Stop for a moment, and picture the following: a young Lindsay Lohan, her hair a more natural shade of blonde, slender as only a 21-year old could be, blue eyes unclouded (as yet) by drugs and alcohol yet shinning brightly with barely repressed libido. Now add a pair of white mesh see-through stretch pants and a red thong, with a blue tank top and a stainless-steel tongue stud (back before the general public realized what they were really for).
That, my dear reader, is my most vivid and enduring memory of the Hellion. I lost track of her about five years back, when I had the misfortune to lose my job, but I still remember that barely contained whirlwind of sexual energy with the fondness one feels for their first high-school crush. That nymphet was the stuff that naughty dreams were made of.
And now, she’s back. You cannot imagine my surprise when I saw her Friday–I was so shocked I nearly slammed into a parked car. There she was, looking no older than I remembered her, stretching out by the side of the road in preparation for a run. By the time I circled the block for another look, she was gone. But it was her–I’d wager my left nut on it.
If I’m right, she lives just a short distance from my condo.
Lord, lead me not into temptation–I can find it all too easily on my own.