Sex Shop Valentine: A Short Story

Okay, I just wrote another short story, just for fun, in honor of last week's plasticine holiday. Sometimes the day meanders by uneventfully, and sometimes it's a make-or-break celebration. It all depends, I guess, on the status of your romantic relationship(s) or lack thereof!

So here it is :

Sex Shop Valentine

By: Terri L. Weiss

So I’m always the one who changes the toilet paper roll. Always. Because two or three little sheets are stuck to the cardboard on, like, every roll, after my boyfriend’s done. Sorry, but I’m definitely not a guy. I need more than that to get clean, you know? And another thing? I don’t understand why he thinks bottle caps need to be screwed on so tight I need a pair of pliers to open them. I mean, peanut butter doesn’t evaporate. And omigod, can’t he stick with watching one show from start to finish? I wish he’d hand over the remote to me, cuz at least I know how to be decisive. I think the only reason we’re still dating after a whole year is, well, you know. Some things make us more tolerant.

I have to admit, I’ve been feeling a little guilty about something I did two weeks ago. Okay, it was 

pretty bad. Not like he didn’t deserve it. He’d dropped his clean laundry basket on the floor, right near the bed, a week earlier. Then, instead of putting his things away, he used the basket like a dresser. Because his actual dresser is a disaster. I know, I know, more typical guy behavior, right? But an entire week? Really?

Maybe I went a teeny bit far when I dumped the cat box in the remaining pile of clean underwear and socks in the basket. I told him, “Slob doesn’t work for me, dude. Next time, put your laundry away like the rest of the world.” The thing is, the rest of the world was hanging out in our apartment at that moment, watching the Superbowl. Awkward. Not for me, but definitely for him. I suspect his friends were embarrassed for him, too, even though they know what I’m like. Hell, I've dated half of them, which is how I met him in the first place. All the tech guys at Slate.com get take-out from the deli where I work.

As I said, slob doesn’t work for me, but full-out psycho isn't gonna work for my boyfriend once he stops thinking with his dick. Cuz, to be honest, I’d crawl into a hole and never come out if he dumped me. He might be The One, as dumb as that sounds.

With Valentine’s Day looming, I decide it’s time for me to turn over a new leaf before it’s too late. I don’t want to hear it’s a Hallmark holiday, blah blah blah. For me, Valentine’s Day is gonna be Terminator Salvation Day. The big question is, exactly what do I do? A sudden burst of supercali sweetness would make my boyfriend suspicious, like I’m insincere or up to no good. Plus I don’t know if I could live with myself if I OD on sugar. On the other hand, gradual reform would test my resolve to the breaking point, and he might be long gone by the time my transformation from the Dark Side is complete.

No, I need to do something übercool, and make it count. How ‘bout Yankees tickets on Opening Day? Nah, his boss would never let him take time off work. Besides, that’s over two months away. Suppose I cook him an amazing meal? Boringggg. I do that already. Umm, take him to the zoo, cuz he loves animals? It’s February in New York. Fuggedaboudit.

I have a brain flash, unoriginal but totally appealing: buy a great sex toy online to make Valentine’s Day something special. Then, after an incredible night, I’ll stay motivated to behave myself, and he’ll be so blown away by our tremendous feats of magic that he’ll never realize I've been kinda over the top. To keep it a surprise, I’ll do my sex toy research when he’s working late or asleep.

Life between the Superbowl kitty poo event and Valentine’s Day goes on as usual. Work, dinner, tv, sex, sleep, rinse, repeat. Then Thursday rolls around a week earlier than I’d expected. Don’t ask me why I thought I had more time. It must be from slicing all that meat and cheese. One too many ham-and-swiss-on-rye, hold-the-mustard, sandwiches. Cuz here it is, Valentine’s Day, and, except for a bunch of e-cards, I’m empty-handed after I finish work. I’m actually terrified that my boyfriend will come home with flowers when I have nothing for him.

Talk about feeling like a total loser. It’s too late to order something on the Internet. Unless it’s an instant download, like a video stream, or movie tickets, or an e-book, none of which is exactly übercool. I want to give him something amazing that he can hold in his hands, besides me, of course.

There’s only one thing I can do now: Go to an actual sex store -- for the first time since I turned 18 and thought I was so badass -- and buy something for tonight. As per my original plan. So I Google ‘sex shops New York’ and add my county. In an Adobe flash, three stores pop up. One is only eight miles away. I vaguely remember commercials for the place on a local cable station.

          Okay, even with my navi on, I have to do two u-turns to find True Blue Rendezvous. So how weird is it that a shop could be right on an entrance ramp to the highway? There it is, along a little squiggly bypass road. Easy off, easy on, for the horny people who go to these stores. Buy a dildo, throw it in the car, head to the Super 8 motel at the next exit. Damn. I can’t believe I’m pulling into the parking lot to join the Super 8 crowd.

I wait in my car for a few minutes to check out the customers. The other cars could’ve been parked at Dunkin' Donuts. Nothing skanky. A Camry, a Civic, a Wrangler. One beaten-up Econoline with an NRA sticker --  well, there’s always somebody like that around. Although, in all fairness, if I were in Tennessee with my New York plates and my ‘First Amendment First’ decal, the locals would think I was a flaming crazy. But this is New York -- who says I gotta be fair? 

An average-looking blonde in average-looking clothes wanders out of the store. She disappears into the Civic, and drives off. Hopefully I won't be the only woman in the store now. I’m in the middle of zipping up my jacket when a black car pulls into the lot. Two swarthy guys, probably in their late 20’s, like me, pop out. They laugh as they go into the store, Clickkk, off goes the engine. I grab my handbag and slam the door behind me.

There’s a bzzzz when I climb the stoop, push open the door and step inside the store. Behind the front counter is an array of bongs and pipes. A surly-looking Indian guy slouches by the cash register.

“Excuse me,” I say. My voice sounds squeaky. “Can I ask you a few questions?” What am I, an undercover cop?

The Indian guy points at the door. “No questions, no answers. Get this clam, then maybe. You leave now.”

Huh? C‘mon, I need help, give me a break, I think. “This clam?” I ask.

“This clam-UH’” he says. “No liability that way.” For a guy who’s English-challenged, he sure knows how to turn a legal phrase or two.

“Disclaimer?” I ask. “I’m not suing anyone.”

He shrugs and turns his back to me.

“Lookit,” I say. “I want to buy something for my boyfriend, that’s all.”

He busies himself with the bong display. Hell with him. I march toward the center of the store where I spot the two guys from the black car.

“Nothin’ good left,” says the taller one. He points to an empty metal rack. “Fatty Patty’s gone.” There’s a blow up display doll above the rack. She’s obese and red-cheeked, say, two feet tall and just as wide. Taped to her belly, a torn strip of paper proclaims, 'Love my fat.' Right next to her dangles a single pair of plus-sized crotchless fishnets. The tall dude pulls the fishnets off the rack and frowns. “Wrong color.”

The shorter dude hands him a package. “Think she’ll like this?” he asks.

"Absolutely." Mr. Tall grins, and tucks a plus-sized schoolgirl costume under his arm. “See anything else?”

I edge past the big girl teddy rack -- also empty, I’m afraid. I want to tell Mr. Tall there are plenty of Judy inflatables, but Judy is an average white girl, probably unappealing to a dude like him. Maybe he’d like a blow-up Guidette, The Whore From The Jersey Shore. There are two packaged Guidettes left on the rack, with a logo that says: ‘I want your friggin’ sausage.’

Wait a sec, who am I shopping for?

I pass the video department. Why would anyone buy videos in this day and age, with free porn all over the Internet? An old guy, that’s who. A grey-haired guy in a suit looks frazzled in front of the ‘Big Tits’ section. He flags down a girl with a nametag on her sweatshirt. “Miss? Do you have a searchable database?” he asks.

I don't hang around for the answer. In the near-empty BDSM section, a lonely pair of panties with an attached leash lies in a heap on the floor. I hurry past the handcuff shelf. There's a rhinestones studded pair that catches my eye. Nah, I'm not into that stuff anymore. In the back of the store, the dildo aisle beckons. I‘m hoping to find something there, even if it’s just for laughs. Lots of six-inch white-guy ‘American Topper’ dildos stand nice and perky, all in a row. Labels for ‘Antonio,’ ‘Juan’ and ‘Leroy’ are taped above empty shelves. Sold out. I glance at the photos: Seven, eight and nine-inch Hispanic and Af-Ams. Plain vanilla is definitely lameass at True Blue Rendezvous.

The girl with the nametag dashes over to me. “We had a run on these for Valentine’s Day, sorry. But I just found one Suavé at the register, if he'll do.” She pronounces it ‘Swah-vay’ with an authoritative accent, and hands me a twelve-inch Hispanic model.

“Not quite what I was looking for.” I head toward what I think is a locked jewelry case with a side-mounted spotlight. ‘Vibrators, $199.99 And Up.’

“I know, they're expensive, right?” I jump, because I didn’t see the girl following me. “How 'bout these? They start at $99.99, made in the USA and guaranteed safe.” She tugs a sealed plastic box from a metal rod. It looks like it contains purple jumper cables. ‘Vibrating Nipple Clamps.’ The purple control box has a red, heart-shaped button. 

The plastic casing looks strong enough to house a rocket-launcher. I mean, it would take so long to break open the package, my nipples would fall off. I guess that's where pliers, aka bottle-opener, would come in handy again.

“Um, thanks. I think I’ll need to come back here with my boyfriend.” This isn’t working out like I planned. I’m not buying anything, just wasting my time. When I don't have time to waste. I hear the same bzzzz as I push through the front door and unlock my car.

What the hell am I gonna do?

On the way back to my apartment complex, I pass a Barnes & Noble. I make a U and head in. Even though the store is deserted, I hope I’ll find a cute card or something. Most of the Valentine’s Day cards at B&N are gone, so it won’t take me long to scour the leftovers.

A cue-ball dude with a soul patch appears by my side. The green apron he’s wearing looks pretty silly, but I know it’s not his choice. I mean, my yellow-and-white uniform is totally idiotic, but that’s what all the deli clerks wear. So who am I to judge, right?

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Just browsing,” I answer. “Looks like you’re pretty cleaned out.”

“Who are you shopping for?” he asks. “Boyfriend, husband?”

“Boyfriend.” Lucky for him I’m not a lesbian.

“Follow me.” He crosses the store and stops in front of a table stacked with glossy, all-black books. No writing on the black covers, just thin blue lines along the inside edge. He hands me one of the books, and when I flip it over, I see the back is solid black, too. As well as the spine. There’s nothing on the book flaps, either. No title, no author, no description. “We just got these in,” he says. “They’ll be sold out by tomorrow night. Can’t keep ‘em in stock.”

“What is it?” I ask. I flip the pages, expecting it to be a sex manual, but all I see are words. I peer at one of the pages. The first sentence has big words I don’t understand. Except for the word ‘cock,’ which shows up like twenty times. Mmm-hmm, must be a sex book.

“Bestseller," he says, "There are seven books in the set. One blue line is Book One, two blue lines for 

Book Two, and so on. You can read them separately, or pick one or two. It all works, no matter how many you have. You choose to read them whatever way you want, in whatever order you want.” He opens one of the books to the title page. ‘Book One. Military Confusion.’

“What’s the book about?”

“Nothing, really. Absurdist flash fiction is the best way for me to explain it. It appeals to men much more than women, which is why I’m suggesting it to you."

I rummage through the stack of black covers for two, three, four blue lines, for each of the books.

‘Book Three. Family Inclusion.’ I flip to a random page toward the middle of the book. Besides having a penis obsession, whoever wrote this has a sick vocabulary. Sick as in unbelievable. Like “lissotrichous,” I mean, is that even a word? And “a quasi-compendium of flaggelating paramecium illuminated by phosphorescent lampyridae…” This stuff’s way over my head.

There’s ‘Book Two. Criminal Delusion.’ On page 3, I read, “Busted piston and all, the cannibal rattled south on his 1979 Honda CBX six-cylinder superbike, with a large order of McDonald’s fries wedged in his pocket.” Kinda cool, I could understand this one, I think. I find ‘Book Six. Literary Seclusion.’ Another stack teeters on the edge of the table: ‘Book Five. Cerebral Occlusion.’ The hell? What’s with all the ‘shuns?’ There are only three books left in this pile: ‘Book Four. ‘Sexual Intrusion.’ Ah, finally, there’s a sentence I can figure out, even if I don’t understand every word: “Entry from behind increased my erection to quadrinomial proportions, but the sound of ‘Macarena’ blasting from the kitchen perniciously pounded ten minutes of pump and hump into a Sisyphean waste of energy.”

I can’t find Book Seven.

“Here you go, miss.” The clerk hands me a black book with seven thin lines along the side. The title is ‘Book Seven. Attribution.’

“I don’t get it,” I say. But my boyfriend, who’s a whole lot smarter than me, might. At least I’m coming home with something. I buy the lot and have them gift-wrapped.

The apartment is a ten-minute drive away. When I pull up to our building and pop the keys in the front door, my boyfriend is already home.

“Got out of work early, baby,” he says, and gives me a hungry kiss. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He presents a dozen long-stemmed roses to me with a flourish.

I pass him my Barnes & Noble bag. “I hope you like it. I didn’t know what to get you,” I say. As I put my roses in a vase, I hear him tearing off the giftwrap.

“Shit!”

My heart sinks. I should’ve gotten the electric nipple clamps. Or twelve-inch-long Suavé.

“Baby, you outdid yourself this time, you know that?” He runs over to hug me, and relief washes over me.

“I did good?” I ask, smiling.

He gives me a kiss so deep I can hardly breathe. When he releases me, he says, “The guy’s a fucking rock star. We’re trying to land an interview with him, but he’s booked solid for the next month.”

“I didn’t think people read books anymore.” Oops.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “People read this. When they can get their hands on it.” Then he points to charcoal gray letters on the back cover. So dark I never noticed them: Caliban.

I still don’t get it. “Wasn’t that the name of some metal song?”

“Metalcore, lust, and Shakespeare.” He leads me into the bedroom. “Power of words, baby. It means there’s hope for the world.”

We peel off each other’s clothes. Even without vibrating nipples and Suavé, I guess there's hope for me, too. Although those rhinestone handcuffs did look pretty nice.

Yet Another Powerful Man Thinks With HIs...

Sex and powerful men.

It's a repeat topic on this blog because it's a constant issue in the real world. That potent - ha! - combination of power and alpha male, the possibility of taming it, the headiness of proximity to it.

Understandable on the part of women (or men) who find these characteristics irresistible. (Who wouldn't?) And equally so for the alpha male, who constantly believes he can get away with sexual gratification on the sly -- that is, until the media or some whistleblower is nipping at his heels, ready to expose him.

But seriously, won't these guys ever learn? How many of them will crash and burn, just from their inability to keep their pants on? My opinion: they'll never learn, and it'll happen as long as humans populate this planet.

General Petraeus is a true American hero. He's an awesome guy, no question about it. Squared-away, career military, four-star general, CENTCOM commander, director of the CIA, and totally respected in all circles of all political stripes. (You can check out his bio on Wiki -- I always thought it was kinda neat that he grew up in my neck of the woods, right here in the Hudson Valley.)

So why -WHY? - would a straight-shooter, high-roller, man who has everything risk it all for a beautiful, brilliant woman? Did he honestly think no one would EVER know? Did he think it wouldn't matter (like, not even to his now publicly humiliated, and fairly homely, but loyal, überadmirable wife?) if he compromised himself like this?

Or did he just think with his --? Well, you know. Yeah. He did.

And what about his partner? The other woman? Was she too intoxicated by his magnetism as the alpha male to consider the 'what if?' What if her husband found out? What if her two young kids were exposed to her extra-curricular activities? What was in it for her? Instant gratification, without regard for the consequences to herself, and to her family.

A powerful man is once again toppled by sex. Again.

Men Pay A Steep Price For Lust (Or Lack Thereof)

Everyone knows that men often think only with their ****s. Especially men who are powerful enough to believe their lewd actions won't have major repercussions on their marriages, their careers and their lives.

Obvious recent examples of over-sexed, self-destructive men:
*Bill Clinton, who demolished his presidential legacy and forever tarnished his reputation.
*Tiger Woods, whose escapades as a man-whore practically overshadowed his legendary (but now-fading) golf prowess, and drove him from the sport, sponsorships and, of course, his wife and kids.
*John Edwards, who ruined his political life and probably helped to loosen his wife's already-tenuous hold on life.
*DSK, who lost his IMF chairmanship and checked into Riker's Island for a few days.
*Elliott Weiner, who thought his own wiener was so photogenic that he lost his Congressional seat and handed it over to the House Republicans.

But maybe you didn't know that men also pay heavily for lacking a strong enough sexual appetite.

In France - yes, France where male ardor is a matter of national pride! - a 51-year-old man was recently socked with paying his ex-wife 8500 Euros for his lackluster performance in the bedroom. Not just for a few months, either, but for 21 years, which I think is a mighty long time for any self-respecting woman to wait for some serious attention. A little Viagra along the way could have saved the thin-blooded Jean-Louis B. a pile of money. It could have saved his marriage, too, since his failure to satisfy his wife was grounds for the divorce.

Damned if they do it (with someone else), damned if they don't do it (for a really really long time) with their wives. There's a lesson there, guys.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/france/8741895/Frenchman-ordered-to-pay-wife-damages-for-lack-of-sex.html

Gotta Be Nuts to Marry a Politician

Right off the bat, all PC aside, it always seems to be the politician-husbands who get themselves embroiled in sordid scandals. You never hear about a woman pulling down her panties for a quickie behind the office, like Bill Clinton. Or soliciting a stranger for sex in an airport bathroom, like Larry Craig. Or flying to a foreign country to sleep with a "soulmate," like Mark Sanford. How about having a secret love child in her own house, like Arnold Schwarzenegger, or while her husband staves off death, a la John Edwards? Or forcing herself on a clueless hotel staffer, like DSK? Or Twittering naked crotch shots of herself to an Internet "friend" half her age, like Anthony Weiner?

Not saying women never screw around, not saying they can't subject their husbands and kids to immeasureable embarrassment. But how many woman politicians and business leaders engage in the kind of utter crap described above? I can't think of any. Too much common sense, maybe.

Except for those women who marry politicians or men who hint that politics their career goal. These women have no common sense whatsoever. Those women, to quote Jim Cramer, have got to be "NUTS, THEY'RE NUTS, THEY KNOW NOTHING!"

Given the abysmal track record of the political man, one would think that a woman would say, as her boyfriend asks for her hand on bended knee, "Yes, but only if you get out of politics/never go into politics." But they don't try to establish those conditions, from what I can tell. Instead, political wives encourage, or at least accept, their husbands' political ambitions. And then later, they quietly bury their growing unhappiness with the life they've chosen in alcohol and mysticism (e.g., Betty Ford and Pat Reagan).

I'm not even going to go near all the men who had "issues" long before politics was on their minds, and the women who foolishly thought they could cure their men of their problems...That's a whole other set of psychoses...

Can a political wife be truly surprised to be standing under the glare of the cameras a few years later (maybe not even that long), after her husband 'fesses up in public to unleashing his one-eyed monster on other women or men? No shocker there. See the HuffPo's list of the mortified women who "stand by their men" at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/06/07/politician-sex-scandals-w_n_872821.html#s288764&title=Bill_Clinton.

Marry a politician, you know damn well what you're getting into. Chances are, it'll ultimately be a lot less power and glamour, and a lot more squalid humiliation. Thank God for the women who don't bother to show up for the weepy press conferences. I suspect they knew the odds when they exchanged wedding rings.

Sex and Self-Destruction

What is it about powerful men and uncontrollable sex drives? Why do they go hand in hand, along with utter contempt for the law and for the personal havoc that results?

My friend Ali Leotta, sex crimes prosecutor, has also posted about DSK on her blog, Prime-Time Crime Review. Is it just a lawyer thing to be more fascinated by DSK's downfall than the latest celebrity sex scandals?

Here's Ali's extremely well-written article:

What’s His Defense?
By Allison Leotta on June 8th, 2011

Whether it’s a Kennedy cousin, a professional athlete, or the head of the International Monetary Fund, it’s always shocking when a wealthy celebrity is charged with rape. Could that man in the suit really have been that beast in the bedroom? Why would a millionaire risk trading his life of champagne and yachts for three hots and a cot? What will his defense be?

By now you’ve seen the footage of the head of the IMF, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, being led on a perp-walk by the NYPD. Until last this week, DSK was the French politician most likely to challenge Nicolas Sarkozy and become France’s next president. His reputation as a womanizer had also earned him the nickname of the “Great Seducer.” On May 18th, he was charged with sexually assaulting a maid at a posh Manhattan hotel, where he was staying in a $3000-a-night suite. According to news reports, the maid went into DSK’s suite to clean it; he allegedly emerged naked from the bathroom, grabbed her, forced her to perform oral sex on him, and tried to further assault her; she escaped, ran from the room, and reported the incident to her supervisor.

Since his arrest, we’ve heard a couple of different theories of his possible defense. 

He’s got an alibi:   Hehad checked out of the hotel and/or was lunching with his daughter when the alleged crime occurred, so he couldn’t have raped the maid. Gee, what a terrible mix-up this all must be.

The Vast Global Conspiracy: Sarkozy’s cronies set up Strauss-Kahn to eliminate him as a political rival. Dan Brown, start taking notes!

I doubt he’ll go with either of these two defenses. I was a federal prosecutor in D.C. for twelve years, specializing in sex crimes for the last eight. I’ve seen countless sex-assault cases, although admittedly few involving French diplomats. But this isn’t how such a case is typically defended.

An alibi defense is simply too risky (unless, of course, it’s true!). With credit card receipts, ever-present security cameras, and GPS cell phones, there are too many ways authorities could disprove a false alibi. And advancing an alibi squanders one of the few great advantages that a defendant has at trial – the prosecutor’s heavy burden of proof. Sure, technically the prosecutor still has to prove her case beyond a reasonable doubt even if she can poke holes in the defendant’s alibi, but in practice the jury is likely to think they’re picking between two theories. If the defendant’s alibi is wrong, the prosecutor’s theory must be right.

As for the conspiracy theory – I’m a thriller-writer, but it’s too far-fetched for me. New Yorkers are a skeptical bunch. I don’t think they’ll buy a story where French politicians use the NYPD to carry out a grand conspiracy. If this were a set-up, it’s a risky one. Could the alleged victim maid hold up under the spotlight that all the media in the free world is about to shine on her – not to mention cross-examination by experienced defense attorney Benjamin Brafman? Michael Corleone did it much better with the dead girl in the Senator’s hotel bed.

Instead, I predict Strauss-Kahn will go with the usual defense that powerful men opt for:

Consent.

This has been the defense of choice since there have been sex scandals. It’s powerful because it often could be true – whether an alleged victim consented can be a blurry concept, and mistakes can be made. As a strategic choice, a consent defense takes advantage of two enormous challenges prosecutors face: (1) rape usually happens with no witnesses, aside from an often vulnerable victim, and (2) the government has the burden of proving every criminal case beyond a reasonable doubt, the highest standard in American law. This defense also plays into the biases and prejudices in our culture. Someone on the jury might see a woman who had sex with a wealthy man, and think she must have wanted it.

These days, DNA testing often proves that the sexual contact took place. That leaves a defendant unable to claim – for long – that he never had sexual relations with that woman. But who is to say that she didn’t consent – except, of course, for her? The consent defense sets up a he-said / she-said situation, which is difficult to overcome by a beyond-a-reasonable-doubt standard.

Not impossible to overcome, of course. Forensic evidence such as vaginal tearing might demonstrate that the sex was forcible. But that kind of evidence is quite rare, and it seems even less likely to exist here, where there may have only been oral contact. Prosecutors will look for other injuries on the maid and DSK consistent with a struggle. They’ll also search for any other corroborating evidence. Did she immediately call the police or family after the alleged assault? Did he flee the scene? Did anyone else see or hear anything during the encounter? Has he done this before? In the absence of such corroboration, a lot will ride on the victim’s sheer credibility – a heavy burden for any woman to carry.

Meanwhile, the defense team has no obligation to state DSK’s defense until after the results of the DNA testing come back. In fact, they don’t have to say anything until trial – or even during trial. Every defendant has the right to sit back and simply hold the prosecution to its burden. But if history is any guide, DSK’s attorneys will say this was just another case of the Great Seducer wielding his famous charm on a willing woman.

The prosecution will continue to work the case from every angle, searching for any evidence that goes to this question. The men and women of the NYPD and the Manhattan DA’s Office are excellent law enforcement authorities. If they believe the charges cannot be proved, they will dismiss them.

And if this really turns out to be a vast global conspiracy, it will launch a new generation of political thrillers.
****************************

I have commented on Ali's post as follows:

I'm so glad you weighed in on this one, Ali. I posted on my blog about DSK's various alibis, too, but as usual, I was far more unkind than you are! :<) Funny how this story disappeared from the headlines in the wake of the Ah-mold/Maria soap opera and, now, Rep. Weiner's teary sext-mess. Just one more powerful man in self-destruct mode because of an unbridled sex drive and utter disregard for the consequences of his actions (both legal and personal)... Sigh...

There has been a great deal of information dug up about the maid's immediate actions following the alleged (ahem) attack. Apparently, the shell-shocked maid, after being found cowering in a hallway right after DSK forced himself on her (allegedly, sorry), reported a consistent story to both hotel security and the NYPD. Versus DSK, who was far from consistent: he was dining with his daughter at the time; ummm, no, it was consensual (his defense only after his fingernails were scraped for DNA evidence, coincidentally).

And just in case anyone thought the Sofitel in Times Square was the only scene of sordid sex crimes, the elegant Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue was the scene of a sexual attack barely two weeks later, in a case so eerily similar that when I first saw the headlines, I thought the reporter was two weeks behind the DSK story. Turns out an elderly Egyptian businessman thought another maid was fair bait, too:

"The former chairman of one of Egypt's major banks has been arrested on charges of sexually abusing a maid at a Manhattan hotel, just weeks after the arrest of former IMF chief Dominique Strauss-Kahn on similar allegations. Mahmoud Abdel-Salam Omar - the 74-year-old former chairman of Egypt's Bank of Alexandria - allegedly groped and "gyrated" against the maid in room 1027 at The Pierre hotel on Fifth Avenue, a law-enforcement source said."
http://www.news.com.au/world/egyptian-banker-arrested-over-manhattan-hotel-maid-assault/story-e6frfkz0-1226066568076