of attention because of those, my dear," Greta said with a compassionate tone. "Does it get tiring?"

Greta knew something about being ogled, of course. She begun developing her womanly form at the tender age of just 10, and by the time she'd reach 14, she was measuring out at 38DD-24-36. There had never been a shortage of boys -- and even men -- wanting to be near her, to kiss her, to touch her, and to fuck her, of course. The temptation had been too much for her, and at the sweet tender age of 16 she'd given over her virginity to a man 10 years her senior.

In her mind then and in her mind now that young surrendering of her purity hadn't been a mistake. Learning the ways of sex at that young age -- and what men, and women too, would do to partake of it -- had made her the The Queen of Sleeze, the most powerful woman in America's legal (and semi-legal) sex industry.

And she wasn't going to let some loud mouthed blogger bitty from the internet cost her a single penny!

(OOC: I am switching to First Person, fyi. I forgot that we were going to write that way. My apologies.)

"Are you a regular here?"

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I lifted my coffee to my mouth, sipping slowly as if it might be too hot to create a pause in the conversation. The coffee wasn't too hot, of course: the barista knew to make it at exactly 145 degrees, not the normal 160, so that I could immediately indulge.

But I wanted a moment to consider how I answered the unexpected question. One of the keys to my success had been the simple act of thinking quickly and answering slowly. If I told Amy that I owned the coffee shop, as I did, then -- being the journalist she claimed to be -- she would know exactly who I was by this time tomorrow.

Despite my success in an often questioned industry, I had done a very good job of staying out of the press. The photographs I'd had taken just yesterday were the first taken of me in over two years, and they were for a ghost written biography of me that wouldn't even hit the market until I'd retired and stepped away, permanently.

No, Amy wasn't going to find out who I was until I decided to tell her myself. So, in answer to her question I simply said, "Yes."

"I have been following your blog recently," I began to weave my tale, "and I am very impressed with what you are writing. Rumor is you've had a meeting with Senator Davis concerning the sex crimes bill now moving through the Senate, but I wonder..."

I reached into my purse and withdrew my wallet, and from my wallet I withdrew an elegantly decorated invitation envelope. "...whether the Senator has told you how he got such first hand knowledge of the places he is attempting to regulate."

I set the invitation out before Amy, explaining, "There is a business of which I am a member. There are answers there for you ... if you have the courage to visit it."

I gestured to the barista for a to go cup, then looked back to Amy. "If you would like, I will go with you. Call me a ... chaperone."

(OOC: If she opens the envelope right now, I'll tell you what's in it in the next post. If she simply takes it, I will say nice to have met you and leave, paying the bill by simply telling the barista to add it to my tab.)

I watched for Amy's reaction as she opened the envelope and perused the invitation inside. There was nothing graphic about it: no pictures or drawings of naked bodies, no dirty or graphic language. There was only a simple phrase near the top:


And below that was a logo that had recently been in the press and all over the internet after one of the flash in the pants reality show divas got arrested outside the facility for indecent exposure and assault of a police officer.

"I'm sure you've heard of Harold's, yes?"

I could see by the look in her eyes that Amy was well aware of the City's premiere sex club.

I pulled a business card out of my wallet and slid it across the table to her. "You'll need something to wear. I'm making no judgments on your current wardrobe, of course ... and by the feel of what you write in your blog, I hazard to guess that you don't have an entire rack of garters, stockings, crotchless panties, and..."

I hesitated before speaking the next words. "... specialty leather. They'll fix you up at Marla's. I'll call ahead and set up a credit line for you."

I gave her a moment to respond, then explained, "The only way for you to understand this world that you are writing about, Amy ... is to dive into it. Don't worry. I'll keep you safe."

"Just...Just what should I get to blend in?"

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I answered her question by meeting her at Marla's the next day and telling the Sales Representative, "Gloria, she'll be attending a Class A at Harold's."

Gloria looked to Amy -- to Amy, not to Amy's tits -- and said with a knowing smile, "Lucky girl. Lucky girl, indeed."

The two of them spent the next three hours going through hundreds of items. Three Assistant Sales Reps aided the two, keeping a constant flow of panties, bras, garters, bustiers, dresses, skirts, blouses, vests, heels, boots, and more moving between the sales floor and the huge, private dressing area. As was the customary when I was present to shop -- whether for myself or someone else -- there were no other customers in the store except Amy. It was as is Victoria's Secret -- and her sluttier sister company -- had arrived at Amy's own apartment with a motor coach full of silk, lace, leather, studs, and more.

I sat in the corner drinking wine as I did business remotely by cell and lap top, looking up to view each near addition. I'd never shaken my head so often in such a short period of time. Amy's uncommon and incredible shape meant she needed a particular look. She needed to look slutty but not too inviting. I wanted men -- and women -- to want her horribly but not horribly enough to lay hands on her and force my ever present and very large escorts to break their thumbs or toss them out of a second floor window.

Finally, I called out, "That's it! That's the one. That's ... the look."

I walked over to circle around Amy several times, and each time I was face to face with her I could see the discomfort and dismay in her eyes. This was not how she would ever have seen her walking out of her apartment for a night on the town.

I looked her in the eyes and took her by the shoulders. Smiling, I said, "Everyone is going to want you. Do you know what that means...? It means people will want to talk to you. And that's what a journalist needs, yes...? Talkative people?"

(OOC: Would you like the privilege of describing what you think would make Amy so sexy that every one would want her?)

ForeverIllinois said:

"You're right, Alice." I said with a smile. "Turns out that I'm a damn good journalist."

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"Yes, and you have great tits, too," I responded, reaching around Amy's body from both sides to cup both of her massive breasts and give them a bit of a boost. I saw the shock in her eyes, but I only laughed saying, "Hey! Woodward and Bernstein had Deep Throat. You got these puppies. You have to know and use your strengths."

Amy Williams was, of course, more than just her tits. I'd been reading back postings of her blog ever since I decided to pursue this current quest. And I'd quickly come to realize that she was one smart cookie. And the only way to cause a smart cookie to crumble in a tense or unfamiliar situation -- as Harold's would be -- was to get her to use something other than her brain. And the weapon to which I wanted Amy to resort was that unbelievable body.

I turned away quickly, hollering, "Gloria! We need a cover for those things. A shawl ... maybe a scarf. We don't want Amy showing her secret weapons before she's even--"

But Gloria was already heading our way with her arms full of long flowing accessories. She, with an assistant on each side keeping the selections moving, wrapped scarf after shawl around Amy's neck, but it was my own discovery that brought down the house: a flamboyant multi-toned pink boa that practically hid Amy within it.

"Perfect," Gloria marveled before Amy. "Perfect!" She woman moved up close to Amy, kissed her on both cheeks like some Parisian politician, and -- with great sincerity -- told her, "Men are going to cream their pants over you my dear, I'm so happy for you."

The assistants all broke out in soft, delicate applause as I turned Amy back toward the dressing room and ordered, "Now, get out of that ... go home ... sleep! I'll have a car outside your apartment at 4am."

I slapped her on her tight little ass, told her to hurry, and spun around to Gloria to ask, "What's the damage, Love?"

One of the Assistant's whipped out a slip of paper that she'd been jotting on since I'd chosen Amy's outfit, and Gloria read, "Twelve fifty."

She meant, of course, $1,250, to which I said without hesitation, "Put it on my card, Love ... same 30% for each of you, of course. Good work all."

While I waited for Amy, I headed for the corner near the door and pulled out my cell phone, calling various people who would be at Harold's tonight. I needed all my ducks -- or cocks -- in a row before we arrived...

The bars, clubs, and lounges about the city that were meant for the common folk who thought they understood the word party had had last call almost three hours before I saw the Lincoln Towncar pulling into the alley. I stepped out of my own limousine -- this one a stretch -- and arrived at the rear door of the car just as the driver reached for the handle.

I snatched his hand before he could open it, saying, "Bobby, you stick close tonight, you hear?"

"Yes, Miss Green," he said, immediately donning an apologetic expression and saying, "Miss Black. I'll be right behind you."

I didn't think that Amy -- still sitting in the closed car -- had heard the driver's slip up, but even if she had I would just blow it off as an unfamiliar driver confusing his clients. She didn't know, nor did she need to know, that the 6'6", 330# muscular hulk had been with me ever since a knee injury ended his professional football eight years earlier.

He opened the door and offered her a hand. It was cute to see how he was able to lift Amy from the car without positioning his feet for stability. It reminded me of how just before his employment he'd held me in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, and fucked the daylights out of me without even breaking a sweat. Too bad he works for me now, I thought for the umpteenth time.

"Let's go," I said, grasping Amy's hand and leading her down the nondescript, dark alley. We were surrounded by the sounds of the city, even at 4am, but the sound that was missing was the sound of night life. The key to such businesses as Harold's was remaining low key, and you could stand outside the century old brick building all day long and never know the sex club was here.

We reached a low wattage street lamp before a solid metal door. I turned quickly to face Amy and went into my cautionary monologue before she could ask any questions of her own. "We are about to enter a world that you may think you know from the internet ... "60 Minutes" style news programs ... or a number of sleaze or tabloid magazines. But, Amy..."

As I continued with my explanation, I whipped the boa from her shoulders and tossed it over my shoulder; pulled the zipper of her outfit down another six inches, revealing much of the bra that was forcing her puppies almost painfully up and in; fluffed those amazing breasts once more; then wrapped the boa around her once again, seeming making all the work that came before it a waste of time. "...you know nothing. And ... what you are about to see inside Harold's ... well, some of it is going to surprise you ... shock you ... possibly even make you cringe with revulsion."

I took her by the shoulders and looked deeply into those mesmerizing green (?) eyes. "Do not show surprise. Do not show fear. And most importantly ... do not leave my side unless Bobby here is with you. Do you understand?"

"Just what should I be looking for inside?" I asked finally, eying her reaction. "Anyone in particular that I should watch out for?"

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"Tonight is not about faces," I told her, tapping on the heavy metal door. A tiny window opened and a pair of eyes peeked out before pulling back again. As the door opened, allowing a barely perceptible level of hard pounding music to roll into the alley, a Bouncer even bigger than Robert smiled broadly to me, then eyed Amy suspiciously. As he waved us inside, I told her, "You won't recognized anyone tonight because even with me escorting you, you won't be allowed into the rooms where the rich and famous -- or infamous -- enjoy their entertainment."

As the bouncer closed the outer door and was reaching for the inner door, I grasped Amy by the hand and said, "Tonight is all about the what not the who. You'll see the who when we come back Saturday night."

I didn't look Amy's direction when I dropped the bombshell this was only our first night at Harold's. I'd save it until she was inside the locked outer door and couldn't change her mind. I looked to the Bouncer and nodded, leading him to open the door.

With the power of a nuclear blast, the internal organ grasping dance music slammed against us. I entered Harold's dragging Amy behind me, not bothering to worry about whether she was ready or not. Simply, it was too late.

I thought I heard Amy call me by my nom de guerre, but I ignored her, letting the young woman believe the music was masking her voice. The truth wasn't that far off: the pounding pulse that seemed to come from ever corner and every wall was powerful enough to make me feel it clear down in my cunt.

Of course, that may have just been the yearning that I'd been developing for my new play mate since I'd watched Gloria strip her down to her panties and put one set of clothes after another on that delicious body. I'd been asked often what my sexual preference was, and once I'd reached that point in my life where I no longer cared what people thought about me, my answer wasn't male or female ... it was skilled.

I glanced back to Amy for just a moment, not long enough for her to try to communicate with me but just long enough to look at that incredibly sculpted body. The long held belief amongst the ignorant was that a woman with big breasts had to be a slut. I'd found it to be true in some cases, but not because a big breasted woman fucked a higher percentage of men that hit on her than, say, an "A" or "B" cupped woman. No, instead it simply been because more men threw themselves at "D", "DD," and -- in Amy's case -- "G" cupped women on the assumption that they fucked every man who asked.

And, with Amy of course, there was the fact that she wrote a blog decrying casual, meaningless, and loveless sex. Did that mean she lacked experience? Did that mean she'd only fucked men she truly thought she was in love with? I smiled thinking, Maybe she's a fucking virgin. I laughed -- barely noticeable over the music -- as the phrase fucking virgin, thinking I guess if they were fucking, they wouldn't be virgins, would they?

We continued to pass one display of indecency after another: two men kissing on one women, two women kissing on one man, and two men kissing on one man; a naked woman who wasn't an employed stripper dancing atop a bar while men licked dollar bills and slapped them onto her thighs, where they stuck until her gyrations shook them free; and finally, just before we left this particular room, a woman sitting on the edge of the bar with a bottle of Jack Daniels upside down, inserted into the top of her crotchless panties, as three different men squeezed between her widely parted thighs lapped at the whiskey as it drained over her conspicuously displayed clit and pussy.

Another big bouncer at the door saw me and -- luckily masked by the music -- mouthed Good evening, Miss Green as he opened the door. I dragged Amy in behind me, and as soon as the door shut, the volume of the music was cut enough to allow us to talk to one another.

I quickly said, "Lose the boa. It's time to show these people your assets."

ForeverIllinois said:

"So...what now?" I asked, almost fearful of going back in there again. "Are we done already?"

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"Oh, deary," I said, wanting to laugh but not doing so, fearing that Amy would suspect that I was setting her up for a mighty fall from grace. "We've only just begun."

We stood in a tiny room that had four doors, one in each wall. It was like something out of a Fun House: one door is the exit, three send you to more scary or hilarious sights. In our case, however, one was the one we'd just come through and the three others led to very different areas of Harold's, and by different I mean different sex acts.

"We have a choice, Amy," I told her, pulling her as far from the Bouncer and Robert as I could and pressing my face up to her ear for what little bit of privacy we could get considering the music and proximity of the two men. In all honesty, I just wanted to see how Amy would react to me pressing up tight against her bosom after she'd seen some of the shit she'd just seen. "Group sex, S&M, or ... well, I hate to even tell you what lies behind the third door. What are you most interested in seeing?"

I knew she wasn't interested in seeing any of it, of course. I could see in her eyes that she was overwhelmed with the sex and skin and ... indescribable sexual depravity in that previous room. So I quickly added, "So that you can better research for you blog story."

I had to keep Amy's sights set on her journalism, keep her thinking that that was why she was here, until I could begin my deception in all its glory.

ForeverIllinois said:

"I...I guess that I want to see what's behind the third door... If you don't mind?"

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I smiled broadly, responding, "Okay, but ... I gotta tell you it's ... well, it's sick."

I probably should have given her a moment to reconsider, but instead I made eye contact with the bouncer and nodded my head towards door number three. He slid a magnetic key card through the lock, and I led Amy and Robert into another tiny room. The bouncer remained in the room he'd been in, closing the door behind us. As soon as that door locked again, the lock on the door ahead us buzzed and a light flashed to indicate that the door was unlocked. I pushed it open, revealing a stair case, which the three of ascended. At the top was another door, this one unlocked.

I looked to Amy again, seeing the nervous -- no, terrified -- expression on her face, then pushed the door open and led her inside.

Never in a million years could she have expected what was revealed to her eyes. The room was huge, decorated in bright colors -- mostly pastels -- and occupied by men and women in costumes from just about every nursery rhyme and fairy tail one could possibly ever have imagined. Represented were the characters from The Three Little Pigs, Sleeping Beauty, Mary and her Three Little Lambs, even Humpty Dumpty.

And, in one way or another, each and every person here was acting out some erotic version of the rhyme or fairy tale in which they were playing. In one corner, a woman with skin as white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony was having sex with seven men dressed as dwarves but not necessarily packing the tiny tools you might expect from the tale's little guys.

And above it all, music that sounded like it came right out of a truck sized Jack-in-the-Box was being piped in from every direction.

I looked to Amy and, grimacing, said, "Like I told you ... sick."

"Can we leave this room now? Please?"

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"Well ... honey..." I said, trying to sound sympathetic as I began to load the bear trap into which I hoped Amy would soon be stepping. "If you are wanting to get the big story ... Senator Davis, remember him...?"

I saw her reaction to the mentioning of the politician's name. I'd promised her that I had dirt on Davis, but to get that dirt, she had to do a little more than simply observe silly people doing silly things with their personal parts.

"He's going to be at the Class A Friday night." I saw the look in her eyes and I tried to look surprised. "Oh! I'm sorry, Amy. Did ... did you think that tonight was the big event. Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. No, this is just ... this is just your application ... your coming out, if you will."

Again, I saw her reaction to my terminology. I pulled her closer and, acting as if I was only telling a secret to her and her alone, I said, "Amy, sweetheart ... you can't get the dirt on Senator Davis without going to the Class A ... and you can't get an invite to the Class A without ... you know..."

I waved a hand toward the madness taking place in the room and finished, "Participating."