How to Own a Woman

Just come on her face. HA! How’s that for an opening?

I have a friend who likes finishing off on women’s faces. And you know what his response was when I asked him “Why?” “Because it makes me feel like I own them.” WHAT??!! Oh, he did not just fucking say that!

You know that saying “Men are dogs”? Well, for the ones who enjoy coming on women’s faces for reasons like the one my friend provided maybe the saying fits, because just like dogs these men like to mark their “territory.”

Call me a sentimental fool but I just don’t think that sex and power make very good bed partners (not including BDSM play). Although perhaps “power” is a misnomer in this case, because my friend is clearly lacking in the power department. I find it rather sad that he feels powerless to the point where he feels the need to claim power by “owning” women during sex.

Sometimes unexpected revelations leave you tongue-tied. My mind was too disoriented to come up with anything more articulate to say than “What?!” and “Why?!” I wish I had asked him whether he would be amenable to having a women squirt on his face. Sex isn’t a one way transaction – at least not the good kind, in my opinion. If there’s no interplay involved, why bother playing? Especially if only he gets to “get off.”

Speaking of “squirting,” if I had mad squirting skills I’d totally flaunt it. I’d put the Fountains of Bellagio to shame.

I can understand the allure of coming or squirting onto or into your lover. Sometimes we want to luxuriate in our lovers’ juices. But part of that allure is contingent on mutuality – giving and taking for pleasure’s sake, with each other and for each other.

I. Love. You.

love increases, originally uploaded by Globetoppers.

 

When you tell someone “I love you” do you expect a reciprocal response? Is Love selfless or selfish? Does it make you feel all warm inside? Or does it give you the heebie jeebies?

I. Love. You.

Three little words. So dense and loaded with meaning. You would think that we’d be sick of it by now, considering how often it’s talked about, written about, and sung about. There’s nothing new to say about Love. And yet, the compulsion to talk about it, write about it, think about it, and sing about it is ever-present.

A friend of mine revealed to me that he’s always associated love with weakness and guilt. This perspective explains why he couldn’t bring himself to respond in kind when I told him, sometime last year, that I loved him. When I said those three words to him I didn’t really expect him to return the sentiment, knowing how he struggled with emotional intimacy. At the same time, however, I can’t say that mine was a completely selfless act, because I did gain something in return – something amorphous yet definite.

The inadequacy of language is never more apparent than when trying to describe our emotions. Perhaps that’s why love is such a mainstay theme in our poetry, songs, and novels – we’re constantly trying to articulate it. We’re constantly wondering: “Can the words ‘I love you’ fully articulate just how precious you are to me?” It may be implied but is that enough? Probably not. Which actually quite suits the magnanimous nature of love.

Not long ago my “weakness and guilt” friend told me that he loved me. I cried in gratitude. What can I say? He moved me. It was a big step for him to take, a frightening one, he admitted. For most of his life he’s kept his heart sealed from others. But he overcame his fear of appearing and feeling vulnerable. I hope he comes to realize in full that opening his heart and saying “I love you” is not a sign of weakness but of strength.

It Hurts to Love You, And I Like It!

floggers, originally uploaded by S.L.M..

 

 

Pleasure and pain. Pain and pleasure. I’ve never understood how such a marriage could work. But after reading Susan Winemaker’s memoir Concertina: The Life and Loves of a Dominatrix I think I’m a little closer to understanding how pleasure can be derived from suffering.

What we don’t know usually ends up being more frightening than the truth. Because the discourse on sadomasochism is heavily laden with images of violence and all that is “deviant,” we don’t often see all the tenderness involved in BDSM play. It was Sexual Awareness Week a couple of weeks ago at my school. Among the activities that took place in honour of this annual event was a workshop called “Kink 101.” Conducting the workshop were two females – one was a Dom(inant) and the other a Sub(missive). The workshop consisted of a spanking/flogging demonstration. The Dom spanked and flogged her Sub using all sorts of implements, including a metal pinwheel. The Sub’s ass and thighs were almost purple by the end of the session. What the dozen or so people in attendance witnessed, however, was not a senseless act of violence. Instead, we were watching two consenting adults “play.” Throughout the session, the Dom checked in with the Sub to make sure she was alright, and at the end of the session the Dom warmly embraced her Sub to officially bring their play to a close. It was a very tender, caring moment – a scene that the general public usually doesn’t associate with BDSM culture.

Suffering for the one you love is a theme that’s well embedded in our notions of romantic love. A sadomasochistic relationship could be interpreted as a manifestation of this concept. Told by Susan Winemaker, giving and receiving pain can be a form of art – a thing of beauty. I actually can find beauty in the idea of submitting to one’s partner. Here’s the passage from her memoir that nudged me just a bit closer to understanding and appreciating S/M love:

“He came up with the game on the stairs a few days later. The idea was simple to begin with, but it evolved into an enduring and intricate dialogue, an art form. We took turns waiting on the landing at the top of the stairs, naked on all fours and completely still. He chose that position because of its submissiveness, its exposure, and for its beauty and elegance. It was a statement of readiness and willingness; it was an offering of openness. […] He was going to see me as he’d never seen me, as I’d never seen myself. The hair between my legs, the slit between my ass, my callused heels, my bunions, scars and blemishes. Would he see my imperfections or would he see only beauty and willingness?”

 Simply reading this passage made me feel vulnerable and exposed, not unlike the way love makes us feel. Who likes to feel vulnerable and wide open? But love makes you do the unlikeliest things. Winemaker and her lover Adam endured pain, physical and psychological, as an expression of their love. They offered up their bodies as pieces of art – gifts to present to one another. I can imagine the rush of release and acceptance each of them must have felt from playing “the stairs game.” This game was one of the tamer ones Winemaker and Adam indulged in, but the general idea is of sacrificing your body as an emblem of love for your partner.

How far would you go for the one you love? Must love be an act of sacrifice?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing Workshop: Part 3

Picture Prompt. 

Since the writing sessions took place last summer, I no longer have the particular pic – torn from a magazine - that inspired the following piece. Just use your imagination…

Beyond the black tunnel hangs
a red light, a cherry
that beckons me, promises
something sweet
something sour with a hard
centre.
I think of her skin,
the peach down on her belly,
I watch as she dips her toe
in the foamy shore, swallowing
her delicate foot white as untouched
snow.
She was a sight to behold
that day at the cafe
Pen and paper in hand
Her breasts pressing against the edge
of the table, the edge of my
longing.

I am Woman, Hear Me Mew

Photo via Flickr, belongs to Maddy Lou, who is in no way affiliated with this blog.

I am a lazy, timid lover. Far from exuding confidence in the bedroom, I usually follow rather than lead. During one encounter, I flat out told the guy that I wasn’t good in bed. I also went on to tell him that I didn’t have a good body. Boy, I am such a champion for myself, huh? My self-professed deficiencies didn’t deter my partner but seemed to entice him all the more. Apparently, he wanted to see for himself whether my claims were true or not. I put him in my mouth and the rest is jizztory.

While I truly enjoy giving head, this particular encounter left me feeling unsatisfied and, most significantly, disempowered. I felt left out of all the fun. Yes, I got to lick his jumbo funstick, but my nether-lips were left wanting. And the thing is, this lingering sense of disappointment could have been avoided had I just spoken up, voiced my desires. Because no matter how much I wish men could read minds, the reality is that they cannot; therefore, if I feel my sexual needs aren’t being met I need to speak the fuck up – be my own advocate for pleasure.

I mean how hard could it have been to say: “Now my turn” or “I want your cock in my pussy” or “Would you be so kind as to partake in coital relations with me this fine evening?”

But I didn’t say anything, and it is this self-inflicted silence that stripped me of my agency. I hated feeling so disempowered. Disappointment ate away at my self-respect. There’s almost nothing worse than feeling disappointed in yourself, because you’re constantly confronted with what you did or didn’t do – there’s no hiding from yourself. But incidents like this one can serve as a cautionary reminder for how I behave in the future. I know how distractingly awful it felt to suppress my desires, and I don’t want to repeat that experience ever again. Even though I’m not one to bark out how-to instructions to my partners during sex, I hope that the next time my body yearns for a certain touch from my partner, I will give it voice.

My wants and needs count for something. It’s not the voice of selfishness that speaks, but the voice of love.

Wet Lullaby

We lie
in the dark
and watch the screen
blink its pornographic
lullaby: Robots with spinning conical
dicks chasing
chicks who scurry half-heartedly
for fear of being
drilled.

Your finger strokes my
slickness – it grows
like an ego,
If it could purr
it would.

This is how I am sent to sleep.

Naughty Alien: A Poem

She looks like an alien
channeling 80′s pop fashion,
Her hair asymmetrical
so blonde that it’s white.
Her young body complements
the unitard she’s wearing
unself-consciously under a red red
blazer with Frankenstein-size
shoulder pads.

She’s a naughty alien
the way she stirs her hips
in slow circles.
She looks you in the eye,
She’s not the kind to apologize –
you’ll be the one to beg
forgiveness; she’ll send you home
with your heart in a body bag.

She’s outta this world
which is why you want her;
You can’t get to her for
the stars in your eyes, in your head,
in your bed – she’s just a fantasy you know
you can’t have.
Get your drooling eyes off her
ass; she winds it well with just
the right bend
in the knees to push it out and
up; the arch in her back
is enough to make you crack -
time for a quick jerk attack.

Does her alien-ness speak
to your not-of-this-world feeling?
Is she the only kind who can
understand? Are you such an enigma,
Are you that hard to decode?
Good luck finding the keys to her
UFO – she guards them like virginity.
She’s not the type for smooth-talk
which luckily works in your favour
since hot alien women tend to tie up
your tongue.

There there horny astronaut
don’t let gravity depress your rocket cock.
Don’t let my cynicism piss
all over your reverie,
I was brought up to believe
in stickiing to your own kind,
But I’m willing to concede
intergalactic relationships have a fifty-fifty
chance of success.
So don’t mind my urine stench
Have your funky alien sex and have
your funky alien babies…
You frrrreak.

So You Wanna Be a Porn Star?

P1000835, originally uploaded by Martin Voorzanger.     

“What’s your deepest, darkest secret?” he asked me out of the blue.

Instead of binding our friendship with blood, we disclosed secrets instead. Thank goodness, since even the thought of pricking my finger fills me with dread. I couldn’t do it in high school in biology class, and I certainly wasn’t about to do it now – lifelong friendship be damned.

So I told him the deepest, darkest secret that I could think of. I think it was only after I said the words that I realized that he was the first and only person I had ever shared this shameful secret with. But this post isn’t about that secret. It’s about what he told me.

When it was his turn to spill the goods he couldn’t even look at me. He kept his face covered with his arm practically the whole time. It took him awhile to tell me because just the memory of it made him gag in disgust. He looked so ridden with shame that I felt almost as uncomfortable as he did.

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell me,” I said, dreading that what he was struggling to tell me would traumatize me too.

“No. I want to,” he said, still unable to look at me.

Great. So I braced myself to hear something horrible, something that would alter the way I viewed him as a person, as my friend. My Bernie.

It happened when he was about 19 years old. He was healthy, young, and horny. Quite normal, right? Nothing out of the ordinary there.

What do you do when you’re young and horny and single? Jerk off ‘til your dick is numb and your jizz is laced with blood, right? Well, for dear ol’ Bernie, masturbation wasn’t enough. He wanted to fuck. A lot. And what better way to fuck a lot than to try to be a porn star? That’s where Craigslist enters the scenario. Ah, Craigslist. Turns out their help wanted ads aren’t all scams.

Bernie was called in for an interview – except it was for a gay website.

Bernie is not gay. But he went to the interview nevertheless. What a soldier.

He would be filmed jerking off.  No problem. Plenty of experience in that area. Then the interviewer asked Bernie if he ever stuck his finger up his ass while masturbating.

Problem.

Wasn’t the whole reason he wanted to be in porn was so he could fuck women as opposed to himself?

Luckily, there was another opportunity for Bernie – one where his co-star would be an actual female rather than his hand.

It was a fetish film. All Bernie had to do was to lie naked on a bed, tied down, while his female co-star tickled him and gave him a hand job. A hard day’s work, huh?

But it was hard – and I’m not making a pun, either. You see, Bernie happened to be on antidepressants at the time, and one of the side effects he experienced was delayed climax. A no-no if you want to make it in porn. Time is money. In porn-speak: No “money shot”, no money. And no pussy for Bernie. The worst fate of all!!! Or maybe what happened next was the worst part.

The director wanted to give Bernie another chance. Released from the bed, Bernie went to see the director who, without warning, put his hand on Bernie’s penis and started stroking it. I guess he thought what Bernie needed was a man’s touch? Well, Bernie was having none of it – except he was too shocked to say anything. And apparently Bernie’s dick was too shocked as well, because it just would not co-operate.

Not about to give up, the director suggested they go to another room. This room had a table in it. The director instructed Bernie to lie on it. Again, without any warning!, the director began sucking Bernie’s dick. Again, Bernie was struck dumb with shock. The director told Bernie to try fantasizing about girls. It didn’t work. No hard-on for the hands on director. I guess no image Bernie tried to muster could erase the reality of being sucked off by a man old enough to be his father.

After that, Bernie didn’t think being a porn star was all that it was cut out to be.

**Image via Flickr. Author of this photo is in no way affiliated with this blog**

Pigskin: Your Typical Valentine’s Day Poem

When your hands grab
her tanned ass, you think
of pigskin.
When you touch down
there she breaks
into
a victory dance.

She likes it when you tackle her
from behind.

The rug you’re lying on feels
like turf, and your knees
burn but you can’t stop –
you’re nearing the finish
line.
You’ve touched her
down; you break into
a victory dance.

Going Down in the Ghetto

The Ghetto, originally uploaded by eerkmans.

**I found this photo on flickr. The author of this photo in no way endorses my blog post**

“It’s pretty ghetto,” he warned. Admittedly, I wasn’t surprised, considering he’s single, young, and currently an unemployed student. I envisioned a single room with milk crates standing in for a night stand and a coffee table.
When I arrived at his humble abode there were no milk crates but it was plenty ghetto. Old socks and paper were strewn about on the parquet floor; his bathroom was all rust; there was a large kitchen knife resting on the back of his toilet; there was no kitchen, just a hot plate; random graffiti on the walls which he was responsible for, not the previous tenant; a bunch of buttons with the Anarchy symbol on them pinned to the hem of his curtain; household cleaning fluids stored in the refrigerator because he had nowhere else to put them. And so on. You get the idea, right?

“I have cockroaches too.” Okay, buddy, I’m outta here.

Actually, I didn’t leave, although I did wonder whether the cockroach situation was a calculated omission on his part. Would I have gone over to his place had I known beforehand?

Luckily, though, I didn’t see any scurrying about while I was there. All was clear for what was about to happen…

The only place to sit in his apartment was either on the bed, in an office chair, on the floor, or on the toilet. I chose to sit on the office chair while he sat on the bed. We drank beer and smoked, while listening to Norah Jones and other sleepy female singers. Reggae would have suited the situation better, no? Hey, Norah Jones makes for a better story. Less cliché.

Anyway, when he finally pulled me onto his bed the ambient music had changed to gangsta rap. Such sublime lyrics. Mothafucka this, mothafucka that. The perfect soundtrack for giving head.

“Take me out,” he said. Huh? Having been out of the dating scene for so long, I figured this was a phrase that went beyond the literal interpretation. I thought it was slang or cool-person speak for “Girl, give it to me so good that I’ll lose my mind,” or something to that effect. Turns out, though, that he just wanted me to take his penis out of his pants. hehe. Silly me.

Pulling off his pants wasn’t as fluid an exercise as I would have hoped. I hadn’t anticipated that he’d be wearing long-johns. I pulled and pulled until they hung from his ankles, to the chorus of loose change falling out of his pants pockets. Then I went to work on his big black penis. Although, knowing him he’d prefer I describe him as brown-skinned.
So I went to work on his big brown-skinned penis. That sounds awful. It wasn’t work – I rather enjoy fellatio. I’ll admit, however, that fellating him was a pain in my back. Literally. I couldn’t believe it. How humiliating. There I was, a “mature” woman going down on a much younger man, when my back gives out on me. The moment I felt my lower back begin to throb with pain was the moment I realized just how old I was getting. I really felt our age difference right then and there. Therefore, despite the pain in my back, I soldiered on. I was determined to make him come, even if it killed me.

Doing my best to help him climax became the most important endeavour of my life. I wasn’t doing it for him, I was doing it for myself, for my pride, goddammit! How selfish, I know, but my pride was hurting a lot more than my lower back was.

I licked, sucked, stroked, choked, slapped, smacked, swirled, until…finally!!! My pride was restored.

Lonely

Part of the attraction was the aura of loneliness he carried with him.  The strain of it showed in the bags and wrinkles around his yellowed eyes.  Yes, he had yellow eyes.  His dark brown irises were embedded in a pool of yellow.  I often wondered about the cause.  He smoked a lot, so I surmised the smoke stained the whites of his eyes along with his fingers and teeth.  One day he revealed the cause – a heart condition, I think it was.  I used to see him take medication and catch glimpses of amber prescription bottles in his workbag.  I don’t recall ever being too concerned about his heart condition and his excessive smoking. 

Did I care about him?  I did.  In fact, I loved him.  And he loved me.  He was the first one who actually loved me.

And he desired me.  Imagine that.  He wanted to fuck me.  Me with the oily face and pimply skin.  Me with the hunched shoulders and a desperate lack of confidence.  Me with the baggy clothes and superfluous body hair.  He wanted it all.  He never complained.

For me he was the realization of a teenaged fantasy.  He patiently tolerated my every whim.  I don’t know where this notion came from, but one night I told him I wanted to pop the bubble gum I was chewing with his dick.  He was always so obliging.  He drove into a parking lot.  We took awhile to decide where to park so as not to draw too much attention.  We decided parking in a secluded area would be conspicuous.  Finally, we settled on a moderately crowded area.  The tinted windows on his car didn’t provide the ultimate protection, but it was enough.  Did I really care anyway?  Back then I wanted what I wanted.  I whined, pouted, cried.  He loved my behaviour.  He loved the little girl in me.  He put the car in park, unzipped, pulled down the waistband of his boxer briefs to let out his dick, and down on it I went.  The bubble popped without a sound.  Kind of like the demise of our relationship.

“I’m lonely”, he would say.  I commanded he say those words.  I derived a perverse pleasure from those two simple words.  We were two lonely people who satisfied a need in each other.  I used to say that I would always love him, not only because he was my first.  There’s something binding about knowing another person’s sadness.  I saw it in his eyes.  I don’t know if I can love a man who doesn’t break my heart each time I look at him.  The feeling’s all too familiar.  I’m comfortable with it.  I’ve always known it.  It feels like home.

How to Become a Social Pariah

Lit, originally uploaded by Chicago Man.

If you want to be reviled in today’s society, just light a cigarette in public.

I have a confession: I’m a smoker. Cue the booing and looks of disgust. It’s okay. I totally agree with you. It’s a disgusting habit. I’m not proud that I smoke, but it’s a pretty big part of my life (again, not proud of it), so I’d like to share my thoughts about it.

Go ahead and judge. It’s free, and we all do it.

Like the hypocrite that I am, I have been known to point a moralistic finger at certain smokers, such as at women who smoke while pregnant, or at adults holding children while a lit cigarette dangles precariously from their lips.

I must say, the Anti-Smoking Campaign has made incredible strides since its inception. In the city I live in there’s hardly a public space that allows smoking anymore. Gone are the designated smoking areas in restaurants, airplanes, dance clubs, pubs, etc.  Apparently smoking was allowed in movie theatres. That seems so seedy. Even as a smoker I would’ve protested that. All I need to fulfill the movie-going experience is a big bag o’  buttered popcorn and a ridiculously large version of a “regular” size soft drink. Not that much healthier, but still. And every once in awhile I happen upon an unrenovated public restroom that still has ashtrays in its stalls. Which actually isn’t that far-fetched of an idea since smoking does help you move your bowels. Oh, and it helps rid one type of stink with another type of stink.

There’s a time and a place to light up. For example, after a meal, while sipping a steaming cup o’ coffee, when you’re stressed, when you wanna celebrate, when you’re bored, on the beach, after sex. I’m being a bit facetious, but when you’re addicted to something you find any excuse to indulge.

If you need your nicotine fix when you’re out in public nowadays, you had better make sure to stand at least nine meters away from the closest entranceway. Smokers have been relegated to the status of dogs. Actually, that isn’t true. At least people like dogs. Dogs draw complete strangers to them who approach with scrunched up faces of adoration.  Smokers, on the other hand, draw dirty looks or snide remarks from complete strangers. From a sociological aspect, this open expression of disdain from strangers is interesting, because citizens living in a fast-paced urban environment are typically reputed to be oblivious to one another. We pass hundreds of people we don’t know on a daily basis without looking at them. We’re a blur to each other. Too busy trying to get things done. But if you have a cigarette in your hand, people notice. You may as well be holding a bullhorn in your hand. Or why not take it a step further and use that bullhorn to acknowledge what people are thinking: “Ladies and gentlemen! Yes, all of you with judgment in your eyes. Yes, you. Yes, I know smoking is stupid. I am a stupid, bad human being!” 

Being a smoker is like being unwillingly plopped into the spotlight. My fear of being judged a “bad person” because I smoke has left me feeling self-conscious and guilty whenever I do light up. I, for one, avoid smoking while walking down the street because I don’t like the thought of blowing smoke in non-smokers’ faces. I may have chosen to pollute/poison my lungs but it isn’t fair to impose that on others. Smoking has become a stealth enterprise for me.

One of my favourite daily rituals is sitting on a bench on the roof of my building with a cup o’ Joe, having a smoke or two, or three, and watching the skyline. I’m usually the only person on the roof so it’s a peaceful time for me. I say this with much trepidation, but I love smoking. I know it’s stupid,  but it’s my truth. I wish I didn’t enjoy it as much as I do. Why do bad habits have to be so enjoyable? It’d be so much easier to quit if it was a drag (groan!).

I Now Pronounce You: Shoes and Wife

My love affair with shoes began when I was just a wee thing. Even as a little girl, I couldn’t walk by a shoe store without stopping and gazing longingly at the window display. I’m not so little anymore and yet the pull of shoes hasn’t left me. Here I am, supposedly a grown-up, and still pretty sure that if given the choice between having a walk-in shoe closet or having sex, I’d more than gladly choose the former.

I don’t know if my love of shoes is innate or due to external influences - my mom also had a thing for shoes when she was younger (she’s got the bunions to prove it). I realize that talking about my obsession with shoes propagates a stereotype of women, but I’m only sharing my personal experience – I’m not speaking for all womankind. I’m sure you know women who could care less about footwear.

My life would be so much easier storage-wise, that’s for sure. If I ever decide to look for a new place to live, I’d want at least two bedrooms. One room for me, and you can bet the second one won’t be a nursery. Although my shoes are like my children in a way. That’s disturbing. Or weird. Sorry either way.

In a nutshell, I have a problem. There, I’ve said it. The first step towards healing is admitting you have a problem, right? I have enough shoes to open my own retail outlet. I have shoes that still have the sales tag on them, just waiting, begging to be worn. I’ve resorted to storing them in what look like body bags under my bed.  

The thing is, however, there are certain shoes that aren’t meant to be worn on just any occasion. For example:

I am one hot, pigeon-toed woman!

 

I call these my “Fuck Me” shoes. Have I worn them out yet? Let me just say this: I think my hymen’s grown back.

Inspired by the makers of porn.

 

Maybe I should lose the socks next time I want some action, huh?

How to Rock a Reflective Vest

Hey, is that a crossing guard I see in the distance or a hooker? It’s so hard to tell them apart these days.

Why, that hooker is positively glowing. Phosphorescent.

In the recent edition of Maclean’s magazine there’s a short article called “How to Spot a Prostitute.” Apparently, prostitutes working off major highways in Lleida, Catalonia are required by law to wear neon yellow reflective vests. I guess the thigh-high boots and Daisy Dukes get-up wasn’t obvious enough to attract customers?

The mayor of Lledia enforced this law as a way to keep sex workers from getting run over by drivers on the highway. That’s what he says, at least.

Inspired by the above article, I decided to check out the latest reflective ready-to-wear fashion. Here’s just a sampling of what’s bound to become THE thing to wear to suit your every mood.

For days when you want to be a bad girl.

For days when you want to look pensively into the horizon.

When you want to get noticed for your hard work at the office.

What the Hell?!?!

Do these shorts make my butt look fat?

I just had to share. This guy’s got balls. Very smushed balls, but balls nonetheless. I think he decided to use the bottom (haha!) half of his shorts to make himself a denim hat.

This just occurred to me now –  the view from the other side is probably worse.! SO glad I’m not being subjected to his moose knuckle too.

While researching pics for a future blog post on Catalonia prostitutes, I stumbled upon Mr. Happy Cheeks and I felt absolutely compelled to post it A.S.A.P.!  I probably did a quadruple take when I saw this. I literally leaned closer to the computer screen to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. I’ve seen butt cheeks spilling out of short shorts before but the cheeks always belonged to a female. And weren’t as hairy.

I hope he didn’t sit on any surfaces wearing those things. Perhaps there’s a towel in his kiddie backpack for such an occasion. Oh, who am I kidding? His bum-stamp is probably all over Catalonia by now!