I aim for bushels of chest hair. I don't care about color, length, thickness, curly or straight, quality. I just want lots of it. Every day I cultivate my chest hair, sometimes watering it. Now there is so much it's affecting my posture. When I'm in confession, my upper body falls forward into the divider, scaring Father Bill.
Dancing has become problematic. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.
Some men prune theirs. One guy shaped his into a replica of Ramses III. Any young male Hollywood type who shaves his chest is committing sacrilege.
Women crave thrusting their hands into my forest, right up to the wrists, stretching their fingers, luxuriating in the exquisite silkiness of thousands of strands. You look dubious. Let me remove my shirt. Do not move one inch.
Take a gander at this magnificence. Look, here comes the waitress shooting over. Works every time. Minus a shirt, there is no difference between me and Sean Connery. What is that you're pulling from your purse?? No, get away from me with those tweezers!
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