How A Beautiful Tart From Chillicothe Serviced Congress - Thirty-Five States And Counting

Politicians with few exceptions have had lovers - even jowly, meanspirited, charmless Richard Nixon was reported to have a hot ticket in Pennsylvania somewhere.  Jimmy Carter claimed that he had always been faithful to his longtime partner, Roslyn, but admitted that he had lust in his heart.  Given time and opportunity, he certainly would have had his dalliances like every other man in public office but he was given credit by an unzipped and unfaithful electorate for at least trying to be chaste. 

Even James Polk, Millard Fillmore, and Warren Harding, American presidents long forgotten and perhaps never ever remembered by most, had their reported indiscretions.  It goes with the territory, and as Henry Kissinger, former Secretary of State, once famously said, 'Power is the greatest aphrodisiac', a turn on for both men and women.  While John F Kennedy - a young man of beauty, charisma, and charm - needed no boost to his appeal or desire, other presidents - like Polk and Fillmore, for example - benefitted from being in the Oval Office. 

 

There were tomcats like LBJ who had the Secret Service pimp for him; Bill Clinton whose Arkansas trailer trash lovers were legendary; the patrician Franklin Delano Roosevelt who had a long love affair with his secretary; and the equally aristocratic and well-bred George Herbert Walker Bush, loved by and devoted to his wife of many decades, who had his affairs. The long and short of it is this - men are all the same and powerful men even more so. 

Congress, that den of ambitious men, type A personalities, backcountry rubes for the most part, coming to Washington for the perks and emoluments, are no different than chief executives.  They hunt and prowl just like every other man, lie and make up cockamamie excuses to cover their infidelities, apologize in tears when caught in flagrante delicto, get reelected, and move on up the sexual ladder. 

Lucy Brandon was a farm girl from Ohio who in pigtails, cute ribbons, and pinafores, serviced every schoolboy from Chillicothe.  She was born a tart, otherwise there was no explaining her precocious sexuality and her indifference to virginity, propriety, or righteousness.  Hicks and hayseeds were her stock in trade but when she moved to the city, she left overalls and shitkickers far behind and upped her ante. 

This was not difficult because Lucy was every man's wet dream - a blonde, blue-eyed Marilyn Monroe lookalike with enough class to make her clients assume she was high society, and screwing her was not the sin it could be.  She was one of those women who so immediately and precisely understood all men and each man specifically that she could do no wrong, her coffers filled, her reputation spread, and her future unlimited. 

When one of her clients was the Congressman from her district, home for electioneering during the Christmas recess, she knew she had it made.  He paid for her first class ticket to Washington, arranged for her stay at the Mayflower, and met her in the bridal suite twice a week. 

Lucy loved DC, the monuments, the leafy neighborhoods, the scent of power and importance, and the opportunity; and it didn't take her long to fit in.  She shopped at Saks and Tiffany's like every other wealthy matron from Chevy Chase, never even suggesting her profession; and yet, as she took off the elegant clothes and jewelry she had bought uptown and embraced her lover, she was Belle du Jour, and as beautiful.

 

Now, given the character of Congress and its representatives, she did not need to go so upscale and tailored as she did. Most of the men there were satisfied with far less; but she liked the finery and the appearance of elegance.  She was a consummate professional who understood her clients, the milieu from which they came, and how to please within an hour or less. She was hooker, time manager, psychiatrist, and Park Avenue hostess all rolled into one; which was why her Ohio Congressman's days were numbered.

He knew this of course, tried his best to keep her, but knew that it was only matter of time before she moved on; and move she did for Washington being the informationally porous place it is, her reputation preceded her, and her business increased by leaps and bounds.

She, a good businesswoman, was an open source hooker.  As long as her clients were able to pay what had now become top dollar, she took them in.  Race, ethnicity, or gender were of no concern.  She serviced all comers. 

Black men of course, suckers for blonde, blue-eyed white women, lined up at her door and paid premium prices for her services.  She had a demand-based price structure, so these men paid top dollar; and because they could never get enough, trade with them alone made her a wealthy woman,  

Pharoah Williams, for example, had hustled women his whole life, but they always had been black women, street women, crackhead women; and now for a few thousand dollars he could have what he had always dreamed of - blonde, soft-haired, white-skinned pussy. 

In a place like Washington with its groupies, wannabes, and claques, one would think that men would have no need for the services of women like Lucy Brandon; but such is the nature of prostitution.  It offers no guilt, no consequence, on-demand sex for few dollars; and when it came to seasoned, high-quality professionals like Lucy whose value-added for striking the right psycho-social chord was immeasurable, her market was guaranteed. 

What man wanted to fuss around with some ditzy intern who hoped that sucking him off a la Monica Lewinsky would guarantee them access?  Access to what? for Christ's sake.  The fucking White House? And those women were always clingy and hopeful, and after one or two turns with them in cheap Adams Morgan walkups, their politico lovers left them on the curb.  No, the delights of Lucy Brandon were far, far more desirable. 

She never went back to Chillicothe, too many rancid memories there, too many men from the old days.  Not that she regretted her past. Far from it.  You had to start somewhere, and Chillicothe was as good a place as any. It was just all so yesterday, so irrelevant to what she had become, that she had no desire to return. Her parents who still loved her had moved to California, partly thanks to Lucy, and part because they had become known only as Lucy Brandon's parents, not the church-going, respectable citizens of the town they were. 

Lucy on occasion met her Congressman and invited him up free of charge for all he had done for her.  A nice man and a fair one.  The chatted about Chillicothe and Ohio and became almost friends, but Lucy wanted it to remain 'almost' and kept her distance.  As an independent contractor she couldn't be seen playing favorites. 

So by the time she retired from the business she reckoned to have serviced representatives from a good thirty-five states - the rest were women or gay and didn't count, so if plaques were given for this kind of service to country, hers would be the first on the wall.