Cutler, the lowly Senate staffer who rocked the Capital last year with her salacious online diary, rehashes her ride into infamy in a tart, shallow tell-all that begs off as fiction. Smart but spoiled Jacqueline heads for the Hill after a broken engagement in New York. Soon this party girl is cavorting through the Capitol, where shameless flirting and sex appeal take her a long way. In Jacqueline's opinion, government is "Hollywood for the Ugly," and she coasts on her looks to score a fluffy job in a senator's office and effortlessly entice politicos on the prowl. She mines her dizzying array of casual sexploits, dished in callous, raunchy detail, for a blog to keep her friends in the loop ("I was a bitchy slut and so were all of my friends. Why not put it out there?"). Jacqueline winds up on D.C. gossip site Blogette—prompting her abrupt dismissal, an underdeveloped bit of soul-searching and lots of media attention. The flimsy garb of fiction makes for one coy striptease: just how much of Jessica emerges in Jacqueline? Who are the real-life counterparts to her paramours? For those who can conjure last summer's scandal, the reprise will liven up this year's beach batch. Agents, Michael Carlisle and Pilar Queen. (June)
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". . . the real talk in the nation's capital is about the exploits of former senatorial staffer Jessica Cutler." -- In Touch
"Lively, funny and agreeably in-your-face . . . [Cutler] sticks pins in a lot of deserving targets." -- Jonathan Yardley, The Washington Post
About the Author
In May 2004, twenty-six-year-old Jessica Cutler was thrust into the public eye when the online diary she kept for her friends exploded into Washington's scandale du jour. Immediately fired from her job as mail girl in the office of Senator Mike DeWine (for "unacceptable use of Senate computers"), Jessica remains unemployed in Washington, D.C.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
"Jacqueline." He looked serious. "We can't go out to lunch." I waited for further explanation.
"We have to be very discreet. I can't risk being seen with somebody like you."
I could not believe this shit: What is he afraid of? Doesn't every respectable married man keep a mistress?
"Since I can't take you out anywhere or offer you any kind of future, I would feel guilty if I didn't compensate you in some way."
Compensate? "You mean, like, money?" I asked.
"I'll give you financial assistance. I know you're an intern and you could use the money. It's only fair."
I wanted to know how much, but felt it would be tacky to ask. "That makes sense," I said instead.
He put his arms around me, but his affections felt false. He finished quickly the second time. I wondered how much five minutes of missionary was worth.
He started talking, complaining mostly. I really wanted to take a nap, but I stayed awake and feigned interest for his benefit. He went on and on about his job, his marriage, how he loathed Washington. (He's from Boston.)
"So why did you come to D.C. if you hate it so much here?" I asked him in an effort to participate in the "conversation," which was more like an hour-long monologue.
"When the president offers you a job, you don't say no," he said.
Well.
"You know the president?" I didn't know if I was more impressed with him or with myself: I'm one degree away from POTUS!
"That's how I got such a cushy job," he explained. "Not everybody gets to take these long lunches whenever they want." Fred put his suit back on, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a sealed envelope. "This is for you."
The money.
I thanked him as I tucked the envelope away in my handbag. The sight of it made me very uncomfortable. But as soon as he left, I tore it open and counted the cash. Four hundred dollars. For an hour of my time. What a country.
