Hangovers and Hubbys

Last night I stayed up until 12:30 a.m. to be a supportive wife and feed my husband's addiction.  As an added bonus - HBO was showing a "Real Sex" show from 1999 that had me absolutely cracking up.  So while Harry was on the computer clicking like a madman to beat the rush of other shoppers trying to buy limited edition shoes - I was upstairs cackling like a madwoman.  
Two very large and very manly women were standing in the front of a class.  Each of these women had a large vagina the size of a frisbee and in very good likeness,  strapped to their waists.  I never saw them gesture to their plastic privates, but obviously there were there as a teaching tool.   I roared with laughter as the men and the women in the audience gave their best oral sex performance - to a slice of peach.  
Mmmm - fruity!
I 'bout fell out of the bed when a woman came in wearing the very best of Wal-mart nighties and laid back on a chaise lounge for a live demonstration.   I could just see this couple at the local discount supercenter talking about their upcoming evening:
"Oh, yes, honey - get the black one. That's nice.  What will I be wearing?  Slacks and a sweater - what else?  I mean - we want realism..."  
How does one talk their significant other into such an ordeal?
My question was answered as the next feature's title flashed across the screen: "Swingstock '99"!  

Harry popped his head in the door about the time a group of very unattractive and floppy parted people began sloshing around in a hot tub under an oversized pup tent. 
"I think I got my shoe-... What are you watching?"
"Real Sex.  Hey - why are most swingers you see really unattractive?  Is it a prerequisite?"  I asked - muting the group sex scene.
"Not sure.  Anyway... blah, blah, shoe, shoe, large black man I worship, number, shoe, seven in the mornin."  Obviously he lost me about halfway through the conversation so I was a little more than a little confused when he barrel rolled out of the bed at seven and said, "You don't have to come, you can just stay here," to which I grunted and went back to sleep.

Two and a half hours later he arrives with a large black box and Chik-n-minis from Chick-fil-a.  While I eat, he rolls the shoes in his hand, carefully removing the paper and holding one in his hand toadmire.   
He looks not unlike a crack whore finding a fix.
"There was a very large man who came in fifteen minutes after me and he needed a size 13, too and I thought, 'oh no - he's going to kill me' but they got in two pair so we were both happy."

Harry's now passed out, face down, half naked on the bed.  I put a teddy bear next to him (a present bought before the Christmas season of uck - but I can't bear to box it up with all the other miniature things) pulled the covers up and tiptoed downstairs to make fun of him, naturally, and his addiction to shoes that cost more than my first car.

Have a great weekend, ya'all and if you see a line in front of the local shoe store - don't fret  for you know the reason they're there.  Shoe-heads...