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take us to our destination. Out of sixty girls, only twenty survived the cut. I didn't think I was late, but Coco treats me as such. She meets me at my car, snatches me out and drags me toward the Hummer. "Come on, Randi!" she insists, pulling me along. "We've gotta leave on time."
As she yanks, I pull against her, my heels digging into the gravel. "I thought we were supposed to leave at eight. I'm not late, am I?"
"When Satin says leave at eight, that means this vehicle will burn rubber three seconds after. If you aren't here, someone will be disappointed."
Seated in the luxury ride, Coco goes through our portfolios, then gives us our assignments and uniforms. One girl is given a French maid's uniform, another, a preppy schoolgirl's uniform. I'm given perhaps the worst costume of all, and I'm mortified.
Why in the world did Satin choose a dominatrix costume for me? That doesn't fit my personality at all. Here I sit, gawking at the shiny black leather costume. How am I going to bring ten pounds of leather alive? I don't know the first thing about acting.
As a final insult, Coco tosses a black leather whip in my lap and shoves a studded leather motorcycle cap on my head. Tears sting in my eyes; I turn toward the window to keep them hidden.
After we leave the limo, we're ushered into a dressing area where we prepare to take our walk. Women are getting dressed, practicing their best moves, spraying on extra perfume and brushing their hair.
Just to throw in a little variety, two of us are black and two of us are male. Coco claps her hands, and we line up like soldiers. Shortly afterward, Satin opens the door. While we stand still, Satin walks about looking us over.
She’s wearing a wireless microphone. Her long, black gloves fit snuggly over her gaunt fingers. A red, strapless, floor-length, sequin gown clings to her aging body. Signature platform stilettos are her favorites, and they completed the picture.
Luminous sparks flicker from her dress and send spears of color shooting throughout the room. "You whores had better make this good. Strut your stuff! Pretend you're horny little asses. Now get out there!"
Before I can be dismissed, Satin stops me cold. Although I'm standing erect and my breasts spill over the top of my leather bra, something about me catches her eye. "Fish nets go with that outfit, young lady, and where is your damn cap and jacket?"
Satin gets directly in my face, nose to nose. I can smell the fish she had for dinner. "When-I-come-back-I expect you to be completely dressed, not partially dressed, not halfway dressed, completely dressed. Coco!" she squalls loudly. "Where are her thigh-length boots and whip?"
Like a dutiful assistant, Coco pulls me together. And after Satin's speech about not screwing up, I peer nervously from behind the large, cardboard screen.
Testosterone scents the air with pungent layers of excitement. The room has the look and feel of an exquisite dining facility. White tablecloths, flowers, drinks, and hors d'oeuvre sit liberally on each table. A large screen displaying pornography blares openly above the catwalk. Erotic moans and screams waft over the horny mob.
Surveying prospective clients, I notice that some are elderly, and some are middle aged. They talk loudly among themselves, antsy, anticipating a good lineup. Coco is right; I do recall seeing some of these men in the society column of the newspaper. They own businesses, and most are married. But all of them are worth a small fortune.
The first girl is dressed as a preppy schoolgirl. Wearing a plaid, pleated skirt and a revealing white blouse, she prepares to work her magic. After giving herself a pep talk, she hoists her ample breast, then takes her walk.
Red stilettos and bobby socks drive the men crazy. Her heels strike the floor with the stride of a Tennessee walking horse. She flicks her two ponytails, sucks her thumb, and makes large goo-goo eyes. The music is fast paced, and the men go absolutely wild.
When she reaches