Spinsterella (the Emma Peel of blogging) has a fatal fascination for scrawny, veiny guys.
100 % white-hot, nightcrawling, alley dwelling boy meat. for you it's free. the rest pay. gladly.
SurlyGirl, for Rowan Akinson as Elizabethan Blackadder.
he maketh me to swete fair, strait through my stomacher, i too have ruint for setting my inward skirts as he maketh me to shift so in my seat, to imagine how hot couydd burn the kisses of his sneering lips upon my heaving white bosom, yo.
Me, I have a real weakness for nerds.
gates-on-gates action. we all know how this turns out....
Now by nerds I don't mean chinless adolescent gamers picking at their acne in the dark foetor of their basement bedrooms, no no no. I mean full-grown man-geeks with overriding passions for say, ornithology, or experimental chemistry. The type of man who gets so lost in his enthusiasm for his interest that he fails to notice until too late that you have slipped beneath the table, mouth full of ice cubes, and undone the buttons of his pants.
1. Bill Nye the Science Guy
we believe you, bill.
UPDATE: bill, you lie like an egg sucking hound.
This guy is just likeable anyway. Still, Bill Nye was just another postmodern kids' show host...Until I saw a segment he did while standing thigh deep in a tidepool WEARING A WETSUIT. And it wasn't so much as the wetsuit, really, as it was the wet curls of hair at the pit of his throat. That, and the guy's got hands the size of canoe paddles, if you follow me. I imagined slooooooowly unzipping that wetsuit with my teeth for quite awhile.
All together now: What in GODS NAME is wrong with me?
2. Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs
...why yes! I'd love some!
Handsome and funny despite the fact that he can usually be found standing tit deep in raw oysters or stuck up to his armpit in a cow rectum, Mike Rowe is GAME. And more than likely gamy, too. Of course, that washes off. Still, he's just as happy stripped down to damn near nothing (God bless you, Mike) surrounded by tiger sharks as he is dressed in full hazmat gear chucking muck out of a dairy gutter. Never one to let the opportunity for a truly filthy double entendre pass, delivered with a gentle, rueful smile in a voice like a bank of organpipes, Mike Rowe is delightfully hairy and completely out of his mind. And very, very dirty.
Of course, as I've said, that washes off. In a hot, steamy shower, deserted when I enter, towel already inching towards the tiles....Deserted except for Mike Rowe enthusiastically rinsing off the days pay...
3. John Cleese
never doubted it for a moment, Johnny boy.
Oh YES, John.
God, yes, John.
It's been like that since I was thirteen years old.
Remember in 'How To Annoy People' when he smiles, languidly clasps his hands behind his head and says, 'That's right, she can't get enough of it' ? He was right. I cannot get enough of this guy. The years have not lessened nor have they dimmed the raw bestial glory that is long, tall and british John Cleese draped elegantly across a piece of furniture, eyes intent, a faint flush spreading across his aristocratic features as he watches me slowly sink to my knees, smiling wickedly, reaching for his
I was genuinely pissed off when I realized he wasn't gay. Really, really, REALLY pissed. Here he'd been on tour in the United States while I was in my childbearing prime and I BLEW IT! Or failed to. Because I would. Bald, ancient and toothless though he is in real life. Oh hell yeah. Until he had an aneurism.
Remember in that zoo picture he did with Jaime Lee Curtis when he suddenly throws her over the top of his desk and puts the meat to her? THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME.
What? Jaime Lee is hot.
4. Jaime Heineman (I have deliberately misspelled this. The man already has girlgeek pornsites devoted to him. I have SOME pride. Kinda.)
The confident stance of a man who knows that those last two inches will always go unused.
Proving once and for all that happiness is indeed a warm gun, any time this guy does a segment of M***B*****s which involves firearms I am there. And I am lickin' the screen. It's the way he laughs when something toxic explodes in a ball of flames...that fine hard ass you could bounce a dime off of...damn. I have fantasies about this guy that include a mechanics creeper, a bottle of oxyacetelene and a large pile of shop rags. See, it's a warm day, and Jaime is wearing his starched white shirt open. The breeze moves it. Sweat has dampened the hairs on his chest into dark ringlets that follow the pulse in his throat, ringlets that dissappear into luxuriant darkness.
From where I am lying I can see him through the darkened glass of my welding helmet. I have dropped all pretense of repairing the axle of the monster truck I am under (we'll be filling it with dead swine and plastique and pushing it off a building later). I simply observe him. Sparks fall around me.
He walks over to where I am.
I have enough remaining presence of mind to turn the gas down and let the flame go out.
I expect him to lean over and say something. Instead he grasps the end of the creeper and pulls me out from under the truck.
He helps me to my feet. Takes off my visor. The gloves. The jacket.
And my hand is inside the top of his shirt. Just like that, the motion deliberate. Gliding over his throat. Up the line of his jaw. Drawing my finger across his lips. Between them.
I follow the dark line down his chest to the waistband of his slacks.
He bends his head towards me
I'm not thinking anymore
He is kissing my neck, kissing and biting it.
I can't help it. I'm making noise now.
When his hand slides up the back of my shirt and unclasps my
Gosh! Isn't it warm in here?
And speaking of heat, RealDoc posed me this burning question, which I turn over
you, my darlings...
WHO IS THE JOHN STEED OF BLOGGING????
Nominate your blogging favorite! Vote early and vote often!