Second Hand Leather, First Hand Gossip, and the Trouble with Tiny, Fancy Cakes

Spent an entirely unbloggable evening at the same luxe home where I weathered the last dramatic election, though what a difference two years makes. Pals from the Infirmary and the 'ho scene loaded up bags of slutty secondhand gear for a sweet little clothing swap, complete with the mandatory wine and gossip.
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Where else could I, within five minutes of getting through the door, get served a pink cocktail, catch up with Nova (from Fetish Flame) on the latest in the future of sex podcasting, and be encouraged to strip down to try on this amazing skirt with space-age velcro and a slit up to, well... right in the middle of the dining room? All the while surrounded by women in various other states of undress talking politics, travel, and which start-ups yielded the most cast-off baby t-shirt schwag? (The winner, tonight, at least, was Grouper.)
I ended up coming home with a fabulous designer leather skirt, a frou frou party dress that would make Holly Golightly proud, tales of yakuza and local kink lore, some gunmetal boots to replace my long-dead Ziggy-fied ones, and just floating on (no, not sake) the sweet and effortless sort of sisterhood that comes from being in the company of whores and our community.
All that, and now I've got an addiction to these tiny fancy cakes the ladyfriend who brought me up that hill offered to the group nosh. (They will be the new cupcakes, I tell you what.)


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