Blackberry in my tiny little hands with nothing more to work a
popgirl's fantasy than the very f*ckable blond that is running her
hands through my hair at this very moment. I find myself at my
favourite "posh", yet comfortably stuffy salon, surrounded by
career driven women who scare away all of their boyfriends calling
it "success". There's always the strangely indulgent suburban sexual
South San Francisco
male that just never understood that Seven Jeans should only be
worn by women. I'm told by Dwell that "Small is the new big", when
it comes to home construction. It's hard to concentrate on the
nuance of interior design with such naughty thoughts running through
my head.

Ahhh her hands again. If only it were easier to invite a girl over for
a friendly dinner that
dissolves into debauchery faster than a Bang Bus clip. I imagine my
blond salon girl entering my stylish pad and commenting on my
impeccable taste in home furnishings, artwork, literature, and
sex toys.

I take little time in dropping on her, dialogue that poet laureate
Mr Marcus, would be proud of... "I wanna eat the hell out of you."

Dwell Magazine is disrupting my thoughts...The annoying subscription
tear sheets are driving me nuts. My OCD forces me to rip them out in
rapid succession. I'm not sure if my next query is entirely appropriate
.. I want to ask her if she likes to eat pink shaven p***y.

I resist for fear of losing my stylist, and having to fly every four
weeks on your private jet to Bumble and Bumble. I choose, for the next
few minutes at least, to leave her as a fantasy. It's hard enough to
find a top notch stylist trained in the B and B method on the West
Coast.

A Pop Girl's Dilemma: Kiehl's or Bliss? How to Make Love Like A Porn
Star or Perpetual War for Perpetual Peace? Artemide or Lampa?
Apprentice Two's "Poinsetta" or Clift Hotel's "Central Mauve"? Rock
star types or MBA types? What is a girl to lust after these
days? I find myself not wanting the Rock star types but their MBA Daddies.

She leans over as she starts to shampoo me, how only I wish i could
reach out and touch her breasts, and make them illuminate with the moisture
of my long ridiculously pornographic tongue...
She massages my beautiful white neck and as the warm water continues
to rush through my hair....

"Right this way," she states.....Have I been invited to her private,
almost super hot, salon girl private booth of sexual debauchery?
Sadly, it appears she is diverting me to an overtly "retro" salon chair
who's self esteem was no doubt damaged by appearing in a series
of mediocre mid 90's alternarock videos by the likes of Screaming
Trees, Spacehog, Bush, and Sponge.

Forbes is staring into my sparkling blue eyes. I try to make sense of
the absurdly bold cover story statement that Detroit has begun a new
Renaissance in product design,
innovation, and unit moving. My almost super hot salon girl is
making me tingle in between my thighs almost to the point of distraction.

Bill Ford cannot Imagine me masturbating in the backseat
of any of his Ford branded products, especially the 500.
Bill Ford is the type of client that breaks down at the end of his
decadent session apologizing to me for his grand father's Hitler
fascination. I imagine telling him that it's not his fault,
duly noting that the Reich Autobahn, Volkswagon Beetle, and Storm
Troopers were all innovations American society needed to adopt.
I remind him that all can be forgiven if he convinces Governor
Schwarzanegger to give up on his new and improved East German
Bay Bridge design.

As an afterthought I'd love to go down on Bill Ford in the backseat of
chauffeur driven Maybach, gagging on him to the point of explosion.
But alas the weekly commitment to fly to Bloomfield Hills is making me
think better of it.

Detroit will thus be foreced to continue with its new product
offerings that have little or no hope of capturing the imagination of
the consumer, let alone sustaining their own over bloated communist
manifesto based pension funds.

A new creation taking place shaping my face. The designer tank top
and Citizens of Humanity jeans hanging from her body in a quite
perfect way. Her bum staring me in the face is one of most certain
British heritage, although her genetic stock lost some of it's mass
appeal somewhere on the journey from Manchester to
Somerville to Walnut Creek.

Her ass would look lovely on a Philippe Starck chair, with my hand on
her pert breast, my tongue teasing her cli*. She is the perfect salon
girl, almost hot, definitely not perfect. Ultra realism personified by
her soon to be wet c*it. I'd love to bury my tongue into her British
inspired bum.

Trader Magazine...the concept of a $15.00 periodical always turns me
on. Why MBA's are the new rock stars is an interesting concept for an
article. It's basic premise is that the kids of today find they have a
better chance of representing and getting mass girls by developing
business skills than they do starting
rock bands.

Executive Level excellence is at your fingertips. Your exuberant Park
Life shall never be dull again....Educated, articulate, poised,
immaculate, sophisticated, knowledgeable, well traveled, talented in
dance, language, art, and sexual technique. I am available for bookings.

888.363.2555