What the hell is going on? “OK,” he stammered. I’ll be right up.” Moments later, he knocked on the door of 423. Karen’s voice answered, “It’s unlocked,” so he walked in. Karen was sitting in a chair in the swanky room, drinking champagne. She rose up and he could see that she was wearing a dark purple basque or corset … whatever those things are called. The garment, which was trimmed in black velvet, pushed Karen’s breasts up and out so they looked much fuller than they actually were. Below, she wore tiny knickers that just barely covered the essentials, black holdup stockings and black patent high heels. Over top this, she wore a thin, gossamer-like black cover-up. To Bob, she looked like his vision of a middle-aged madam of an upscale bordello. Seeing Karen dressed like this was a familiar fantasy, which had now come true. The woman sitting there was indeed his straight-laced spouse. However, he was more surprised when the bathroom door opened and Rachel emerged. She wore. Besides, don't you think I would have thought of the 'Hey, I'll get you drunk as a skunk on the best wine ever, won't take any kind of advantage tonight while you sleep it off, BUT, after I make you breakfast in the morning and you're sober again; you've got to blow me as payment...' gambit? Nope, it's a Curse, not a superpower, you can't make it useful that easily. So yeah, I've very rarely been able to get laid in the past 12 years, and each one was basically a one-time-deal, except Candy, and Candy was: well... Let's not talk about Candy, to quote 'Hotel California' "Some Dance To Remember, Some Dance To Forget." Look, I DON'T want to talk about Candy! There are some things that are better left forgotten, dark chapters of my history I would rather be left on the cutting room floor of memory instead of endlessly dredged up and played back like some kind of corpse trial of my mistakes and failures of judgment! Can we please just move on? Okay, Thank you. As I was saying, I've been.
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