Oh, I know what all you hets (at least the majority of you straight ones) think. You unshowered types think butt-play is for the boy-on-boy crowd, only. Oh, how very wrong-a-rooney you are.
Take Harkness Hose, for ince. We were gabbing ‘bout his terribly naughty, enormously pleasing mattress activities with one Princess Gold-Zinger a few weeks ago (One Slut Fits All Blind Vice), remember? Of course you do. Well, H2 is at it again, online, as I feared he’d be. Don’t these public figures realize they’re going to be friggin’ recognized once they do the in-person deed they’ve just sent a gazillion emails to set up?
Ah, well, I guess an engorged member has its privileges—like idiocy.
Back to H.H.: He’s hardly being true to the Princess, as everybody and his goss-lovin' mama knew would happen. But it’s not just the doggin' round that I’m reporting for this taboo tuchus installment, it’s the accoutrement with which H-babe (who, by the by, has hideous coiffure and clothing tastes) came a-callin' to his latest e-lover. Pull out the licorice-flavored lube, lovahs, and get ready:
“Even though he desperately needs a stylist and more hair transplants,” a recent conquest of H.H. relayed, privately, just to yours truly, “when the boy combs his hair and gets naked…POW!” Cowabunga-kinky, love it! But why the pow-points, exactly, I inquired, like the good little dangler digger I happen to be.
“Oh, the boy knows his way around the back end,” answered Harkness’ latest electronically arranged Juliet. “Seriously, the boy is a great f–k,” the body-to-body blabber informed moi—both with his own toys as well as the artificially made variety.
My very own own little celeb Deep Throat (or should I call her Deep, uh, never mind) assures me that Princess, too, likes this sexual alternative nooky, who knew? Actually, I did! Jeez, how many gals am I gonna have to end up, as it were, writing these kind of Vices about, huh?