| there is something, a certain, what the french call, "don't-you-just-want-to-rub-my-chest-in-butter-and-fuck-me-5-ways-to-sunday-and-call-me-daddy-aces-baby", that musician's have about them. Something phallic about caressing the mic, or the strumming motion against the body of a guitar so close to the crotch, just seems to make guitar-toking, tune miastro's a boiling sex pot of dirty dirty snuggle making. but i forget where i was going with that...i am an avid admirer of those people on our planet who are in my eyes, hotter than the average household cat, and coz i'm girl, i say so quite candidly and get away with moider. moidering any notions that i am anything but a cheap cheerleader whose loins could heat that cup of tea, anyway... |
