I Just got caught in a gigantic rainstorm having to run home drenched, looking like Olive Oyl in my vintage Diane von Furstenberg little sundress, when I came blasting through the front door.
Michael, the doorman, hid his eyes from my nipples front and center murmuring, “Hi there sailor, what time do ya get off?”
As quickly as those skies opened, the sun shot its way through, like a gunslnger fighting the clouds. By the time I got back upstairs, I had practically drip-dried, a testament to Diane’s fabric that may be a polyester blend, but can also be folded up like a napkin and shoved in your purse. Of course a girl is then fashionably flammable, but such a small price to pay for convenience and style.
And it certainly gives hot all new meaning.