I love men's chests. I love them and love them and love them. I love the hair and the nipples. I love the landscape of their stomachs. I love their armpits and backs. Men's chests are so erotic to me that I can't understand why men can drive me crazy walking around shirtless. Who decided that men's chests are not too sexual for public display but women's are?
The Goat's chest is the most perfect manchest imaginable. And believe me, I put it to good use. It would be entirely inappropriate to detail all the ways I interact with the Goat's chest herein. But whenever he walks through the kitchen shirtless, I get a goofy smile on my face, drop the spatula in the batter, and approach him with fingers splayed and I put my hands on his chest.
It is beautiful ironic and funny to me that I can feel up the Goat's naked chest in public 24 hours a day and it's okay, but men aren't allowed to play with boobies like that.
Tee-hee! No public boobies for you!
Of course I stare endlessly at chests of other men whenever I can.
This is why every woman in the world wanted to screw Burt Reynolds in 1972, although I'm sure Reynolds could round up his share of randy dandies today. I've heard shitty things about Burt Reynolds, but his affair with Dinah Shore and the Lewis character in Deliverance make up for alot.
Goddamn I love men's chests.
Holy hell, look at Mike Rowe. Now, I wrote this column tongue in cheek, but I've told the Goat that if Rowe shows up here and wants me to sit on his chest, it's pretty much a done deal. For some reason, the Goat did not express concern. Hm.
This guy's chest is a real hall-of-famer. The picture doesn't do the Survivorman Les Stroud any justice, but it was the best I could find. Although we do get to see that nice man-crease that points a lovely vee to the Promised Land.
Now I am so happy I'm going to bake cupcakes!