and here i've been trying to clean it up

well ... screw that.

web filters can go to hell.

- - -

SEX

The plan last night was to make dinner together and get all romantic around the couch area. uh ... it turned out i was late coming home, feeling a little under the weather, and my frickin' bike light died on the commute which threw me into a tiny snit ... So, instead ~ she made me a luxurious bit of eats while i lay prone on the floor, trying to stretch out the growing crookidity.

The meal was scrumptious but i was still braindead like 5130 and so asked if we couldn't pop up a vid and lounge a bit as we waited out the big belly's gurglings. She agreed, and we punched up Spike Lee's He Got Game.

oy.

There were a few gratuitous nekkid scenes that i simply had to fast-forward past. I hate that kind of shit. Am I a prude? No ... it's just that i don't get into distant flesh on flesh slap. I loathe fake parts and plumped up lust. I am, however, all about the dirty acts of sliding around and naughty lickins, but for me ... it's gotta generate from the real. It's sort of a fetish, i reckon ... for the sensual. The importance of being earnest, and all.

- - -

BIKE RACERS

Ridiculously tanned individuals that they are, I love to ogle over them. There is such immense pleasure watching the perfectly timed attack, cheering the suicidal manuever, shouting out appreciation to the brave, lonely sufferer, spitting venom at the cheap and dishonorable. All of them, I adore.

I fantasize about running hands along tall, lean muscles of thighs, along sides of hips, up around expanding chests. My cheeks glow as images of curling around powerful, stocky sprinter's bodies floods my imagination with wicked, spoon-filled delights. I feel the warm sheen of clean, glowing sweat. I hear the deep booms of billowing lungs in full fight. I see eyes locked in concentration, concentration on one goal. Building towards that one, pure, ecstatic moment of release.

man? woman? i don't care.

just give them to me.