The BSD Approves: Installment 14

The BSD is back and hornier than ever.

Let's skip the formalities and get it in. Grab your gin. Hold it tight. Put it in your mouth.

While on a recent deep sea fishing expedition to the treacherous North Atlantic, many truths were revealed to the BSD. When one is on the high seas, one comes to know oneself (and the local Icelandic women) very well; at least well enough to know that Gillette or Nair could make a killing.

Despite the hirsute natives and their heartbreaking tales of desolate isolation, the BSD's newly found demagogue status and his hard-earned VDs, times were good.

The land was fruitful and the sea full of bounties.

With TSSTGT docked and moored for the season, he took to the icy, undulating waves in his newly purchased deep sea vessel, the "Putting From the Rough".

Horrible paint job and crooked handle notwithstanding, the BSD headed out with a crew of twelve (three fishermen, two experienced yachtsman, two men of both questionable and Nordic origin, four handmaidens to wait on the BSD hand and foot and loins and junk, and one licensed barkeep) with no set agenda or charted course.

His playboy status and charming aura lead to immediate ingratiation with AQUAPOL (for those of you not in the know [and really, why would you even be reading this if you were not in the know, you provincial fuck? Really?], Aquapol is a European partnership of water police forces and inland navigation inspectorates. Its areas of responsibility are inland and maritime navigation [professional as well as recreational- and truly, nothing is more recreational than the BSD at sea], transport security on the waterways and in ports, and fighting crime. Fortunately, demonstrating the Bionic Seahorse (c) to 17 year old models and renowned DIQGs in international waters is not yet a crime) and soon enough, the BSD found himself captaining a secretive and highly jeopardous mission with the PFTR in tow, listlessly drifting at the stern, Moroccan market lights twinkling precariously over the gelid brine, the loose women seen as no more than heaving pastel caricatures through the foggy glass, lounge music almost inaudible over the languid screams of ecstasy and Nero-Claudius-Caesar-Augustus-Germanicus-inspired lawlessness, the BSD peering over his shoulder at the PFTR, and then, throwing not only caution to the wind, but also care, reverence, and piety, he stormed from the bridge and snaked his way betwixt the dark corridors of AQUAPOL's ship, karate-chopping and neck-punching, leopard-like in his quickness, deft in his proactivity, sensuous in his movements, cunning in his quickness of thought, eventually making his way to the perilous cavity between the ships- the worlds of international maritime espionage and lascivious lovemaking on the high seas separated by a dicey divide.*

He hung on the precipice of what could be his finest moment- risking everything- the houses, the cars, the motorbikes, the blossoming friendship with Rue McClanahan (who, in recent news, is apparently recovering from a stroke, bless her), the spectacular record of sexual conquests- everything, for what appeared to be the most Earth-shatteringly titillating fete.

It was everything he had hoped it would be, and more.

Three weeks later, the BSD washed ashore in Nantucket and without hesitation headed immediately for the Summer House, a shower, and some really lazy sex.

But fear not, I have returned- a bit bruised, a bit wiser, and a shit-ton more concupiscent.

Without further ado, the BSD Approves, baby.

Yes, we're starting with Art. Deal with it. Approved.

Mickey getting his rocks off with Minnie. Mickey fucking like a Champ. Approved.

This is Ron (or maybe Raan), one of the really irregular but marvelous Nordic-men who accompanied me at the inception of my holiday sojourn. He's holding one of the epic sea bass which, like so many women before it, was caught by the BSD.

That's a big fucking fish.

That's the kind of shit the BSD catches.

Approved.

Right back 'atcha, homie.

Keep it gangster with them fucked up teeth. Approved.

The BSD's been thinking of upgrading the mirrors in his boudoir. We may have found a solution, though I'm still thinking "bigger".

Watching yourself while you Cirque du Soleil? Approved.

Who needs tea when you just had the BSD?

You're welcome.

Approved.

The only reason it's wasted is because it isn't in my lap or on my face right now.

Hop on the Shane Train (It's like Night Train, but cheaper and with a higher alcohol content).

Approved.

Approved.

Yeah man, diggin' this look from the most recent DSquared2 show. The BSD needs a chainmail tank top.

Holler at that. Approved.

Yes, so nice. Approved.

What the fuck, way better. A-fucking-proved.

As her chubby, unemployed hot mess of a boyfriend drifted away, Sarah could only dream that her cigarette was the BSD's pantler. Suffice to say, she sucked and swallowed like never before.

Approved.

Unfortunately, drifting in the North Atlantic is very hard on furniture, and this masterpiece went the way of the thylacine.

Still, if it were in the BSD's downtown loft, it would be Approved.

In so many ways, this is the best picture ever taken, not the least of which is that it's post-coital, recent, and absolutely nihilistic.

Notice the ample amount of cigarettes and the carpet.

Approved.

True story.

The BSD is BACK.

And REALLY feeling himself right now. I'm in season; a man in full bloom.

LADIES, MY MERCEDES!

* Note the deftness of phrase and looseness of tongue with which the BSD made that paragraph one continuous (and inarguably a "run-on" but single and cohesive) sentence.

The BSD Approves: Installment 13: Video Edition

This is all.

The BSD Approves: Installment 12

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.

Bitch Is Crazy

The BSD Approves: Installment 11 (Shanemas Wish List Edition)

It's been a long time and I shouldn't have left you without a dope beat to step to.

But yea, I did.

In the lubricious interim since we last spoke, the BSD has been downing gins and tonics, immersing himself in classical literature, symphonious harmonies, averaging 4 goals and 2.5 assists per game of indoor soccer, and scouring the bowels of the Earth for things both naughty and nice to Approve and Disapprove, as is his mercurial wont.

As I write this tome, I sit besieged by Portrait of An Artist on the Wealth Channel, drinking in its every word and luxurious aim, the BSD making his own capricious assessment of Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix, most assuredly a more poignant, gnostic, and perspicacious estimation of this revolutionary work. Obviously, had the BSD been around at that time we'd be telling a very different story, one more centrally fascinated on drunken debauchery and lewd dealings and probably a painting whose meaning (and focus) is obscured by these inclinations but remains timelessly nevertheless intoxicating.

Now, Ladies, the BSD shall put the paint to this canvas, splash it all over your nude personage, roll you around sloppily and paint-splattered on my masterwork, and adamantly make sweet, sweet passion on you. Sweet, literary and sanguine passion. Right on you. That's right.

Sip it up. That gin is not going to drink itself.

For some reason when I look at this picture, all I can see is the girl on the right. Maybe it's because she's doing that "tongue-into-the-cheek-like-she-really-enjoys-mouth-massaging-the-BSD's-awe-inspiring-junk" face.

Right on. Approved.

(Ladies, take note.)

The BSD has a birthday coming up. Hint hint.

Approved.

Here is another gift idea for the BSD.

Approved.

This photo reminds the BSD of his old penthouse on the Upper East Side and the adjunct fire escape. That, and of course, hollering at bitches from it. Hollering at bitches + fire escape chillin' = Approved.

Leather jacket, so long as the fit is tight and the BSD's slim and slender physique is put conspicuously on display for the indulgence and amelioration of those with the female gift.

Approved.

A bedazzled hat? Fuck yes. Approved.

Oh yeah, this thing. Approved.

I had the help put the sign out front again. It's that time of year.

Approved.

It's No-Shave November and you know what that means- Beard Battles!

Approved.

The BSD loves mirrors because he's never been disappointed nor seen anything he hasn't liked in one.

Approved.

Now that is a motherfuckin cockpit! Put the BSD in this thing and he will take your girlfriend and change her phone number so can't reach her.

Approved.

The BSD was only wrong once- that's when he thought he had made a mistake. His mistake? Thinking he couldn't get away with these glasses.

Approved (He can).

Alas! The BSD's new haircut. Yep, because that's how I roll- high and tight.

See what I did there? There it is.

Approved.

Yeah he is. I hope that motherfucker can make a drink and saves me a seat with all my friends.

If he can, Approved.

Abbey Lee, the incongruousness of your face with the blatant nudity of your torso confuses the BSD, as if you are trying to surprise him by showing up nude, which, let it be known, would not surprise him in the least bit.

But you can bet your sweet Australian ass it would be Approved.

The only costume I've seen which I've liked more than my own. The BSD recently read an article, or maybe it was the dictionary, and he came upon a new word- jealousy. Still not entirely sure of it's meaning, the BSD thinks that maybe that is how he would feel if he was both a) capable of feeling and b) if someone did something cooler than he.

Still, for the effort, this outfit is Approved.

For the fact that it's not the BSD rocking it, Not Approved and you should go choke on a bag of dicks.

T. Approved.

Sweet bike. Approved.

As the BSD is a king, it is only fitting that this be his toilet. Be impressed, intrigued, and slightly curious.

As to what, the BSD is not sure.

Approved.

Yeah, this thing is fucking tits. The BSD wouldn't mind finding this in his Shanemas Stocking.

So there are some ideas- still 45 days, 1 hour, and 15 shopping minutes left.

The BSD Approves: Installment 10

The BSD is ornery!

It's Thirsty Thursday and the BSD is quenching his as he writes, sipping champagne elegantly from his crystal flute, denizens of his perverse macrocosm splayed louchely across his shag rugs, coolly hearing (but not listening to) Saint Tropez Cote Plage as it echoes through the cavernous corridors of his insolent abode.

"Sure," he says confidently to his closest courtesan, a succubus of Homeric proportions, "I can accept that we're going nowhere, but one last time just go there, lay down beside me...."

And the mutting begins.

Prepare to have your dome pieces mutted, rigidly and benevolently, in the Tenth Installment of The BSD Approves (which Time Magazine calls "extremely disturbing and earth-shatteringly insipid")*.

Philip Crangi- jewelry maker, scenester, antagonist, and Bearded Wonder. It's frightening how through sheer willpower the BSD is slowly but surely transforming into a Philip Crangi doppelganger. Approved.

Dividing by zero. Like hearing that tree in the forest or trying to explain to a libidinous young DIQG-look-alike model why Hugh Everett's Many Worlds Interpretation differs so succinctly from the Copenhagen Theory. It can, but shouldn't be done.

Approved (on account of the effort. The BSD has already divided by zero. The answer is yes).

When the BSD was roundly derided and critically repudiated for his paper entitled The Loud Wooing and Supple Conquest of Ms. X, his emotionally-abiotic tome chronicling the prodigious effort and mathematical unravelling of DIQG's soft, black Agent Provocateur panties, he escaped criticism and opprobrium here, at his lighthouse off the coast of Ireland. He left years later, well-toned, defined, and masterfully gorgeous, his radiance permeating the dense obscurity of dark matter, emitting what he himself would one day call his "Ardent Conflagration".

Approved.

This is a bag similar to the one in which the BSD stowed his collection of rare Medieval adult reading, ample gin, bags of pure Bolivian nose candy, and considerable paperwork on his sojourn to Turkey, where he published a missive under an assumed name to mass critical acceptance.

Approved. The bag, that is, it's a really gnarly bag.

Rod Stewart, in his sexual prime. Approved.

(This post was made on account of the BSD's inability to get the song Maggie out of his head. Also, If You Think I'm Sexy is up for BSD Theme Song [though ideally to be the theme song of the BSD, we would have to remove "If" from the title and the song], to be voted on by this blog's very own audience. Send suggestions in the comments section. That's right bitch ass! THE BSD has gone interactive! Suck it!)

Right? Not Approved.

Rooftop parties, especially in NYC. Approved.

Perhaps the Greatest Moment in Beard, all-time, no question, no debate.

Later that night, Bernardus did his devious best to dazzle this young harlot with his decades of experimentation and innovative maneuvering. He succeeded, though not without the loss of movement in his lower extremities and a severely broken hip.

Approved.

Yes. The BSD's hair is coming along, it's going to look like this, and the ladies are going to love it.

Approved.

Recycling. This is a great idea and the BSD is going to use this aboard the houseboat.

Approved.

* Time Magazine did not say those things, though, if they were to become aware of the BSD Approves, they probably would.