Walking into the city this morning there were lots of guys in small black shorts; the guy crossing Spring Street with thighs like tree trunks with which you could crack nuts, with those tight shorts that appeared to be painted on; the tradies in Collins Street, the young spike-haired blondie with a gorgeous smile and the (only one with) long shorts, and a fresh face, the strapping boss wog guy with such tiny shorts that were so small I could nearly see what he had for breakfast, and the fine curve of his butt cheek, as I gazed back, and his side kick, 2IC, with his handsome face and his puppy dog eyes, and an arse like an Italian peach.
A whistle on my lips in the canyons of the CBD. Tra la la, I thought, as I looked from one to the other, with Mick Jagger singing in my ears.
I don't think there is a bad Rolling Stones album, just by the way.
To say it made me happy, is overstating it a bit, but you know...
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