Everyone and their everyone is writing something on the internet about Beyoncé today, because we all became physically and emotionally aroused by her halftime performance at the BeyoncéBowl yesterday afternoon. I'm not worried about all that though because I just had two beers with lunch and I'm not worried about anything. I just want to spend the rest of my afternoon thinking about Beyoncé, and I will, so I may as well force you to do the same.
While enjoying my liquid lunch just a few brief moments ago, my sex lover said a funny thing about how Beyoncé probably has a special spray for her hair. She called it "fragrant rich lady weave spray," and then our friend Andrea tweeted about it, and now I'm writing about it. It's a good phrase. The idea of Beyoncé using, or having, her own blend of fragrant rich-lady weave spray got me to thinking about her body from head to toe, as I am wont to do, and I decided to write a thing about it. This is that thing. Beyoncé, if you read this, yes, I do want to have sex with you.
Beyoncé, Your Hair Makes Me Feel:
Like if I was front and center at one of your shows, or at the BeyoncéBowl, and you headbanged into my face, something would snap in my brain, and I would clutch onto your scalp with both of my hands. I would clutch onto your scalp with both of my hands and shove my nose holes into your hair and breathe deeply. I'd breathe deeply into your hair, and your scalp, and then my vagina would open up, and I'd die.
Beyoncé, Your Eyes Make Me Feel:
Like I am playing a game of marbles with a bunch of stupid assholes, and have, after a short amount of time, won all of the assholes. I mean, marbles. Stupid assholes don't know how to hold onto their marbles, but I do. I know how to do A LOT OF THINGS. Your eyes are so pretty.
Beyoncé, Your Nose Makes Me Feel:
Like I would maybe want to piss you off sometimes, lovingly, playfully, so it would flare like a galloping horse out on the range. I can imagine your nose, dotted with a few beads of sweat from me love making upon you, flaring at me, and then snorting steam into the cold, darkness of our sex barn.
Beyoncé, Your Lips Make Me Feel:
Like I maybe have a pretty good idea what your feminine shell of life looks like. You know what I'm saying don't you? Ask your drummer from the halftime show yesterday about vaginas. But wait, have you ever eaten a peach before? I don't believe you. No, I don't believe you. Okay, fine, if you really HAVE eaten a juicy, overripe peach with your mouth before, then you wouldn't mind showing me how you do it. Go ahead. I'd eat one with you, but I can't, I have to hold this video camera.
Beyoncé, Your Neck Makes Me Feel:
Like If I ran out of salt, and needed some salt, I would just accidentally bump all of my food items into your neck, for the rest of my life, forever. I would bump my food into your neck, and then rub it on my lips, and then put it in my mouth, and then my vagina would explode, and I'd die.
Beyoncé, Your Upper Chest Makes Me Feel:
Like you are much stronger than me, and that I could sit on your stomach and pound my petite fists against your very strong, honey-toned chest, and it would make a fleshly thud that to me, without being able to ever fully express it properly, would be the sound of true inner peace and salvation.
Beyoncé, Your Boobies Make Me Feel:
Like if I looked at them, in the flesh, unsheathed, my eyes would break out into goosebumps, I would cry until my cry turned into a hysterical scream, and then my vagina would turn into a butterfly and fly into your face.
Beyoncé, Your Waist Makes Me Feel:
Like the world is an evil place, a filthy place filled with filth and ugly garbage, but you are my horse (respectfully) to safety. You are my galloping, muscle-twitching horse, writhing with grace and beauty, that comes with a wet whistle, to sweep me off my feet into a hip-shaking ride into a far away bush. Our bush. Our home.
Beyoncé, Your Butt Makes Me Feel:
(I already feel like I'm making perverted faces while writing this, so I literally can't write about this part).
Beyoncé, Your Legs Make Me Feel:
Like I could stand behind you, jump up, put my feet onto your hips, and use your legs as my legs, as glittery stilts—if you will—until the sweet lord blows his trumpet for us to come in for dinner. For forever dinner.
Beyoncé, Your Feet Make Me Feel:
Like I would put them in my mouth, or do basically anything with them that you wanted me to do with them. Paint your nails? Sure. Rub 'em after a hard BeyoncéBowl? Yes. Wanna step on my nipples a little bit till I yelp with pain and then sing your own songs to you for five hours? Whatever. I'd do it all for you. ANYTHING for you, Beyoncé. ANYTHING! BEYONCÉEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!