It seems Allie Addison's apprehension levels are at zero, giving her little trouble with broski's maximum depth potential. And by little trouble, I mean the kind of potential organ rearrangement Art The Clown would be proud of.
What happens when a [rookie] with 2 months of experience attempts to power through a fetish shoot? Smiles fade. Excitement disappears. But the cattle prod PTSD? That goes deeper than Goldberg losing the world title to Kevin Nash on December 27, 1998 at Starrcade.
Today's menu? Uninsurable throat damage, the strongest rectum in Texas, more chain mail than Scott Steiner's closet, a recipe banned from 78% of Gordon Ramsay's restaurants and an erection even Penn and Teller can't explain to you. Good luck have fun.
If there's one thing that never fails to get a fuckload of clicks - it's videos of unexpected butt love. So here's 8 of em. That's right, EIGHT, as in the number of times I defecated after eating crab wontons at P.F. Changs. Enjoy.
Essentially this is a public service announcement on the cons and cons of touring San Fransisco. Some will live to tell the tale. Others will merge with Skid Row through osmosis. But all will learn the defintion of of "Ordering the Portuguese Breakfast".
Easily the most deplorable attempt at eroticism to ever grace my 11" Amiga computer monitor [this week]. And that's coming from a human being who's seen more than 23 consecutive mins of a Dwayne Johnson movie. My opinion matters.
The farther below the equator you go, the crazier behavior you'll find. A novel concept, and one that's officially reinforced by the pair of donut glazers walking the streets like it's fucking fashion week. Just being an observer might give you Hep-C.
If it wasn't for the guy getting his hot dog caramelized I was going to say society has gotten too soft on sperg-like sex acts that belong behind closed doors or in a WNBA locker room. I expect nothing less from citizens that look like Buc-ee's is their favorite restaurant.
A rousing assembly of women that don't believe teh night is over until their clout levels have reached unmeasurable proportions. Reminiscent of a reoccurring dream I keep having involving Brock Lesnar and Long John Silver’s Cocktail Sauce.
Nevermind the fact that she talks like a slightly upgraded version of Stan's sister. What I really want to know is where this current trend of bodily fluids being used as a sole protein source started from. And I want to know now.
Remember the frigid chick that randomly started sobbing in the middle of a Rocco shoot? It was actually pretty touching, to both my heart & my penis. But apparently that encounter was only chapter 1 in a saga of piss-poor decisions.
