ALYSSA MILANO
By John Thursday • Sep 9th, 2009 • Category: Erotic Philosophy by John Thursday, Lead StoryAngelina Jolie is delectable
Diane Lane just divine
Pamela’s oh so fuckable
Jaime Pressley makes me opine
Britney’s body casts a spell
Halle Berry is fit for Apollo
But only one woman could send me to hell
For no one makes me want like Alyssa Milano
Let us take a moment to praise, nay, to give thanks, for sweet Alyssa.
Ahhhhhhh, Alyssa, your two S’s leave my tongue to linger, to slip and slide over the thought of you, the most beautiful thing to ever leave the shores of Brooklyn.
It’s the name of a girl with loose morals, the kind of girl who does things on the hood of a car, in your best friend’s parent’s shower.
How fortunate we are you were a child star; for only then could you have gone through your I’m-18-and-I’ve-Developed phase, The phase that gave us Poison Ivy 2 and, praise Jesus hallowed be thy name, Embrace of the Vampire.
Some beautiful girls have elegance. They wear gowns. You fear your truth is too dirty for them.
Then here comes this tiny girl with this face, these boobs, this ass; and there are no bell jars to be found, no desire to be polite. Those full, fertile lips, those big eyes, a set of cheekbones that seem to point straight to her pussy, she’s the most beautiful trashy girl I’ve ever seen.
Here’s a beautiful girl you wouldn’t think twice about asking to bend over in a parking lot. Here’s a beautiful girl who would sound good banging up against the trunk of your car, a girl who might even like the feel of the keys in your pocket.
That’s why she’s my favorite hottie, the one I click on first. Alyssa Milano is touchable, the exquisite hoochie, the beautiful girl you’re pretty sure you could make laugh, the belle of the ball whose tattoos let you know she’s no stranger to being on her knees.
She sits on the edge of a sink in her underwear for a Candies ad pretty as any model. But you know a model’s underwear will never slip off while Alyssa’s…just might.
And while a model’s expression is inscrutable, aloof even, sweet Alyssa seems to be saying, “you can put it anywhere.”
She’s not a movie star. She’s a girl for your living room. So thank goodness for the TV show “Charmed”. More to the point thank goodness for “Charmed” being a big hit in France. There is nothing quite like getting to watch Alyssa without having to hear her. The adorable French voice that dubs her only adds to her allure.
I hope I never meet her, never have to deal with however it is she conceives of herself. I don’t want Alyssa’s version of Alyssa. She is a real life projection of a young boy’s fantasy.
The kind of girl you always wished would be your babysitter, the kind of girl you dreamed about losing your virginity too.
She’s the secretary you hope winks at you, the waitress you order coffee from just to watch her pour, the girl you always keep an eye out for after you saw her one day on the BART.
She’s the girl the homeless man compliments you on when she has her arm through yours, the girl your friends always remind you about, the girl you hope sits next to you on the plane.
She’s the girl you hope is in your class, the one who is sexy before you know what that is, the one you go to dinner with and notice all the guys looking, even the ones with pretty dates.
She’s the kind of girl boy shorts were made for.
Alyssa does commercials and acts in her TV show and appears in movies but they are all just excuses, attempts to give us a legitimate reason to watch her. Alyssa Milano’s acting career is the thespian equivalent of purposefully dropping her pencil in front of us so she can bend over to pick it up.
We don’t care. Because she’s the kind of girl we hope will drop her pencil.
We imagine watching her breasts fall forward to rest against the bolero top she has on, her boy shorts rising to reveal the tippity-top of her thighs.
Then she looks up and we realize she’s the prettiest girl we’ve ever seen in that outfit. She has a face of privilege, of one who doesn’t have to give it up, but she does anyway.
She’s a cashmere sweater in the five-dollar bin.
John Thursday >> John Thursday was born and raised at Harbin Hot Springs, unaware there was such a thing as clothing until he was 15. He has since renounced all things Hippie. He earned a doctorate in Erotic Philosophy by defending Kant's lesser known The Critique of Pure Fellatio as a seminal work. he was hit on by Allen Ginsburg twice but not even once by Sami Beinstein, a non-hippie jewess. He currently beds a shiksa named Misty.
All posts by John Thursday
Whoa! John, John, John, what happened to objective journalism? It seems like your crush has exploded like a star going super nova.