Trophy Shags

I haven’t written for a while. I know. Bad me. But I’ve been sick. Nose-dribblin’, brain-addlin’, lung-wheezin’ sick. Not that it stopped me from having sex, mind you. (This is me, we’re talking about.) I just haven’t been able to face my computer screen without having amoebic black dots do backstroke across my line of vision. Not that I need to be making too many excuses to my imaginary blog readership of 2.

If you must know, I spent the last weekend in Bintan with Lenny. Working hard to avoid getting a tan and impart a whole host-body full of virulent influenza germs to anyone within a 3 metre radius. Lenny was an absolute sweetheart actually, making sure I was well taken care of. Of course, he was justly rewarded. (Never has a blowjob felt so long or so asphyxiating.) It just goes to show what the mind can achieve over minor physical impediments.

The more I hang out with Lenny, the more I realise that I am in possession of a trophy shag. It’s not that I never noticed how the girls throw themselves mindlessly at him at Attica…but well, behaviour like that is de rigeur at Attica. Still, when even the immigration officials at Bintan remember his name, ask for his autograph and swoon when he tells them where he’s from, you’ll agree it’s a bit ridiculous. Really, not everyone from Brazil is Ronaldo.

A trophy shag is a shag with inbuilt bragging rights. Steven Spielberg. Elvis. Maybe a sultan from Johor, if you’re a little less ambitious. It’s the sort of shag that comes attached with a sweet little bedtime story for your grandchildren, who would be completely incredulous…except they’ve seen the photo that you stole from your paramour’s wall as proof.

So methinks I've got meself a trophy shag from Rio de Janeiro. Yummy. But wait, he gets way more attention than me in public. Which is enough to give a girl an insecurity problem, if she thought hard enough about it (thankfully this one doesn’t). It’s not that I shag a series of losers, but good looks just aren’t the be-all and end-all for me. In fact, more often than not it’s hard not to distrust picture-perfect good looks and the people who possess them. (Yes, it is sooo tough being Beautiful)

So when I look at Lenny, I don’t see Desirable-Brazilian-Heart-throb-Model-Extraordinaire-Prime-Specimen-of-Manly-Man, I just see well, Lenny.

Maybe it IS time for me to up my meds.