Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, February 22, 1994 TAG: 9402220110
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Kathleen Wilson
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
But then I'd tell you about the Hookers' Ball, a party a couple of weekends ago that was thrown by a group of local business leaders.
It was dreamed up by some 15 men, including Smith Mountain Lake Realtor Harris Ferguson, who was also the brains behind the bikini contest I was asked to judge at the Cove last year.
I didn't go to the Hookers' Ball last year but sure heard a lot about it. Lots of women called to ask if it was for real hookers.
My guess was no. After all, real hookers would no more wear their work clothes to a ball than an Orkin man would wear his coveralls to a Pest Control Gala.
The ball invitation asked "harlots of the night and their pandering counterparts to get dressed for the occasion with some lechery in mind," pointing out that "proper promiscuous apparel" and an invitation were a must.
More than 500 were invited this year. More than 400 attended the ball at the Radisson Patrick Henry Hotel in downtown Roanoke.
In a recent column, I said that I'd heard that last year's ball was just an excuse for a bunch of guys in their 30s and 40s to hang out with a brothelful of scantily clad young women.
Harris argues that the men have to get dressed up, too.
They're supposed to come as pimps (or, in the words of the Dictionary of Political Correctness: "individuals holding management positions in the sexual work force").
Now here's the part I have the hang-up with.
Each and every woman - and there were easily more than 200 - was wrapped in what amounted to butt-skimming black Spandex sausage casings.
But the men dressed like they probably would for whatever it is they do for a living that requires wearing a suit - topped off with a hat.
They accessorized that with a Mr. T starter set of a couple of gold chains strung around their necks.
One woman was dressed in a skin-tight ivory lace top with little cups covering her breasts. Her skirt must have measured less than 12 inches from top to bottom.
I asked her whether she had these clothes at home or whether she bought them for this occasion.
"No comment," she snarled.
My heart went out to the blonde woman in the strapless black sequined number that had ripped in the back up to just a few inches from her waist.
"I borrowed the dress from a friend and it split the first time I sat down.
"I normally don't dress like this," she added. "I'm very conservative."
Of her more tastefully skimpy black dress, another woman told me, "Well, I wouldn't wear this out."
Then there was that woman we all caught an eyeful of on the dance floor who hadn't yet noticed her skirt had hiked all the way up to her waist.
She was wearing pantyhose - but that's all. If only they hadn't been sheer-to-the-waist nude colored.
One woman admitted she'd purchased her outfit just for this occasion in Martinsville. She arrived wearing only a bustier, garter belt, string bikini panties, and stockings.
All in black-and-white zebra print.
Did I mention she was carrying a bullwhip?
I thought a woman named Lisa found the proper campy way to handle this whole costume thing.
She was dressed in her mother's vintage 1962 leopard-spotted two-piece bathing suit and looked like she was right out of "Beach Blanket Bingo."
Over and over I was asked by the male hosts of this party if I was having a good time.
I wasn't. But does that really matter? There wasn't a soul there who wasn't having one helluva great time.
The women, though wearing clothes that might make even Belle Watling blush, were unabashedly proud of how they looked.
The men were total gentlemen.
In all fairness, several guys bothered to ask just what my problem was with this function, and even seemed to understand when I explained.
The staff manning the bars at the party were well-tipped and described the crew as polite and well-behaved.
This was of course before the gang set off false fire alarms on the sixth and ninth floors at 2 a.m. and again near 5 a.m. and did some major damage to a couple of the rooms.
Three engine companies, two ladder companies and a fire chief's car came out twice for false alarms.
So if the success of a party is measured by decibel level, attendance and general mayhem, then this was one heck of a party.
Harris and I continue to banter about the problems I have with this affair. I was happy to hear him say that maybe next year he could turn it into a fund-raiser.
But next year, I'd like to see the women dressed up as individuals holding management positions in the sexual work force.
Let the guys wear the butt-skimming black Spandex sausage casings and sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose.
by CNB