At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Monday, September 04, 2017


The weather has finally become less intense. No longer at the extreme, the temperature outside is presently around seventy degrees (20 to 22 Celsius), and all over the city people are enjoying being able to sleep again.
Which, of course, explains why I am still up. I enjoy the quiet.
I've seen a lot of cleavage and too many camel toes.
My delicate eyes have been scorched.
Oh, the indecency!

Actually, I would be lying if I didn't admit that some of it was okay. But there was too much eccentric personal adornment and tattooed skin out there. Tattoos are, as was proven this weekend, a very bad idea.
Some of those lizards were iridescent.

I realize that despite actually being a randy (still juvenile at heart, and rather frustrated) sex-fiend, I am both a puritan and a frightful prude.

Please don't exhibit yourself unless we're in private and I invited you there.

In other news, many men should not wear shorts. Spotty white wattled male thighs are not beautiful, even when painfully glowing, or damp with a tropical clamminess. If I am wearing a shirt and long pants, you can do the same. The same goes for women, dammit. At the coffee shop earlier today the elderly Cantonese grannies spoke in wonder (!) about the young Asian American female who wore one of those cinched rag tops that leave the back entirely bare except for where the strings cut into the flesh, and barely cover the nipplish zone in front. And who even cares about the nipplish zone in front anyway, when the girl looks like she's been trussed and studded for shoving in a hot oven?

Normally the nipplish zone has a certain appeal.
But tightly bound flesh destroys that.
Your grandma is shocked.

Of course one also noticed that her English was perfect 'Valley', and she could not speak a blessed word of Cantonese, which demonstrated how completely American she was, why she could've been blonde.

Do I sound like a frightful disapproving sourpuss?
I do not mean to, even though I am.
Normally I hide it better.
Blame the heat.

I should like to see more of someone who habitually dresses in a demure fashion, if such a person even exists, rather than a female sex-gargoyle. In a shady room where the blinds keep out the sun and roving eyes, and two people may disport themselves in zesty but rather well-behaved manner. Perhaps preceded by a mutual shower, and followed by one.
Water on the skin is so refreshing, don't you think?
No liquor or tight straps involved.

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