Secret Agent Man

What does any woman with a decent brain in her skull enjoy? Besides peeling off a bra after a long day: a man with his own hobbies. And what better kind of man to showcase the true meaning of burying ones' self into the depths of a personal pursuit than a secret agent.

Sure, maybe he's late to dinner, or forgets your birthday, but what the fuck are you crying for? Your birthday wouldn't even be possible if it wasn't for him posing as a Persian dictator's second cousin's drug dealing gandson with a stuttering problem prone to pre-ejac to infiltrate the bomb lair of a prostitute millionaire in Denmark named Szvenchalankacovskia.

I mean, honestly, if you don't find a man with a gun secretly saving the world attractive, you like chicks. No questions asked. This goes for legit gay dudes and straight women. A gun is like a second dick; the only difference is when it cums, someone dies. (Although we can pray for the day cum has the choice of becoming acidic, reconstructing a young lass' love cave, filling it with stalactites made of endometrium so you could really takes some bitches out.) I would venture to say, that although I am an adult with a decent amount of sexual prowess, I would not request a facial from such a cock. But you're off your goddamned rocker if you don't think I wouldn't make a valid attempt at ripping his clothes off and sucking him senseless.

The Mystery Amongst The Facial Hair, Weight, and Sense of Humor Ratio

Alas, my dedicated followers, I have indeed forgotten to update amidst work and excessive bouts of leisure, although I assured otherwise. So what better type of babe do I choose to appreciate in this moment than a babe that also seems to be forgotten: the chubby (and at times, bearded) babe. The one that makes you weep with laughter, eats whole boxes of oreos and ice cream sandwiches with you while watching American Pickers, and cuddles you like a bear attacking a camper on a warm Sunday afternoon.

These babes have an overabundance of personality due to the fact they had to take the goddamn Labyrinth to even get a whiff of pussy back in the day; whereas other "blessed" young men had the privilege of making Pollack replicas with the leftover hymen left on the tip of their dicks. Years of hiding boners in the elastic of their sweatpants, taking the Penis Game too far in the lunch room, and perfecting beards to cover the double chin finally pays off and we get these fine specimen.

These are the definition of life partners. These motherfuckers will refuse to

leave your side when you're squeezing out the product of his seed, and laugh every time you queef due to the forced amount of air released from between his under belly and your juicebox when he's fucking you over a cutting board because the minor implication of making a sandwich made him tear you apart like a savage.

Tell me you've never soaked those 5 for $15 Target panties over giving a one of

this plump playboys raspberries, and I'll feed you to lions. Let's take this shit back to the days of yore where being fat meant you were a provider; you got that real shit, and knew how to party. Fuck Hercules, give me Dionysus.

John Legend: Smooth Operator

In today's feature, I thought we should take a look at the sensual babe. I took great care in selecting from a never ending pile of men via Google Images when I remembered the one and only John Legend.

He can be described in one word: scrumptious. But if I was only going to use one word to describe all these babes, this blog would be boring and some pseudo artsy shit, and no one wants that. So let's dig deeper.

What makes John Legend so incredibly sexy? (And let me add I despise the word sexy except for special instances, and god damn it, this is one of them.) I don't think I'd last even 36 seconds in his presence. God forbid he allow me in the passenger's seat of whatever SUV he has that runs on the souls of Chinese children. Remember getting in the car after the waterpark, and since you were too much of a little shit to listen to your aunt and dry off, you'd have to hang with the swamp seat for an hour? That's how wet I'd be. Motherfucker, I will drip through your floorboards; you'll be calling every auto mechanic in town to check for a leak. Look in those eyes. Go ahead. Stare for a second. I'm not judging you. Tell me you don't want him in your mouth. I bet he's into some serious bloodplay, owns a dungeon, and has a foot fetish that would rival Quentin Tarantino's. And you know what? That's fine, John. Put me up in your sex swing, gag me, fuck my feet and carve your name into my back. We're just ordinary people.

Zachary Quinto as Spock: Alien Races

I think it's relatively healthy and extremely important for every girl growing up to have a crush on an actor portraying an alien race. Why? Because that when our young minds are starting to realize the somewhat strange looking people have a better chance of being into that freaky shit. Tentacles, 8 eyes, big foreheads, multiple tongues, and talons: imagine the possibilities with those appendages. For one second. Think about it. See what I mean?

Now since I never got past that stage of getting crushes on sci fi characters, we're going to examine the babe known as Zachary Quinto in the roll of a young Spock on the newest Star Trek film. Could you imagine what it would be like to abducted by a babe of such logic and beauty? I bet sex doesn't even interest this motherfucker other than a form of reproduction, and what is more exciting that forcing an emotionless being to penetrate you; grabbing this deep space dick champ by those pointy ears, and just sitting on it while he's trying to explain to you the capabilities of worm holes and how he found the last digit to pi. What if he fucking mind melded with you while he went warp speed into your love gash? Imagine that shit. Tell me it you wouldn't lose your goddamn mind feeling what it would be like for a Vulcan cock to barf cum. And you know what? Just to spite that smug son of a bitch Captain Kirk, I'd make him pound me in the Captain's chair. Fuck it, I'd lick his eyebrows too. Just to say I did. Live long and prosper, Spock... Inside of my vagina.

Jay VS. Stacy: The Babeling Face Off

Here we have Jay, our bad boy. Look at this guy. Why do we love bad boys? Because they're pieces of shit, but as much as we want to smack them, we want them inside of us as far as they can go. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. Get this pissed off savage on top of you to wreak havoc while you push him in by his ass. That's what's up. I bet he cums a mushroom cloud full of hatred, and tell me I wouldn't save and dry his cum and sprinkle it on my breakfast for the next week. Look at that fucking scowl. I just want to sit on it. What an asshole. But as much as we love his kind, we chew them up and spit them out or vice versa. You're not going to change him, he will never love you, but goddamn let's imagine what it would be like to be a pair of his briefs for a day.

And now, to our right, we have our good boy, Stacy. God bless this little gentleman. After dealing with the trials and tribulations of the bad boys for a good few years (or if you don't wise up, maybe more), you will finally snatch up one of these cherubs and hold on with a white knuckle grip. These are the boys we always think are babes deep down, but since they're the ones willing to chill with you, do dorky shit, and be there to hold a candle light vigil when your first goldfish dies, we try not to admit how much we like them in the stark realization that things might get fucked up. Sure, his palms get sweaty when you're holding hands and it takes a half hour to convince him to have sex under that blanket in the park, but he will love and cherish you forever. Plus he looks like fucking Zeus with his fair locks blowing in the wind whilst his tight tan bod basks in the glow of the sun. I want to taste your tonsils for eternity. Marry me, Stacy.