The first thing I'd need to do is get them comfortable in my loft apartment. I'd seat them on my black leather sofa and get them each a glass of merlot. I'd casually mention that the cocaine (I'd probably call it "blow") was in the tastefully african decorative box on the glass coffee table and I'd go to remove my skinny tie (taking the opportunity to make sure my bathroom and bedroom were in order). A little dash of Drakkar Noir and I'm back in the room, checking to make sure the ladies are okay. They are.
I put some music on my Blaupunkt:
After this, the merlot, and the blow, we'd probably adjourn to the bedroom. I'd put Ladyhawke in the vhs player and turn the sound all the way down. The light from my neon clock radio would play off of all the reflective surfaces in the room - the metal furniture, the tempered glass television stand, the poster of the lamborghini countach.
Hopefully, in the morning, I'd be able to get them out of the place early enough that I could still get in a jog before I had to get to my job working on Wall Street or in an Advertising Agency.
Probably when I came home at the end of the day, I'd find a single shoulderpad one of them had "forgotten" under my pillow. The other one of them would likely have "forgotten" her high-waisted panties.
I'd unroll the sleeves of my blazer and pop open a wine cooler before settling in to watch Airwolf.
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