Cindrella Minus the Ball

Like a princess on her way to the ball, she strode in. Sort of like Cinderella but not really on her way to the ball. Well, more like Blanche on her way to her evening toilette, is more like it. Her heels weren't clicking along like Blanche's would. But she was caped in one of those floor length evening house gowns. Sort of see through. Fancy and light cream, or white, in color. Heads turned, glances shot. Not so much outright staring as sideways shifting of the eyes to catch the scene as her gossamer wings made their way through the darkness. The heavy beat of the dance music tapping away as her heels barely grazed the concrete floor. Or, perhaps, I should say her red heels. Lovely red shoes to compliment the gown. And the hair, perfect. Nicely coiffed and adjusted just so. Her pained nails gracefully grazing the ends of her hair every so often, for effect I suppose... and to keep the hair out of her manicured face. She was actually dressed quite nicely. Not a bad looking lady -- and I say lady because she looked and acted the part. Just a bit out of place is all. And clearly causing a stir.

She took her place in a paid-for room along the main thoroughfare. With a window that looked out over the center of the men passing, looking, glancing, eyeballing one another as they headed for the bubbling hot tub or steam room. She was there, in place in the window -- halfway like a mother hen keeping an eye on the barnyard and half like one of those young ladies in the windows of Amsterdam's Red Light District. She strode back and forth between her room with the view and the darker sort of play room ..... looking for a bit of refined and feminine evening action, perhaps. She would stand in the darkness. Her gossamer pale gown gracing her thin frame while she stood...waiting. And clearly unlike any of the other men looming in the darkness. She was the ace among the spades. She appeared to have one effect or other of either scaring men away....or else they would ponder her, surprised, but sort of tantalized at the same time. Her gown would occasionally be bunched up around her ankles when she found a gentlemen in need. And the rest of her evening shift would be spent resting, sitting, with her hands folded casually in her lap with her legs crossed at the knees (cutting off the circulation if you asked me). She looked like she was taking appointments. Reservations.

She found herself with her heels up...or down....throughout the evening. The last cast image of her was of her red heels hanging over the end of a black plastic bench, in the darkness, men coming and going, their aging eyes struggling to adjust in the dim light. And she, resting. Her gown pulled apart, indiscriminately, exposing her hidden man bits. For service. To service. Oh dear.