The BSD After Hours: An Exorcism of The Sexy

The BSD is boss, motherfucker.

In consideration of his magnanimous essence and his cacophonous dichotomy of sound sexual aggressiveness and general social acquiescence (The BSD does without doing), we present here a cornucopia of images, a veritable symphony of sexy, an epic of erogeny.

Let's exorcise this obscenity.

Unable to contain herself any longer, this young woman, entranced by the exotic aura of the BSD, began publicly removing her clothing, chanting in tongues, and miming lecherous activities in the BSD's general direction.

She was summarily plundered by the long sword of the BSD's gentleman pirate.

Bite my knee, bitch! That's BSDomination.

Drink up, darling. Your startling innocence has in no way turned off the BSD. You are like a blank page upon which the BSD can scribe his great narrative, an amorous tale woven of the threads begotten by sin and lasciviousness, culminating in a throaty, guttural apogee.

Isabelle McNally, seen here on right. Just about the polar opposite of the young woman above, which, in no way, turns off the BSD.

Sometimes, cool kids are so cool they become angry and violent. Or maybe they just like to dance.

Great fucking t-shirt. Rock.

Digging the 'stache, bro. Keepin' it gangsta in camel.

I see two things I like: Gin & Tonic, leather jacket.

Don't look at me that way, you sexy minx. Don't make the BSD take you to the nearest restroom and turn your hair back to it's original color.

After all, lightning strikes will do that.

DIQG in Valli.

Later, BSD in DIQG and eventually, DIQG in ecstasy.

Oh my fuck, yes please. Yes, yes, yes.

Yes. Yes. Issues, yes.

Yes.

Isabelle, smoking indoors darling?

Frida, yes, in all kinds of ways.

Rad tats, tee, hat, hair, stache.

Despite the Fonzy-type Hey face, rad tee, rad jeans, sippin' the Creature. Can't knock it.

What? you are saying. Did the BSD just put a picture of classy lady on the site? WTF?

Yes, yes I did. Because she looks immaculate.

And is probably hiding some considerable ass-pear in there.

Strong legs, good breeding stock, lovely fashion sense. Sign me up.

Not to mention the tousled just-got-roughed-up hair.

Tuesday, 3:20 pm, The BSD's Loft, Downtown NYC.

Frida, waving goodbye to the BSD from her chauffeured Vespa in Paris.

She returned 20 minutes later, unable to exist in a BSD-less universe.

She left again 50 minutes after that, slightly crippled, exhausted, and wrestling with the new techniques, barrier shattering honesty, forthright beauty, inconsolable superciliousness, rampant hauteur, polished handsomeness, and measured bohemianism that is The BSD.