It's been a while since I've written about all of the midevil torturing devices I would subject my penis to in order to spend one night with some random hot model, but here goes. Alassandra Ambrosio is so perfect I can't look directly at her in pictures. In fact, I had to hold the computer up to the mirror and look at her through a reflection because I kept having seizures and soiling myself. It's with almost certainty I say, she's Aphrodite. These pictures were taken on her recent trip to Miami and after staring intently at them for 3.25 hours without blinking, I seriously can't pick out one flaw. She's like a hypnotist. You see, I've been riding the German rocket-train called Heidi for over a decade, but I gotta tell you, if Ally (that's what I call her)keeps sending me these coy cues of flirtatious prurience, I'm on the fast track to switching teams. I'm fighting this urge from deep down. I don't want to give up on Heidi, but I think it's some sexual evolutionary thing I can't explain. Subconsciously, I view her womb as compromised. How could my reproductive fitness ameliorate? She's become damaged goods. Despite my furious loyalty to German supermodels named Heidi, I can't help but feel as if I'm caught in Alassandra's Brazilian Tractor Beam of seduction and desire. The guy that awakens and rolls over to realize he's lying next to this naked mocha skinned Goddess in South Beach of all places needs to tell me where he met Lucipher and the address where I can find the soul he sold...that son-of-a-bitch.
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