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All in the curl

‘It’s fantastic Brian!’ I ejaculated. Not from my winkle – that would come much later.

‘I’m, so glad you like it’ replied the country’s number one axeman, guitar supremo Brian May.

‘Like it? I’m in awe! Such girth. Such weight… such unparalleled density’ I drooled as Brian’s sequinned slacks lay about his ankles, a pair of tatty briefs atop them, yellowed by time and streaked with the stains of sweaty nights grinding at his instrument for the remaining troupe of Queen fanatics.

‘Y’know, Anita always says it’s all in the curl’ he sighed. He was referring to his beautiful wife, ex-soap queen Anita Dobson. Word on the street was that she also possessed a bouffant pubis of similar character. Jesus wept – a stylist must’ve been at it for days. Deep within the fronds, rubies from every continent glittered alongside the ringlet groove of his elaborate willy-bush.

‘Well the curve here’s nigh on perfect’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s the most elaborate cock-shrub I’ve seen. I think I can say that without reserve. It’s only a shame we can’t see the goods beneath it… Come on Bri! Show us what you’re made of! Unravel your fretboard for the crowd!’

Patrick Moore and I were sitting on the chaise-longue, naked as the day we were born and lathered liberally in fuck juice from a previous session. Brian had just come backstage after a barn-storming set playing to literally tens of middle-aged men, alongside the knackered-looking Roger Taylor and that bloke who used to sing on the Wrigley’s advert. And the bass player whose name always escapes me.

Brian gave me a sly wink before fishing around in the area of his mons venus. He located the pink-ribbon and as he began to unravel it, he oscillated it in a crazy manner, his scalp-mop fluttering around his brow as he gained an erection.

‘What a wonderful tattoo’ I gasped, as he stopped the motion and his four and a half inch weapon stood proudly before my waiting face. ‘Is it a dinkle-tache?’

‘Oh, you noticed. I’m so pleased. Yes. It’s a penis-moustache, forever inked on my tinkerbell in memory of poor, dear departed Freddy’

I rapidly pulled a sheath over my entire head before draining that ridiculous penis of all it had, while Patrick Moore tickled my bumhole and muttered celestial data.

June 2017
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