The only pretty ring time

Birds sing/hey ding/a-ding a-ding/sweet lovers love/the spring


Something’s happened these last few days. My body has gone through…changes. Nothing so drastic as menopause or puberty, and nothing so stunning as growing a third nipple or learning how to fart talcum powder. Just…yearly changes. Springtime changes. Sexy changes. Finally, after weeks of feeling the doldrums of no sexual fantasies that would satisfy me…WHAM!! (And I don’t mean George Michael and that other dude.)

Every other guy I see, I have a crush on.

Not just a crush, but a ‘fantasize-in-every-possible-sexual position’ fantasy, a shotgun/stolen-car/tequila/desert/farmhouse/clawfoot-bathtub/moon/sweat fantasy.

Harold Dieterle from Top Chef? Uh-huh, bring it on, kitchen dude. Don’t forget the extra-virgin olive oil.

Elijah Wood? Your gap-tooth grin haunts my daydreams.

Henry Rollins? You know I love you, man. I just never imagined you so naked and vulnerable before now, tied up maybe, uh yeah...daaamn.

Dane Cook? Duuuuude. You slay me. Get naked. NOW. (NOTE: Link automatically brings up audio, turn speakers down...or up.)

Anderson Cooper? Fuck yeah. Bring that Prada-covered butt over here….

Chris Garver? Faaaaack. ‘Course. I lurves ya. But don’t be surprised if I ask the rest of the guys to join in too. More/Merrier.


And it just goes on and on and on.


Is this a problem?

Well, kinda, in that I can’t seem to get any work done. And Boy-Child has taekwondo class tonight, so I’m sure I’ll be pickin’ out a couple black belts, imagining them taking off those straight starched white uniforms, tying me up with their belts. Doesn’t help that I’m wearing a skort and bare (shaved) legs, and feel pretty hoochie mama right ‘bout now.

Hoochie.

Rhymes with coochie.

And on that note….