Himbos, himbos as far as the eye can see
I regularly tease this beautiful blonde boy that I date, telling him that he’s a himbo (you know, a boy bimbo). And it’s true, he really is. Lord, the stories I could tell you. He’s lucky he’s so blue-eyed and luscious or he’d be out on his rather fetching behind. Generally I go for clever fellas, but this one is sooo pretty and sooo talented, that I’ve made an exception. Yes, occasionally I am that shallow.
Anyway, it’s time to face facts. He of the dimples and the magically-curved cock isn’t the only himbo in my life. There’s also one of my dogs. Come to think of it, that little fucker gets by on his looks, too. He’s all fluffy long-haired doxie charm, with a dappled coat, mismatched eyes and the perkiest damned tail you’ve ever seen. But sweet Mary, mother of God (I’m feeling strangely church-y today), is he slow.
Periodically, he’ll amble around the house to see what trouble he can stir up. Note to Charlie: stay the fuck away from the shoes. I’m still sore about the pair of orange patent leather kitten heels you took such a shine to last month. Every now and then he gets a notion that there’s something exciting going down in the bathtub. He loves to jump in there just to have a little look see. The problem is, while he is eminently capable of getting in there, he can’t seem to get back out. Four or five times a day I have to go in there and haul his furry ass out of there. I’ll hear him raising a ruckus, all indignant yelping and fluffy foot stomping, like maybe *I* lured him into the tub. I mean, I do a lot of luring, but not with the dog.
