That's me. R. Gyle
It all started several weeks ago when my wife, Ruby, and I - yes, she's an R. Gyle, too - were just hanging out in the laundry basket with our four friends all named Robert. Yeah, that's right a bunch of bobby soxers, real throwbacks to the 50s. Anyway, in the midst of a deep discussion on the benefits of charcoal deodorant shoe inserts imagine our surprise when we were dumped out on the laundry room floor. Oh boy, I thought, a sock hop. But no, this was no dance. Darn.
Nope, this was a free for all. Someone must have thought we were kind of stinky because we all got dumped into a big machine with soap and water. It'd been a while since we'd had a wash. Woo-hoo. In my excitement, though, I lost track of Ruby. We'd been separated.
And then the water started to drain and the whole room was spinning. I tell you, it was enough to knock your socks off.
I accidentally rubbed up against a pair of nylons and started to feel myself coming a little unravelled. But there was nothing I could do. I felt myself and the nylons being transported to a whole other level of intimateness. A warmer place. I think they call it a dryer.
Round and round we went, tumbling to new heights of heat. Hey, I'm quite happy being a one sock guy. But this experience with a pair of heated nylons really had me going.
And then everything went dark. The nylons were gone. And all I could smell was cashmere. Hot cashmere. Hot, folded cashmere.
It seems Ms Cashmere was attracted to me. I felt the electricity between us and I was drawn into the clutches of her sleeve. And now here we are passing the time together in the clothes closet, in the dark, waiting for our illicit, clinging relationship to be discovered. Don't wait up, Ruby.
Oh, it sox to be me.
Who knew a "mere" sweater could be a home wrecker?