“My pants are down around my ankles and I’m bent over my desk. What do you want?”
This colorful interrogative was bellowed over the phone to our agent by a Fox executive in Business Affairs.
Perhaps I should back this story up a smidge:
“My pants are down around my ankles and I’m bent over my desk. What do you want?”
This colorful interrogative was bellowed over the phone to our agent by a Fox executive in Business Affairs.
Perhaps I should back this story up a smidge:
Any one who knows me will tell you that I am an unapologetic fan of the practitioners of the Sapphic arts. The thought or sight of two comely lasses holding hands, kissing or working each other up into a lathery state of tribadic ecstasy is one of the true delights of my tortured existence. To me, a guy banging on a woman like she was the cowbell in a Blue Oyster Cult song is just sex. Whereas two (or more) intertwined pink angels sans garmentry is a vision so rapturously pure and beguiling it makes the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel look the mural at a Walmart bathhouse. Continue reading