Beyond the Battle of the Bust


Suggested Audio Candy:


[1] Robin Thicke Featuring Ron Burgundy Ride Like The Wind”

[2] Olivia Newton John “Physical”




Having recently explored the female bust, I knew full well that I would be required to even the odds some. Contrary to expectation, I am not about to go into a lengthy monologue about man-breasts. That would just be mean as not every man with bosoms achieves this by guzzling estrogen shakes after each workout. Glandular discrepancies can also have a say. Also, while I did promise the ladies I would offer some form of visual candy, I hardly think that moobies constitute for ocular confectionery thus I shall spare everyone the indignity. Instead, I am quite prepared to take another one for the team and rev up my Google search engine once more, checking every nook and cranny in pursuit of a member which doesn’t resemble a battered kipper. Meanwhile, I will leave no stone unturned as I explore the male body. Alas, I cannot repeat the feat of De Boobies thus there will be no olympic ceremony to decide the perfect form as I don’t feel like I’m in a position to judge. I can’t muster the same level of enthusiasm when scrutinizing the shell of the alpha but I shall endeavor to be thorough and allow you to reach your own conclusions.


So, where would you like me to start? I just knew you’d say the penis but I have no intention of starting at the shaft and would much rather build up to the elephant trunk in the room. Tell you what, let’s start with calves, abs, biceps, washboard six packs and chiseled jawbones shall we? Whilst I do see the appeal, I don’t personally think much of the old ripped visage. To me it all looks too forced, regimented and bound to uniform. However, I am fully aware that such a brash statement would not be appreciated by any suffragettes present so I’ll bite my lip and wince my way through this. Just remember that you owe me big time ladies. I believe the best way of proceeding is to paint a vista and afford those fickle minds the wanderlust they crave.


Picture the scene. From beyond the misty reclines of the sauna parallel to your position; a silhouette begins to emerge. It is evidently a male, that much can be gathered by the strong jaw-line and girth of neck. As he begins to impose from the smog, you start to make out the most piercing blue eyes you’ve ever set peepers on. They cut through the dense thicket like sparkling sentinels and yearn for you lustfully as the shape moves closer still. Facial furnishings are meticulously ordered, each glistening with tiny beads of salty sweat. Lost you at sweat eh? Okay then, I shall rectify at once.


Facial furnishings are meticulously ordered, each vague spattered with profondo rosso. Your eyes balk at the sheer majesty of this profile and recline further as they make out the twitching pectorals. Pectoral go up, pectoral go down, pectoral go up…come on guys, we’re tired of that trick, can’t you at least give us a Mexican wave? I shouldn’t mock, as right now even I’m impressed. That’s correct, they stand at elevated vantage dripping sex in rivulets which race down the most exquisite sternum ever concocted.


This is one spicy taco girls; try and remain composed as the kidney beans are up shortly. Not before that resplendent navel of course, fuzz-free and clear of debris, it is a paddling pool for your quims’ every desire. Imagine running your inquisitive tongues around the crevice, all the while being greeted with the aroma of those piping hot potatoes just southbound. Too fiery to clasp, these spuds can only be juggled. Anyhoots, more on them in a bit, focus Keeper. First, the blood makes its way to the triffid of intensity, thrashing wildly but still below your line of sight. You’re deep in the jungle, the glugging cruor congeals beneath the pruned thatch just north of nirvana. It’s already getting too much and your impatient eyes decide it necessary to take just a little peek under the hood.


At first they reach the joinery as I like to refer to it. This is where we enter the danger zone and are the only parts visible during the inebriated winkle tuck trick. While we are still on supple grounds, whatever lies beneath is starting to stiffen. That could only feasibly mean one thing unless the buck in question is grasping a petrified python, in which case we’ll just work with metaphor. Nope, while it resembles a serpent of sorts, and appears just as likely to lunge and spit venom, this possesses none of the intricate design of our friend, the snake. Let out that exhalation of intoxicating air and allow those eyes to recline. Can it carry on enlarging at this pace? What was already a sturdy musket is now a rigid cannon, the kinds of which Napoleon placed just behind his ensigns. God only knows the damage this beast on heat could cause in all but the most spacious of condos.


Underneath the prime rib are two almost matching meatballs. Much as I would love to report them to be succulent; they resemble xenomorph oviums a tad too closely to look even faintly sexy. While stocks last, they also come with an additional carry satchel, woven from the finest wing of bat this side of Transylvania. This fleshy receptacle is voluminous enough to store a couple more but, like a packet of foil-packed potato chips, the contents are all bunched up at the very foot of the bag. I’m sorry to break formation but can I vote to skip testicles? They really don’t appeal an awful lot and, whilst I appreciate all their hard work, I would rather send a thank you card or some tulips than shake them by their withered nubs.


Thanks awfully. Right then, back to our fantasy. Look at those thighs, aren’t they simply magnificent? This would surely class as a design defect as the nuts aren’t really best placed with these chomping crackers either side. Skull-fragmentors, both of them, and suddenly the prospect of the old inebriated winkle tuck trick is seeming a rather more dubious endeavor. Let’s take a short detour shall we? Well blow me down with a partridge, if those aren’t the dreamiest creamiest Yul Brynner looking buns I ever did lay my orbs on. I just wanna grab me a hunk of that rump sister. Mmm! I’m even prepared to overlook the fact that, twenty minutes prior, the same piquant posterior was attempting to heave out a gorilla’s forearm which glanced agonizingly across each of our buck’s seven hemorrhoids. Besides, he’s currently got it clenched.


I’m beginning to feel a slither of gilt-edged culpability creeping in. Battle of the Bust was free of swollen ass piles and surely Keeper can’t sink much deeper into the satirical? Course I can. Time is of the essence and we’re already down to the calves and about to set eyes on those feet. It was going so well, strong shins, burly ankles and then…it all goes King Kong at the trotters.


You name an affliction and these cloven hooves have suffered it or are still afflicted. We’re talking of webbed toes, the second of which looks suspiciously similar to a bagel atop a baguette, fungal nails, and let’s not forget the little guy on the far end that resembles a soundly bludgeoned baby carrot. Cracked heels, a bouquet of verrucas and bunions each side like Princess Leia’s ear muffs. Oh and they smell like Camembert dipped in goose bile in case you wondered. Of the eight visible nails, two are ingrown, four the color of Swamp Thing, and the other pair have been bitten down to the cuticles. Have I mentioned the clusters of sweaty toe jam between each piggy?


I feel it necessary to apologize unreservedly. Whilst I haven’t totally failed you, my craving for harmless spoof has been a touch too severe to make this a sensual affair. It started well but, I’m sorry, it is easier for me to scribe a piece about septic tanks and adorn it with writhing naked alphas than to attempt waxing about the male landscape. Besides, even if I succumbed to my dormant 8% of bi-curiousness, I’d rather run my hands over Jeff Goldblum’s elongated face or give Tom Atkins a shoulder rub than take a load from Channing Tatum’s marauding milk-shaker. Maybe I’m biased. I mean, I have to look at my body 24/7/365 and, whilst not quite a leper, the sight hardly excites me. The most important thing is that I have pleased you in some way. Maybe I’ve tickled your laughing gear or brightened your spirits a tad. If that is not the case, then I promise to pull it back from the brink with the closing gallery. Now I’m afraid it is time for our rendezvous to draw to a close as there is still work afoot. Sorry, sore subject.


Click here to read Battle of the Bust





  1. *stagger* I need a smoke after that. Thank You Keeper. My own blue peepers got an eyeful of that damned amazing prose. Photos were appreciated but your Governess much appreciated the delightful words. Made me drool. xo

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