Keiran took me to a networking event recently. He hates things like this, but understands the necessity of them, particularly in his line of work. This one, however, was at an obscenely snooty private club Downtown. It's rare that they invite the wives or girlfriends to come along, but this one made it very explicit that we were supposed to come along.
"You think we're going to get ambushed with elaborately decorated quarter masks and an orgy?" I laughed.
"They want to see how much money you've thrown at your wife's appearance. That's the barometer for some of these guys. How many Barbie parts can you put on her and will you still have enough to pay for the tickets to get in the door when you're done supplementing her? Gotta pay to play with these assholes."
"You're so cynical."
"Whatever. There's an open bar and you're beautiful without any effort. I'll be fine tonight."
I was glad we had a driver and there was an open bar. I don't drink often, but knowing I'd get home safe opened the door for me to do so.
Apparently, the night meant a lot to him. I'd been thoroughly fussed over, a stylist to wrangle my hair into an updo, a girl to do my makeup, and a sassy lady with a rack of dresses, a trunk full of jewelry, and an impeccable selection of shoes to choose from.
"Something sexy," Keiran requested. "I want every person in that room to need a neck brace after we leave."
"I don't get to pick my dress out?" I whined.
"You just get your hair pulled and your makeup on, sugar. I'll make sure you're gorgeous. Don't worry about it."
He chose a red dress that featured an asymmetrical top and a dangerously high slit. I started to get dressed and the woman told me, "you either need a string thong or you have to go without panties." The slit is too damn high when you have to wear double stick tape on your snatch to maintain your integrity. Also, having someone put double stick tape on your snatch is a really awkward situation. Topped off with gold heels and accessories, I felt like a movie star, if a bit too daring to be out in public. Keiran loved the look, though, and that was all the push I needed to get in the car and go.
I'd only heard of the place we were going to, the mythical hangout of the oil and gas barons who run Texas. Membership fees are astronomical, and you have to be highly endorsed by a current member to even be considered. Country clubs had nothing on this place. It was beautiful, though; up some forty odd flights, it boasted an unbeatable view of Houston.
I was, by far, the youngest person there. Most of the women looked like they'd dusted off their debutante ball dresses for the evening. Southern Belles can be so goddamn gaudy. None of them seemed particularly interested in holding a conversation with me, which I'm used to, as I'm usually the youngest and the only black woman in attendance at these events, so after dinner, I played my role well, sitting at the bar and chatting up the men who had separated themselves from their dates. Keiran watched from the other end, smirking as the stools around me quickly filled and others soon pulled up chairs from the dinner tables. I was literally surrounded by men clamoring for conversation and attention from me.
Look, if you can play men for fools by flashing a bit of thigh, by all means, do. There is something to be said for the power you can exert by merely being a vision of femininity.
Keiran always tells me I should work for him, and in those instances, I suddenly do, talking business with these men who view themselves as more important than god simply because they have more money than they have a purpose for. I even have a business card that says I'm his head assistant; I kiss the back of that bad boy, and it's a guaranteed call Monday morning. The commission I've gotten off of doing business for him in this manner is mind-blowing. When he says I'm his secret weapon, he's not joking in the slightest. I am fiercely deadly in that set-up.
After a few drinks, Keiran cut his way into the circle, plucking me out of it and taking me to dance.
