Last week, the FBI raided a Las Vegas warehouse owned by magician David Copperfield. The raid is related to a Seattle woman's claim that she was sexually assaulted by the entertainer in the Bahamas. Copperfield's lawyer denounced the charges:

The allegation is 100 percent false, and we deny it in the strongest possible terms.

True or false, the allegations have serious implications for pretentious stage illusionists and the women who love them. Our own resident woman Laurie Kilmartin weighs in with an exclusive 23/6 Ladytorial.

As a lady, I can testify that David Copperfield has given me the rape-creeps since his first special aired in 1978. The tool-ish hair, the hypnotic stare and the hyper, autonomous eyebrows. Plus, his real last name is Kotkin. It all adds up to one thing: no memory of how you got those bruises on your thighs.

Illusionists as a profession generate an intense level of rape-creep, surpassed only by most of the NBA. David Blaine and Criss Angel both affect show biz names and Rohypnol eyes. In fact, the only illusionist I'd trust with the technical virginity of my no-good niece is the gentle, buck-toothed Doug Henning. And he's dead.

I can imagine how the "100 percent false allegation" went down. Seattle woman and her best friend Chrissy go to the sunny Bahamas for a Terry McMillan-esque vacation. Chrissy gets tickets to David Copperfield's show. Oh my God, is he the guy from Mindfreak? They sit up front. Copperfield makes eye contact. Seattle woman decides to make Dag, her ex-boyfriend (most likely a bass player) jealous. Chrissy approves, mostly because she slept with Dag and still feels guilty (not to mention itchy). Good for you! Go get yourself some Magic Dave, girl, and I'll watch your purse! Cut to Seattle woman in Copperfield's hotel room, feeling weird. The room is spinning. Why are my wrists handcuffed to my ankles? Is this a magic trick? Help me, Dag!

Ladies, stay away from illusionists, athletes and celebrities, unless you decide ahead of time you won't press charges. Sure, we all want at least one groupie gang-bang story to tell our granddaughters. But at what cost? Instead of putting yourself in harm's way, borrow 'n tweak one of Pamela Des Barres' tales. After all, if no one hears a tree fall in an empty forest, will David Lee Roth deny he had sex with you on Alex Van Halen's snare drum during the "1984" tour?

I posit he will not.