Once upon a time, long long ago, Katrina came over and we watched a movie. She was wearing dress shoes, which she kicked off and replaced with sneakers.
In the same timeframe, I was plying my way into the affections of an admin assistant at work. Toward that end, I volunteered my house for some admin-only functions. I was just trying to get to know Lori better; I didn't really think things through. If I had, I would have realized that being the only guy amidst hot, drunk, hypercompetitive 20-28 year old golddiggers was a fortuitous environment indeed.
I'm a gentleman, so I will leave the details to your imagination. God knows they're permanently seared in mine.
Everything was normal until Lori's hot assistant discovered Katrina's forgotten shoes. "WHOSE SHOES ARE THESE?!" she shrieked, as though she were my wife of 17 years. And all the women rushed to examine them. They spat bitterly about their teeniness. They hypothesized about their owner and my relationship with her. And for perhaps the first time in my life, I knew exactly what to say to women: absolutely nothing.
Yes, it was because the truth was uninteresting. And yes, my silence drove them insane.
Within an hour, Lori and her assistant were wrestling me to the ground.
Within two hours, Lori was dancing on my coffee table, throwing me her bra.
Within four hours, there were admins in various stages of consciousness in every room of my house, afraid that they would forfeit...I'm not sure what, exactly...if they left.
But like I said, a gentleman doesn't tell. More.
Postscript: My dog, Ed, chewed the shoes to ribbons. Thanks, Katrina!