The BSD Approves: Installment 7

Oh, hey there. I didn't see you as I was coming around the corner in my mod 60's ranch home high in the Hollywood Hills. How'd you get in here? Did one of the other girls let you in? Did she fix you a drink?

Well, as you can see [glances at groin], I'm happy you made it, PYT. I was caught admiring my newest addition, an original Miro in oil on canvas. Of course, it's real. Oh, this? It's a G&T with a splash of ether.

Darling, it's getting towards dusk, and you know what that means.

Take off your clothes, grab a washcloth, slip into the 12 person infinity jacuzzi, grab a cold glass of bubbly, let your mind wander to the far reaches of appropriateness, embrace the faultlessness that just grabbed your undercarriage and hold on tightly.

It is not sex that gives the pleasure, it is the BSD.

The POV angle the photographer has chosen for this shot is out of this world. The look on her face is wholesome ginger snap goodness. This girl can work. Use your mouth, baby. I imagine she just walked into the BSD's loft on the Bowery, fell onto the white wooden floor panels, and landed just like this, just prior to the BSD landing on her, and the Gift landing just out of frame, bottom.

Just naughty. Bad girl.

Well, it appears it's your way or the highway for the BSD. Playing hardball- Approved.

M. Yves Saint Laurent. Legend. Approved.

The pyramids at Giza. For centuries Man has contemplated the fundamental nature of your existence. For this, and for vaguely resembling very abrupt breasts, you are Approved.

Marloes, my darling, my future ex-girlfriend. I hope you don't mind if the BSD keeps you as a showpiece on the side. Don't tell DIQG. The BSD would be in deep shit.

I'd invite Marloes to the houseboat, fix her a drink or ten while reading Proust boisterously, delicately traipsing fingertips along her tender, post-pubescent leg, Otis Redding caressing the iPod speakers with his dulcet tones, BSD pressing his intention firmly against her side as she fastidiously raises her leg to intertwine with his, growing ever more ready for the Gift. She expresses her interest in soft, lazy sighs, a currency of vocal gratification, an orchestral oratory of sybaritic gluttony. The BSD, clad in a Balmain leather jacket, Vuitton cashmere tank top, and distressed Dior Homme jeans, leans in closely, tempting, torturing, bringing her to the brink of climax...

Then takes a phone call. Approved.

Don't spill it!!! You don't spill the fucking gins and tonics! Do it again, and you're fucking out. NOT APPROVED.

Get out of the way, I'm putting on this Al Jarreau record whether you like it or not. Now how bout you drop out that pink hoodie and show me that phat ass? Approved.

Poetry. Approved.

So do BSDs. Approved.

Haaaaaah-lerrrrrr! Make it clap. Approved.

Hermes, I'm going to pull your card right now, I'm calling shenanigans- The perfect red box was the first through third photos in this post. Not approved.

Shiny gold jacket. Approved.

Julia. This picture was taken just before I baptized the Ladies room, beneath the DJ booth, in that one dark corner, and outside Le Montana. The portions of her skirt which are missing were found later that night in the BSD's mouth. Approved.

McQueen. Peep the shoes. This show was gnarly. Shoes killed it. They deserve their own post. APPROVED.