Season 2, Episode 2; "Ladies of the Evening", as Reviewed By an Old-Timey Hooker
I tell you, some of these ladies are cut out for a life of glamour and intrigue like mine, others are just meant to live their ordinary lives bakin’ pies for the needy and giving jewelry to the poor. Or whatever it is women do these days, I couldn’t tell because I, Cecile M. Rosewater, live anything but an ordinary life. But you don’t wanna hear it.
You wanna hear the story of these ferocious, loquacious, vivacious gals from Miami and their misadventures in the profession. It all starts with the gals going into such heat of the loins because Ms. Blanche DuBois wins a chance to meet Burt Reynolds, and the reaction is as if they were going to be personal guests of the Queen her very self. I’ll tell you though, I hadn’t found myself that excited since I James Cagney and I once snorted cocaine off of Betty Grable’s derriere. What a time! But you don’t wanna hear it.
The ladies leave the spitfire, contemptuous elderly Sophia behind for they don’t understand the power that brazen woman has, and better for them to be in the dark about it! In this line of work, it’s all about kill or be killed. Why, there was this one time Burt Lancaster said he likes to be spanked on the tush with a spatula! Now, a less experiences Girl would run away right into the night in her cheap garters from that, but not me, I am a woman of the world and my clientele are used to getting exactly what they want and are never disappointed. But you don’t wanna hear it.
There’s some situation where the house needs to be bug-bombed and they all have to leave for the weekend, but I don’t understand such things because I have never had to lift a finger and worry about home improvement, nor have ever even seen a bug. A woman of my sophistication and skill is wined and dined at every meal and bought a new silk nightie and elegant bottle of perfume practically every night, so I don’t understand this way of the modern commoner.
The hotel they choose to stay at is such a goddamn tragedy. It is the place of the sad, the desperate, the mere…I can barely bring myself to say it…street worker. Such l’escortes sophistiques as myself would never show my exquisite visage…I am used to only les hotels du luxurie. When Sir Lawrence Olivier took me from behind right then and there in the lady’s powder room of the Biltmore hotel, and even in there the crown molding was to die for. But you don’t wanna hear it.
Our three lovely ladies enter in their Sunday’s finest, looking like old Hollywood at its most glamorous, not like these days with their teen stars’ tawdry displays of genitalia. Every professional woman knows that you have to impress a man with your sophistication. You entice the man so he becomes desperately infatuated with you, but feels it is too tawdry to admit his love for a professional lover, so he will shower you with secret gifts. Jimmy Stewart once gave me the most spectacular Rolls Royce and leather collar. But you don’t wanna HEAR that.
Where were we? Oh yes, our glamorous three find themselves in a sea of what I can only call amateurs. These others were merely street urchins compared to our ladies. I haven’t seen so much fishnet since Rock Hudson brought me aboard his clamming vessel, but that’s another story for a longer night. Anyway, these girls insist on making themselves look like they are in an off-brand production of Oliver where Fagan is a disgusting street pimp and he’s selling his ladies for the cheapest prices in town. Oh, how I love the theater! Clark Gable took me to see South Pacific on opening night before later taking me right upon the palm fronds used on stage after the theater cleared out. But you don’t want to hear that!
Some sweaty businessmen in the lobby asked our gals how long they’they’ve been working, and thus there was a titillating double entendre mix up and Dorothy, the tall elegant one, proudly states she’s been working for thirty years and is the best teacher yet! These Neanderthals start sweating buckets and ready for the pounce. These poor gals did not know what they had gotten themselves into, and suddenly realize what is afoot.
In a situation most unfortuitous, the police arrive and arrest everyone. In my work, police never disapprove, they were too busy with all that silly prohibition nonsense, and too busy to worry about a lil ol’ gal like me, Our three women are taken to a jail cell where they try to argue their way out of the situation. It saddens me to see women of such elegance having to be subjected to the presence of the scrunchie wearing, neon-clothed, and big-hired Ladies of the Night. How dare they mix up such elegance with trash! Making it worse are there seem to be ladies in there that especially frighten our group.
Tales of woe and bravery exchanged, and the tall elegant one even pretends she is a crazed criminal escaped from a gentlemen’s incarcerated institution. Finally, the wiser, older, sophia finds them in jail, but vindictively leaves them there to meet Burt Reynolds. Oh, this line of work is a game of trickery and deception that only a cunning, intelligent femme fatale like myself could succeed in. Why, I once convinced the crowned Prince of Monaco to leave Grace Kelly for the foreign princess I claimed to be. But you definitely don’t wanna hear it!
The next day, our Ladies are at home bemoaning their woes. The life of Les Escorts Sophistique is certainly not for everyone; it takes fine skills and the gams of a brazen woman. Errol Flynn loved to call them his “stairway to heaven”…but you DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT.
Sophia regals them with her tales of hobnobbing and canoodling with Burt and his famous friends, but the women doubt it. The doorbell chimes and it is Mr. Reynolds himself, looking much tanner and moustachioed than when I last saw him, which was in between takes when filming Deliverance in his trailer. Much like the film, it was one of my more controvertible performances. Mr. Reynolds is there to take Sophia to lunch, much to the chagrin of the others.
When he asks Sophia to indicate which of the women was the prurient one, they all suddenly decide that it is to their advantage to embrace the identity of lasciviousness. This life is not cut out for everyone, ladies! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an engagement with Fred Astaire on his private estate, where he requests to be ridden like a greased pony.
