Yes, yes, calm down ladies. The BSD works hard for the money, so hard for it honey, he works hard for the money, so you better treat him right and let him get all to' up on Gins & Tonics before coming over to ravage you, you perilous vixen, you insatiable succubus, you savage Medusa. The international hurricane that is FASHION WEEK continues to swirl over middle Europe, having followed the jet stream across the pond to London, swirling down to Northern Italy, and now has bent back and begun its assault on Paris.
So much has happened during the past two weeks in fashion that the BSD has decided to sum it up in the only way he knows how: By showing pictures of pretty girls and, in a lewd, decidedly inappropriate, and blatantly misogynistic way, talk about how he would treat/has treated them coitally.
Come along with me on a journey. A journey of self-discovery, of magical lollipops, cotton candy clouds, lighthearted mirth and whimsey, two-tone underpants, and the glorious specimen that is Woman. Bring your umbrella, it might get wet.
This girl is just KILLING IT. It's like she's looking right through the camera, into your soul and, like a sexual deviant, doing things to you that you won't remember until your mid-40s as you sit passively by and await her to finish for fear that if you interrupt her, she will squeeze your manly endowment off at the base. I'd like to tussle with this one; I think the BSD may stand a chance. The BSD may be the only man who can intellectually wear this one down in a war of venereal attrition.
This is what I suppose the final moments of this "war of venereal attrition" would look like, except she'd be totally nude aside from the rad ring/bracelet contraption she has going on, pants ripped violently but bedside, clothes barely present, perhaps hanging from the fire escape and blowing in the wind like the imminent white flag, signaling the finale of a grand and overtly disturbing and concupiscent aggression. Actually, this is exactly what it would look like if she were on top, pressed against the ceiling with the weight of the BSD's perversion.
Natasha is just perfect. The BSD met her once, and he said to his trusted comrade, the Kodman, that this lady, this Natasha Poly, was female perfection incarnate. And he was right. The BSD had spoken. Loves this sexy new Versace collection.
I love seeing her in this virginal Pucci white dress because its absolutely the opposite of everything I am thinking about right now.
If someone says that she has pointy knees, I'll come to your house and defecate on your bed.
This is Ginta. I quite like her. She has something going on that turns the BSD's dial to the "This-Is-Fucking-Sexy-And-I-Want-To-Be-In-This-Soon-Like-Now-Or-I-Might-Go-Crazy-Marinating-In-My-Own-Love-Juice" setting. It's akin to turning the knob to 11, and yes, obviously, the BSD's dial goes to 11.
Jac. She is all that is BSD worthy and has a rad name. She'd get "plugged in".
Here she's rocking a Homeless Chic look from Marni. The BSD pictures her cleaning his houseboat, discarding numerous Polaroid pictures and obscene paraphernalia, including but not limited to leather whips, 6" stilettos, a double-header, a video camera, a book of Tai Chi, a bag or two of grass, a wrench, rubber gloves, a container of Hot & Sour soup from Yummy in South Beach, a rope, a few pregnancy testing kits (which are given out to "Visitors to the Cockpit" as they're referred to colloquially aboard the SS the George Takei), and a Bible.
Ok, my pants didn't just get shorter because I don't like this girl.
Abbey Lee Kershaw can get it even if she doesn't ask for it. I just might give her "The Gift" next time I see her.
I see that lighter in your hand, Abbey. And I see your acid wash jacket, which just made it go from 6 to midnight. Give it to Daddy, baby. Come into the Cockpit, it's nice and warm, and I just fixed a G&T. Stay awhile. This won't hurt at all. Well maybe just a bit at first. And in the morning when I never call you again and don't acknowledge you when I see you at the Boom Boom Room or Le Montana. And when you subsequently pour your heart out to me, confessing your undying love and suggesting that there might be a river running through it which I should navigate in the nearest restroom, and I do it, but I don't look you in the eyes or kiss you on the mouth.
Cause that's how the BSD rolls. I'm just cold like that.
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