a good man is hard to find / only strangers sleep in my bed
my favourite words are goodbye / and my favourite colour is red
November 21st, 2030
October 28th, 2011
[A spot of excitement: an individual barred from the premises for no sin less mortal than consistently failing to pay what he owed (reasonable, competitive and well-earned, thank you) tried to get into The Gem, disregarding previous warnings and strolling through the front door bold as brass under a simple Market-bought glamor.
Ah, amateurs. Madam didn't even deign to handle the incident in person. This sort of minor mediocre thing was, after all, precisely why she kept so many well-paid and gently-used gentlemen hanging about the premises. Hardly worth wasting her time to handle, but something to note in passing nonetheless.]
A word to the wise: even if I'd had them put in by the lowest bidder, it would take more than a cheap generic glamor to fool our wards.
Ah, amateurs. Madam didn't even deign to handle the incident in person. This sort of minor mediocre thing was, after all, precisely why she kept so many well-paid and gently-used gentlemen hanging about the premises. Hardly worth wasting her time to handle, but something to note in passing nonetheless.]
A word to the wise: even if I'd had them put in by the lowest bidder, it would take more than a cheap generic glamor to fool our wards.
September 27th, 2011
[Smirk and flourish, all cleverly communicated in arch and curl and licentious loop.] Excellent weather for staying abed.
August 21st, 2011
Locked to: Madam's Women.
Never too early to start planning ahead, my hawks and doves. Theme ideas re: the masquerade in this space, please.Public.
There's a poster for a circus plastered on our gate. Greatest show on earth? I don't know about that.
[And she does manage to italicize her rolling script somehow, intimating amusement subtly as a midnight whisper, a throwaway phrase from a scarlet woman who knows that it's saying something that matters, in her business. It's drawing attention and being noticed that are paramount. Context and content are things entirely at the lady's discretion, and as she so often does, she opts to reveal aught with a quirk of a grin and the flutter of deceptively delicate lashes down to conceal her gaze, blue and only play-acting at beautific.]
January 2nd, 2011
A twirl, a dip, a curl: a flirt, plain and simple, a coquettish flutter of lashes from behind a fan, a blouse unbuttoned just far enough to give a tempting glimpse of creamy whiteness, an impish ankle peering forth from beneath a long skirt and subtly reminding passers-by of all the leg that lies hidden beneath warm cloth. Madam is in a fine humor: she and her ladies welcomed the New Year with appropriate pomp and circumstance, and she's cleared the holiday decorations away. Everything is clean and neat and properly itself again, and the lady of the house has the small smile of the contented lord of the manor dancing about her perfectly rouged lips.
And now the resolution breakers start trickling back in, bashful and abashed and anticipatory all at once.
Was Santa good to one and all? If the old prude left you with coal we've got a short-term exchange rate set up which will be in effect until the novelty bores us.
And now the resolution breakers start trickling back in, bashful and abashed and anticipatory all at once.
Was Santa good to one and all? If the old prude left you with coal we've got a short-term exchange rate set up which will be in effect until the novelty bores us.
November 21st, 2010
Madam reads the journals like any half-politician, half-criminal, half-king should: for information, for entertainment. To know, to see. Information is power beyond power, after all. She writes in her own for an entirely different reason: to be seen, which is nearly as important, though she would demurely not smile and dare anyone who thought to know her by perusing her writings to try.
Her pen never runs dry, never skips. Her handwriting is invariably neither messy nor neat, some organic indeterminate stage between the two where the letters twine and curl and lean, uncontrolled but never quite at liberty. You could think of both the writing and the content as self-contained, if you were so inclined. Glimpses into the boudoir, in a limited sense. Madam reveals just as much as Madam wishes to, language continuing the perpetual burlesque glove and knife dance of her speech and movements.
No fighting on the premises means no fighting on the premises.
Remedial classes are offered out the back door as necessary. The full escort service and very short downward flight are provided courtesy of the house.
Her pen never runs dry, never skips. Her handwriting is invariably neither messy nor neat, some organic indeterminate stage between the two where the letters twine and curl and lean, uncontrolled but never quite at liberty. You could think of both the writing and the content as self-contained, if you were so inclined. Glimpses into the boudoir, in a limited sense. Madam reveals just as much as Madam wishes to, language continuing the perpetual burlesque glove and knife dance of her speech and movements.
No fighting on the premises means no fighting on the premises.
Remedial classes are offered out the back door as necessary. The full escort service and very short downward flight are provided courtesy of the house.