hola como estas como parece uhhh experimento

hola como estas como parece uhhh experimento

Said the sign on the door. At the time I had no clue what it meant, and even now I can only guess, but as a male prostitute on the run from the Illuminati, I had little choice but

to trust no one and take it like a man. Throwing caution to the wind I knocked. No answer. Gingerly I pressed against the door. It opened to reveal a disheveled figure on the floor

spread-eagled and wearing naught but a smile. I knew this might be my only chance. I took off my pants and

. I struggled as the pleather squeezed my thighs. "Stop Pants Thief!" I, the trouser bandit, had struck again. No britches were safe in the fashion district of SoHo. But the cops,

after a few embarrassing pantsless episodes now wisely chased the trouser bandit wearing skirts. At least the bandits crime spree had changed the old cliche that cops were machomen

but I always figured that dresses and mustaches didn't go together. Especially when the policemen have to hike up the skirt for a footchase, they're not as methodical about shaving

the ice down in Cuba. When it's hotter than monkey shit in a skillet and you have a terribly acerbic taste screaming in your mouth from a harsh petit corona, then shaved ice

feels like God pissing his mercy down your throat. The man wiped the syrupy sweat form his brow and turned to the woman, whose dress was now well over her head. "Try some of this