Michiel Huisman misplaced his hairbrush.
Michiel Huisman holds sheep incorrectly.
Michiel Huisman is too big for that Vespa.
I'll allow it
in my pants.
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Michiel Huisman misplaced his hairbrush. Michiel Huisman holds sheep incorrectly. Michiel Huisman is too big for that Vespa. I'll allow it in my pants.
I know it looks bigger when you shave, but 'tis an illusion that serves no purpose and there is something both reassuringly adult and endearingly personal about pubes. Which is perhaps why they've been so thoroughly abolished. Shit. Now I'm dying for a fucking cigarette. A handsome cigarette. Love Your Money: love this song, in retrospect though because I never caught it back in the day. I can play the bass part (with a lot of help from ye olde Rat pedal + silver Fuzz) and that warms my inept cockles.
He is precisely the sort of nasty sub-prime intrinsic malcontent that always gets me seriously predatory and his concern-trolling of the dreadful Paula Deen was a masterclass in the correct treatment of egregious low-hanging fruit. I love his nonhairdo, random tattoos and shabbylicious realness and treasure the idea that he'd make me some really great profiteroles if I blew him in the shower. You couldn't take it home but why the fuck would you want to? * More sweet meat * Selected Ravings * Read the Book onsite * Best of the Blog * Sample: hot Spanish redheads. Hot Spanish twin redheads. No, don't thank me. why are you still here? GO THERE NOW.  Jason Chipman Howlett / Anthony Amadeo Mens' hands. And backs. And shoulders. But especially hands. Those strangely industrial structures sliding under the skin of a good pair, dense and tight and yet still somehow elegant. So absorbing and revealing. So much of a person's inarticulate fundamentals can be read in their hands. Proportions, routines, compulsions, inheritances, expediencies, preferences... they're all there. Have they ever lied to you? I don't remember them ever lying, in my experience. But I've made it my business to understand what they're telling me for a long time now. There should never be too much distance between what the mouth and hands are saying.
He's probably exactly the same, but I forgive his highly-polished arse because I'd like to fuck him. Ahhh, hotness exemptionalist paradigm- where would our species be without you? * Men- Nature's crowning glory. Just ask one. More handpicked hommes here *
If you're anything like me, by now you pretty much equate Ewan with gratuitous cinematic nudity. His jovial, pro-femme attitude toward getting his junk out at every opportunity is certainly endearing, if not always exactly the sort of thing you want an eyefull of on a quiet saturday afternoon... but I would never hold that against him. I don't always enjoy his performances and wish he would do more arthouse shit like Young Adam wherein he is induced/persuaded/required to act rather than grease along on the strength of that glassy-eyed suavité. Charm is not always our best friend. We are of a similar vintage and the fact that he's still perfectly eff-able makes me feel like there's still hope for my own degenerating materia. Would I? Hmmm. The speculation surrounding his private life leads me to suspect that Ewan may be something of a dirty boy, so yessss... I probably would. * More selective objectification Here * Other ravings Here *
Ah yesss... young Master Taylor-Johnson; he of the mythic beauty and infinitely fuckable physique. I enjoyed him in Anna K and thought he brought a good deal of finesse to a role that could have strutted along on vanity alone, infusing Vronksy with a certain fragile sympathy. Nice work. He's just out of nappies, true, but we share hair and that means I go to the front of the line to suck jam from his lower anterior median, bitches. What? * More hotness Here * And Here * While I am sometimes disgusted to the point of generalized misandry with the masculine contingent as a whole, in truth I have always found myself far more at ease in the company of men than other women, gay, straight or misc. I've never been sure why, but perhaps it is their guilelessness; that quality of succinct and unabashed simplicity that is such a hallmark of the worthwhile man. They are children of privilege, by and large, born into a favour that, as women, we will probably never fully understand but sometimes... I forgive them. So I dedicate this series of lovingly-intended objectifications to the beautiful M, who never exhausted my regard. Let's inaugurate this category with something for the connoisseur- Mr Walken. Smooth but strange. Yes I would. |
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