Thursday, May 20, 2010
I'll sing to him, each spring to him,
And worship the trousers that cling to him
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I
When he talks, he is seeking
Words to get off his chest
Horizontally speaking, he's at his very best
Vexed again, perplexed again
Thank God, I can be oversexed again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, am I
The month of May is almost over. As the highly anticipated month of June quickly heads our way (but not fast enough for some of us) we are once again fairly twitching in our chairs as we watch the delicious morsels being strewn our way by HBO in the form of mini-clips, The Buzz and a few other choice delights. The third season of True Blood ever so slowly approaches, like Christmas morning, to a squirming gaggle of excited females. What makes us, normally a fully functioning, rational member of society, act in such a manner? Do you really need to ask? Why, it's the only fix to our addiction. It's the only salve that can soothe the ache we all feel as our groaning eyes catch but the briefiest of glimpses of the pleasures to come in the new season. We need to see him. We need to hear that voice. You remember that voice. It's the one that makes us feel, if we close our eyes for a moment, that we are the loveliest belle of the ball, and we hold all the hearts of the young beaus in our perfectly gloved hands as they all gaze adoringly at us. We have been without for far too long.
Oh yes! That voice..... As Bill Compton, Stephen Moyer has turned the act of merely speaking into an art form. It is as if his brain has fallen in love with vowells, and his mouth is loath to part with a single one of them. His lips cling to them until just the right moment, then, as they finally roll from those perfect lips, the words cascade over us like a great tidal wave of orgasmic pleasure. Yes, he's just that good. As the great, incomparable Ella Fitzgerald sang it best, we will indeed worship the trousers that cling to him.