Beck 'n Sail Me

Read: Kate Beckinsale is sex starved

What? Stop the fucking presses. Now put 'em in reverse and lets read that again (you really don't even have to read it the first time, the title pretty much does it justice). Are you kidding me? How in the name of Venus does something like this happen? People want to complain about the war and eduction for city school children and the like but this is where true crime against humanity resides. I'm going to try to resist using cheesy underworld play on words, but I can't promise anything.

Let me start by saying this: Len should have his balls - assuming he has any, which continues to remain a point of contention - slowly and meticulously ground off with a belt sander. To let a woman of Kate's impeccable "character" go without the sweet fruits of loving for more than a day is a sin against God and every penis in existence today, nay in human history. If I were him, I would throw myself off the nearest bridge because considering he doesn't want to put the old bump and grind all up on her, there's only one conclusion for the rest of us to draw. He's just been outed on a international level. It's the only explanation.

What I can tell you is that if I got to jump those lovely bones, there'd be no end to it. It'd be a perfect circle of love, no begin and no end, just one long never ending cycle of highs, lows, peaks valleys, sways and buzz. I would be the atom in an excited state. Forget Kate having to keep me in bed for a month. She'd have to try to get me out of that bed. I would never leave, unless she tried to leave and then I'd get up and hold the bedroom door shut so she couldn't leave. And she'd push against my burning muscular chest, feeling my heart pounding like a jackhammer, as I smothered her hands with mine. We'd wrestle for a bit, inching passionately closer to the bed, while our libidos filled with arousal till it felt like we'd burst into flame. We'd fall back to the bed and I'd take her in my arms and the cycle would start all over again. Our calenders would clear for the rest of the year.

Seriously, she'd need a crowbar, a forklift and a fifteen ton crane to pry me from her hallows. And not because I'm fat. Because that's how strong my love is. In fact, she'd probably have to break my arms off at the joints because nothing could persuade my hands to loosen their fierce grip. They'd lift my body off the bed, suspended from the boom of a crane, while my hands and half my arms remained firmly supplanted in mattress and sheets and maybe a little side boob.

When you have a girl like Kate, you've got to take as much as you can, whenever you can, and in whatever form she chooses. As men, often times a situation will arise where the correct play is listening to the head set squarely between the shoulder and ignore the one below the waist. Many a sexually transmitted disease has been avoided by employing this strategy. However, when Kate's involved you fucking flick every switch off in the five pounds of gray matter supported by your neck, save cardiac regulation and inhalation. Anything that's not there to keep you alive enough to enjoy the experience, you defer to the man downstairs. You're in his element now and you work him till he doesn't know which way is up. Then you call him a pussy, sparking his ire, and push farther than anyone has ever gone. You're Christopher Columbus and the new world is full of treasure for you to discover. You're Captain Kirk, of the star ship Enterprise, and you're set to explore deep space at warp speed. You're Luke Skywalker with a lightsaber clenched in both hands at the ready to slay a bitch. Shall I go on?

It saddens me to have even had to write this. Kate, if you ever read this, call me. I've got a few (hundred thousand) ideas.