Or…how to talk Kanoa Igarashi into a "terrible mistake"…
International Women’s Day has come and gone, and thank heaven for that. Nothing worse than empowered women. They’re like highly praised precocious children. At first it’s kind of cute, then they start interjecting their thoughts and opinions and feelings into adult conversations. Hush, baby, better seen and not heard.
Yesterday some obese shut-in commenter who masquerades as a woman online asked if I’d be doing a follow-up for International Men’s Day, come November. I will not, because I don’t observe International Men’s Day. As far as I’m concerned we enjoy that occasion on each of the other 364 days of the year (365 this time around the sun!)
Nothing worse than empowered women. They’re like highly praised precocious children. At first it’s kind of cute, then they start interjecting their thoughts and opinions and feelings into adult conversations.
Besides, International Men’s Day was founded by a Men’s Rights advocate, and I’ll be damned before I get in bed with those soft cock rape apologists. They epitomize everything that’s wrong with the pussification of the modern male, totally unable to take advantage of their innate superiority.
“Oh, it’s sooooo hard to be a man,” they cry.
It’s best to occasionally give women, even pretend ones, what they want. Makes your life easier, in the long term.
Like how I throw the odd game of chess, let my wife grab a victory, so she’ll keep playing in the future. No big deal, doesn’t cost me nothin’, and it isn’t her fault she’s terrible at the game despite playing hundreds of matches. Females struggle with many facets of life, like opening jars or changing a flat tire or employing logic.
Here’s the follow-up to yesterday, the top ten men of the WCT top 34, as ranked by sex appeal.
10. Jadson Andre: Four words, jug handle head job.
9. Jack Freestone: Seems like the guy most likely to wax his asshole. And while I enjoy a hirsute fellow a clean playing field facilitates hitting it hilt deep.
8. Taj Burrow: A warm brown bear to snuggle on a cold winter night, Taj’d make a top notch sugar daddy.
7. Kanoa Igarashi: Young, impressionable, the type of kid you can talk into making a terrible mistake.
6. Kelly Slater: Sultry Valentino eyes, and the off chance he could pump you full of a bit of his own skill.
5. Matt Banting: His head shot looks like a clean cut Ex-Mormon who got kicked out his his home and learned to earn his keep on the streets of SF’s Castro District.
4. Gabe Medina: I’m not really into guys who shave their pelts, but I’ll make an exception for Gabby. Smother the boy in butter, toss him on the tarp you keep in your basement sex dungeon, and trot him out on special occasions.
3. Owen Wright: On a tour overflowing with short muscled acrobat babies Owen’s the only one built like a real man. He’d play big spoon, I’d nod off towards sweet dreamland while he runs his hands through my own virile crop of man hair.
2. Jeremy Flores: That accent, that fiery temper, that French disposition to the libertine! There’d be shouting and fighting and recrimination, but so much sweet love to temper it all.
1. Julian Wilson: The human equivalent of a kinder egg. But instead of a toy in the center there’s a moist pink virgin’s proxy.
Because I’m never one to miss a chance for synergy, because our audience has swelled recently, and because it’s tangentially related to my previous words, I’d like to re-offer my pitch for Hurley’s newest ad campaign. No one responded to my calls, but maybe this time it’ll find its way into some hands that matter.
Picture this:
A pristine white sand beach, deserted but for Kolohe and John John. Slim supple bodies glistening with cocoa butter, sweat beading on their chests and trickling down towards the waist of their low-slung board shorts. The surf is flat, but they don’t care. Their hearts are filled to bursting with unbridled joie de vivre. They exist in a pure moment, filled with a hedonistic disregard for the mundane, unbridled by life’s distractions.
Kolohe leans over and playfully pokes John John in the ribs. With a giggle born of innocence John John returns the gesture, his hand lingering just a little longer than necessary. They lock eyes and come together.
Laughing, gasping and grunting they begin to roll across the beach, arms and legs tangled. They wrestle with abandon, two young men in their prime delighting in their strength and flexibility. Kolohe pins JJ for a moment. John John is on his back, Kolohe straddling his hips, shoulders down, back arched. John John reverses, grabbing Kolohe’s wrists and pinning them to the ground. He presses down with all his strength, we see his back muscles ripple, proud firm buttocks pointed skyward, only a thin layer of nylon denying the viewer a glimpse of his pink, blond-fringed, asshole.
They lock eyes again, chests heaving, moist lips slightly parted. There’s a meaning behind the gaze, but is it merely the joy of two competitors testing their strength against each other, or does it spring from something deeper, something more sexual?
Smash cut:
Hurley Boardshorts: Guaranteed to stay on, but so fun to take off.
