Who Wants To Be A Mistress?

You have got to be shittin’ me.

That was my initial thought.

You see, I had just gotten my invitation—acceptation,
really—to participate in the new reality show called, “Who Wants To Be A
Mistress?” And no, the subject of the
show was not my surprise. I was shocked
they had picked me.

Me.

I mean, you would think they have hotter people than me for
this sort of thing.

I tried out due to desperation.yes\"> I had just come back from my dream job in Ireland (I had gotten
fired, due to a scandal involving directly disobeying my very Catholic boss)
and had literally no where to turn. My
dad had disowned me when I went into law, my mother had died when I was 2, and
I was an only child. I had one close
friend from college, Sara, who was more than welcoming.style=\"mso-spacerun: yes\"> I had the marvelous timing to need space
when her old roommate was getting married, so I moved right in.style=\"mso-spacerun: yes\"> But I had no job, no recommendations, no
real experience in American law of any sort, so I had more than one problem.style=\"mso-spacerun: yes\"> But living in New York (City), I figured
that there was tons of opportunities.

Ha.

After I got turned down from a fourth waitressing job, Sara
dragged me out for a pick-me-up lunch, which turned into a walk around town,
which turned into her dragging me into a building preceded by the large
billboard, “Are You HOT? SEXY?style=\"mso-spacerun: yes\"> OPEN MINDED?yes\"> Try out for the LATEST REALITY SHOW!”

“Go on!” she
said. “What do you have to lose?”

Maybe it was the high of double chocolate fudge cake.style=\"mso-spacerun: yes\"> Maybe it was true desperation.style=\"mso-spacerun: yes\"> Whatever it was, I got in line.style=\"mso-spacerun: yes\"> I got in front of the panel, handed them my
form, and answered their questions.

“Odd activities?
Well, I bellydance, fenced for a bit in college, do various forms of art
in my free time and when I have the money, and play alto sax on occasion.”

“Change my appearance?
Well, I cut my hair on occasion, but it’s this weird red-brown-blonde
naturally. I wear contacts, if that
counts.”

“My favorite sexual activity?yes\"> Um, anything involving chocolate.yes\"> If it involves chocolate, it can’t be bad.”

“Have a boyfriend?
Hell naw.”

It was over, and then I was tottering out feeling like I had
barely escaped with my life. I
couldn’t even remember what they looked like.

Sara, the chicken, said she didn’t want to.style=\"mso-spacerun: yes\"> I swear she lives vicariously through me sometimes.

So. Two weeks later,
and I’m sitting in Sara’s kitchenette with a letter and an airplane ticket to
the English countryside.

Oook. Well, then.

Let’s kick it.