Early afternoon once again finds the BSD deep within the fleecy grip of gin, filthy in his thoughts, immersed in languid lewdness and inspired by the obstreperous happenings at the weekend, his loins tingling with bawdy, ribald half-memories.
Yea, this is naught but a momentary lapse of sensual lucidity, and soon the BSD shall return, in all of his robust and strapping dignity to once again mutt the intrepid subconscious of his loyal followers, his groupies of louche recalcitrance.
It's Wednesday, "Hump Day" as some might call it, or "Another Day The BSD Defiles A Resplendent Barely-Legal Fashion Society Girl" as the BSD kindly denotes.
In his magnificence and benevolence, the BSD delivers to you, here below, another installment of The BSD Approves, a "wildly entertaining though oft-times disenchanting and disturbing oeuvre of self-love and overt self-indulgence" (New York Times, Style Section, Sunday, January 2, 2010).
I love everything about this look. It hints at the perverse sexual intensity that the BSD possesses and the insane lament. The places I would put those horns. The BSD Approves.
Dree Hemingway, scion of Ernest, future ex-girlfriend of the BSD. She has almost everything the BSD needs on which to build my lascivious literary empire; the name, the look, the loquacious disobedience and desire to upset her family's paradigm. She could ride the BSD's pony like Paul Revere.
Approved.
FREE + REALLY WET. If I had a nickel for every time a lady has said this to the BSD, I'd purchase Man About Town Magazine and YSL. Approved.
ANIA. Holy shit, not only dear friend and co-conspirator of the BSD, but good luck charm and cohort in concupiscence as well. Her filth and gloriously roguish tomfoolery make each and every day more blackened and feculent. In the best way ever.
APPROVED.
Tons of horniness today, right? As I mentioned before, it is Wednesday.
If this chick looked at the BSD this way (which inevitably she would), she'd already be in the backseat of my car, disappointed.
Approved.
This white piano could be the one on which the BSD will write his orchestral masterpiece, playing on the chord progressions of Wagner and the childlike, Baroque innocence of Brahms, invoking a serious suggestiveness and an indelicate shamelessness.
Approved.
For sure. The tits. BSD needs these to hide from his soul the morning after impetuously mutting a certain socialite/DJ and marrying her in a private ceremony aboard TSSTGT, replete with flowers and symphonies and daffodils and balloons and cartons of cigarettes and formidable amounts of the Creature and, of course, our dear friends and family.
Approved.
Emma Lou. For reasons only you can imagine (but suffice to say involve sensual recklessness and rash imprudence, as well as mindblowingly obnoxious feats of physical bewilderment and cheeky friskiness).
A-fucking-proved.
Debauched elegance and dilapidated delicacy. Much like the BSD's beautiful mind- transgressive genius.
Approved.
Um, yeah. Approved.
BOA hot-ass leather jacket. The BSD would genially and subversively approach your date, take her number and sizes, immediately order some Agent Provocateur, have it delivered via bike messenger to the lounge/house party/club, assault the bike messenger, take the Agent Provocateur, leave with her, bring her back to the loft on the Bowery, take her upstairs in the warehouse style elevator all the while softly tonguing her neck, reach for her undercarriage only to discover that she discarded her panties either in the cab or on the streets, one of those locales at which we were making out furiously, and upon arriving in the loft, hit the switches which light the candles and turn on the Otis Redding, and then, firmly and intently, give her the Gift.
Oh yeah. It's like that.
Approved.
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