Can we spare a moment for some brisk Realtalk that’s liable to send a certain contingent reaching for their smelling salts? Facials are hot. The giving of them, if you’re a man (or a man not named John Scalzi). The receiving of them, if you’re a woman (or a man named John Scalzi).
Check that, if you’re a certain kind of woman.
Depraved though facials may be, there’s no denying the act’s electrifying sexual charge. A facial is the Pollock splattered symbol of incontestable ownership by the man of his woman. It isn’t the Christian thing to do, but damn me if the devil’s bedroom blueprint isn’t a schematic leading straight to the jizz-soaked id.
The catch-22 is that the woman who will eagerly welcome into her face and upturned eyes the beatific brandishing of your white hot boner brew is not the woman you’d trust to leave alone for…
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