Neanderpundit

I really, really, really like to see a woman in spandex. A well toned tall girl in bike shorts and a sports bra does things to me that make me feel funny in the pants, and man, bring ’em on. The more the merrier and the more often the better.

Still.

On a motorcycle, on the expressway, I’d much rather see you in leathers or at least Kevlar and a helmet. The idea of that smoking hot bod sliding down the asphalt at 70 makes my skin crawl. I know you have a whole lot of faith in your skills, and that’s awesome, but it isn’t your skills that concern me.

Look, I know you appreciate that I have fixed your car. Or your watch. Or put a new bulb in your light fixture, or broken into your desk drawer when you locked your purse AND keys in there again. Or any of the other half million things I do for any of the misandrist dipwads I know.

Please, God, do not cook anythng for me. I’m confident your grandmother’s recipe for kringligkflahnorkflokie is the bomb in the Old Country, but I do not recognize it as food, it smells like something I dug out of my navel after an all night session of horizontal mambo with a pakistani gymnast, and it has stained the tupperware container irretrievably. Your thanks is really, really all I need, and even that is better at a distance, I guarantee. Bake cookies if you must, and don’t be offended if I share them with my co workers, but no secret cantonese-swedish fusion recipes, no hungarian goulash made from fresh marmoset sinuses, nothing.

If you’re desperate to thank me somehow, a simple handjob will suffice. Or show me your tits. Or not so much.