I’ve made a point, over the years, perhaps even a moral point,
Of never having sex with any of the wives of my best men friends.
The closest I came

Was once when I was living alone, house-sitting a Jamesian
House in Chevy Chase, and one of my best friends and his wife
Were spending the weekend

And they went up to bed. The woman left her pair of shoes on
The floor, on the rug, and I was quite stoned, and I wandered over
And picked up

One of the shoes, and I held the shoe, and, staring deeply into what
I took to be the essence of my friend’s wife as she embodied the shoe
And the shoe embodied her,

I imagined her and me fucking each other senseless. It was
Great, and it did no real nor lasting damage to the marriage,
As far as I could tell.