Straight from the ‘I’ve seen a porno that started like this..” comes the story of JK and his boys last week picking up a hitchhiker on their way up North. Innocent enough but this was no ordinary hitch hiker, no, for she was:
1. Swiss
2. Single
3. A nurse
4. Ridiculously good looking
5. Not to mention happy to hop into a SUV with four strapping Kiwi blokes
To say she gave the lads a Toblerone is an under statement. Apparently she’d been trip hopping her way round the country using the same means of transport and had only had to turn down a ride the once. Sounds like me with the girls in my college days but then I was ridiculously good looking back then.
Hitch hiking is a funny thing. Personally I could never do it on account that I have a car and thus asking for a lift just doesn’t make sense, but even if I didn’t there is the whole stranger danger thing that would worry me too much.
What if they took a fancy to my pretty boy looks and decided to keep me, take me to some place off the beaten track and do things to me that I always dreamed would happen but never actually thought would? What if I did the same to them? It’s just a Pandora’s Box of opportunities really.
My sister did it for a long while, whilst on the run from all manner of child authorities I might add, but she absolutely swore by it. So did JK’s Swiss Miss but then like so many other things it’s probably a lot easier when you’re a sheila.
I see a lot of guys hitching and it makes me laugh at the state of them. Perhaps it’s a result of the lifestyle but asking to share the confined space of a car with someone when you look and possibly smell like road kill, is not a good marketing strategy I would have thought. Still, someone must take the chance.
Then there’s the awkwardness of it all like what happens when the conversation runs out or simply never starts. At what point would my Jonas Brothers / Oasis / Metallica iPod mix become an issue and who would have to kick who out. And Junior put the Jo Bros on there anyway.
The only time I’ve ever contemplated picking up a hitchy is when faced with the Tui ad scenario that JK had the other day but even then, knowing my luck, her minger of a boyfriend will exit from the bushes where he was hiding the whole time and want to sit up front with me. Chances are they’ll be from one of those fruity countries too, like Sweden and he’ll have cut off jean shorts on as well which will just add to the irony of it all.
Speaking of which, the missus and I watched ‘Love And Other Drugs’ a wee while back and yes, Anne Hathaway does spend a good deal of the movie naked but then so does Jake Gyllenhal and every time I closed my eyes for a long time after wards I saw his naked thighs.
I think I'll go back to imagining that porno I saw that started like JK's story...
Showing posts with label Anne Hathaway. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anne Hathaway. Show all posts
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Massages, Haircuts & Touching My Bits
So I went to a hair salon the other day.
Not a barber, a salon. Which I am normally dead against – for reasons you know I’m about to go into – but Mrs ClubDes talked me into because she had a voucher. We love vouchers. Vouchers mean you cut the mark up of a good or service down from ‘over inflated’ to just plain ‘inflated’. It’s quite possibly the only form of deflation I like....
Now I like the teat of some lady I’ve only just met in my face as much as the next guy, but aside from that and I’m not a big fan of hair salons. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen every episode of Tabitha’s Salon Makeover. Twice. Or maybe it’s just that I have this thing about other people touching my personal bits.
Like massages. I love them. Strictly above the waist and with everybody in the room but me clothed, but I can never seem to relax enough to let anyone give me one. Needless to say I’m terrible at orgies too.
The last time I did have a massage was with some middle aged Swedish bird who asked me at the end if there was ‘anything else she could do?’ in a way that was distinctly porno.
No, I tell a lie. The last massage I got was from a guy who was very good but he seemed to confuse my telling him at the start of the festivities that I had low body fat percentage so ‘he could take it easy with the pressure’ to mean ‘please, push as hard as you can because I like it rough’.
A friend of mine was training to be a masseuse a couple of years ago and she offered to give both the missus and I one on the cheap. I nearly took her up on it too, only I walked in on her giving another mate one once and either she was lactating or she’d inadvertently dipped her nipples in the lotion as she’d worked the back. I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at her in the eye after that.
Usually the missus cuts my hair. Sure, it takes her about two hours but she cuts it the way she wants, which is of course, the way that I want it and it costs us nothing, except the usual threat to stop midway through when I complain how long it’s taking.
Which just highlights another reason I’m not a big fan of salons in general because when it comes to paying for shit, like haircuts, I’m as tight as a nuns nasty...
But like I said, we had a voucher and my current look (imagine Sawyer off Lost) is beyond the amateur but well meaning cutting skills of Mrs ClubDes, talented as she is. Truth really be told she couldn’t be arsed and I don’t blame her, so off to the salon I went.
And you know what? I kind of liked it. I got a shampoo and a head massage, which turned me on a little and a kick ass cut that was quick and exactly like the four photos I had printed off the Internet and said that Mrs ClubDes had bought in for me as a reference.
I even found myself digging the gay stylists play list he had pumping out across the place and almost joined in the conversation with he and the Sheila next to me about Anne Hathaway who, I fancy a great deal but shall not be doing it with if she continues to show her fruit jubes in every movie she makes from this point on, fuck you very much.
As relaxed as I was at that point I kept that one to myself.
I wasn’t even annoyed when we found out at the end that our voucher was no longer valid; I had had a good time damn it, a scalp massage, a perfect hair cut not to mention not one, but two boobs to the face.
Hell, on that basis I might even go again.
Not a barber, a salon. Which I am normally dead against – for reasons you know I’m about to go into – but Mrs ClubDes talked me into because she had a voucher. We love vouchers. Vouchers mean you cut the mark up of a good or service down from ‘over inflated’ to just plain ‘inflated’. It’s quite possibly the only form of deflation I like....
Now I like the teat of some lady I’ve only just met in my face as much as the next guy, but aside from that and I’m not a big fan of hair salons. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen every episode of Tabitha’s Salon Makeover. Twice. Or maybe it’s just that I have this thing about other people touching my personal bits.
Like massages. I love them. Strictly above the waist and with everybody in the room but me clothed, but I can never seem to relax enough to let anyone give me one. Needless to say I’m terrible at orgies too.
The last time I did have a massage was with some middle aged Swedish bird who asked me at the end if there was ‘anything else she could do?’ in a way that was distinctly porno.
No, I tell a lie. The last massage I got was from a guy who was very good but he seemed to confuse my telling him at the start of the festivities that I had low body fat percentage so ‘he could take it easy with the pressure’ to mean ‘please, push as hard as you can because I like it rough’.
A friend of mine was training to be a masseuse a couple of years ago and she offered to give both the missus and I one on the cheap. I nearly took her up on it too, only I walked in on her giving another mate one once and either she was lactating or she’d inadvertently dipped her nipples in the lotion as she’d worked the back. I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at her in the eye after that.
Usually the missus cuts my hair. Sure, it takes her about two hours but she cuts it the way she wants, which is of course, the way that I want it and it costs us nothing, except the usual threat to stop midway through when I complain how long it’s taking.
Which just highlights another reason I’m not a big fan of salons in general because when it comes to paying for shit, like haircuts, I’m as tight as a nuns nasty...
But like I said, we had a voucher and my current look (imagine Sawyer off Lost) is beyond the amateur but well meaning cutting skills of Mrs ClubDes, talented as she is. Truth really be told she couldn’t be arsed and I don’t blame her, so off to the salon I went.
And you know what? I kind of liked it. I got a shampoo and a head massage, which turned me on a little and a kick ass cut that was quick and exactly like the four photos I had printed off the Internet and said that Mrs ClubDes had bought in for me as a reference.
I even found myself digging the gay stylists play list he had pumping out across the place and almost joined in the conversation with he and the Sheila next to me about Anne Hathaway who, I fancy a great deal but shall not be doing it with if she continues to show her fruit jubes in every movie she makes from this point on, fuck you very much.
As relaxed as I was at that point I kept that one to myself.
I wasn’t even annoyed when we found out at the end that our voucher was no longer valid; I had had a good time damn it, a scalp massage, a perfect hair cut not to mention not one, but two boobs to the face.
Hell, on that basis I might even go again.
Tabitha can do whatever the hell she likes with my bits.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)