Hairy Mother Fucker

I love Jude Law. Seriously. I think he’s one hot trophy human dildo. But Jesus, look at those legs, especially the upper thighs. I can’t believe he’s one hairy mother fucker…  well, I didn’t expect him to be THIS hairy. I bet Sienna AND the Nanny got a damn good flossing that their dentists will be proud of whenever they give this guy a blowjob. 

Here’s some Kate eye candy, fresh from British Vogue.

Send A Tip To My Asshole

I got two of these "SendATip" recently and I found both of them quite flattering. Thank you, thank you, whoever you are.

Please identify yourselves so I can send you a Lalique ashtray or a Tiffany & Co. letter opener as a thank you present. If you don’t, I’ll throw them off to my frenemies’ faces.

This SendATip.com website is fun and quaint. It’s a shame I don’t fucking know the email addresses of the people I love (and hate) otherwise I would’ve bombarded them with tips. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Anyway, it’s so fun that I actually sent one to myself.

When it rains it POURS…

Sorry for the lack of personal photos lately. It’s been raining heavily recently and I’m confined indoors, in the deepest corners of my mother’s birdcage. As soon as I have the next opportunity to fly fly fly away, I’ll be sure to post some photos.

And sorry Gian for missing your fluxe it whatever party for the 3rd time in a row.

I was planning to go out yesterday night but the thunder and lightning scared the heck out of me. I guess it really does take a miracle for me to go out on a weekday night.

Spare Change Anyone?

Guess who sent me spare change in the mail? It’s no other than Google!

That’s right folks — Google, the world’s #1 search engine sent me a check enough for a facial (speaking of which, I haven’t had one in quite a long time now) or 3 tubes of lip gloss.

What would YOU do if Google sent you a hundred and one dalmatians (and 36 stray hairs) in the mail?

Big, sloppy kisses to people from Greece! I love you all.

Baboosh.

Change of Address

Hola mi amigas! Be sure to use www.bryanboy.com instead of http://bryanboy.typepad.com. Update your blogs and bookmarks with my domain name instead the typepad address. I’ve been thinking of moving to another server soon because of the bandwidth usage with typepad and all that geeky crap.

Time to purge, liposuck, diuretics and… ex-lax

That’s right my dear girls. After this photo (and this is an old size 38 Dior t-shirt), I realized I need to watch out my eating habits again because I look like I’ve got Tara Reid’s tits on my stomach. No kidding mates – if I keep on eating the way I’ve been eating the past month or two, it won’t be long until I give birth to a bouncing baby boy.

I know I’m not looking my best but heck, that’s the entire point of it. Hah bloody hah.

Have you guys even been to the satirical malepregnancy.com website? Trust me, I DO NOT want to be THAT. Think of it – bulging tummy, lactacting breasts, nipples as big as a pregnant dog’s milk udders.

Can you imagine? Me? A mother? I’m not a mysogynist (otherwise, I’d be hating myself), but, no thanks sweethearts, I’ll leave the gift of motherhood to that of the gullible high school teenage girl kind with boyfriends who are allergic to condoms.

The Quest for Healthcare

I admit. It’s been quite a while since I catched up on my healthcare. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve checked-in for manicures, pedicures, massage, my glycopeel cleaning/facial, etc. I haven’t even seen my shrink in AGES! I only have half a rivotril pill and 5 seroxat pills left. I’ve completely ran out of xanax. The next time I get a panic attack, I might just fucking get my driver to drive me up to the slums and get fuckin marijuana to calm me down.

That’s one thing I hate about this fucking country. Illegal substances are easier to get than fuckin prescription drugs.

There are about 5 drugstores within my residential perimeter (excluding the one where I’ll never show my face again) and all of them are usually sold out of rivotril and xanax. However, everything else that can put you to jail for life is just a phone call away.

Hypothetically, of course.

In any case, I’m hereby dedicating this Saturday solely for the purpose of healthcare. Eunice sweetie (my maid/super gal) will you please take care of all my appointments please? Thank you…

I’m going out to Gian’s weekly Fluxe-it! party on Thursdays (11PM onwards, Manila DJ Club, The Fort) this Thursday (duh) and that’s the end of my social calendar as far as this week is concerned.

Someone Make Me Gay Please?

I was cleaning out my sony memory stick/schlong earlier and found these 3 pics from the past weekend. Oh dear. Hannah amiga are you on a mission? We should cease and desist being photographed like this otherwise I wouldn’t be getting any cocks!

Change is possible my fucking arse.

I’d rather go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting than go to an Ex-Gay convention where everyone probably supresses their hard-ons at the sight of members of the MAN-ure kind.

Can you imagine me at a room full of men, all claiming they’re ex-gays? Ugh. The fun and circus of it all. Like what that billboard says, tolerance for all my love ones, tolerance for all.

Ugh, I even have this thing for straight porn. Oh yes… and oh no, I don’t wank off to it. Eeew. I just watch it for pure entertainment. Want to know my favourite adult movie ever? The one movie that I can just sit down on the couch and feast on a bucket of KFC fried chicken and extra large tubs of gravy for hours?

(Someone hand me a xanax NOW!)

65 Guy Creampie
starring Ariana Jollee (yes, she’s even on Wikipedia!)

Read this article (yes, an article). You can even see candid shots etc. Just imagine getting your bung hole filled with spunk of 65 Czech guys all in one day.

No Bangkok sucky sucky 5 dolla hooker can even do that I promise you.

It’s pure entertainment. You know when teenage girls flip over issues of magazines and think "Damn, I wish I was that skinny. I wish I was that pretty. I wish I was that good-looking."

Well fuck you all.

Whenever I see this film I think…

"Damn, I wish I was that chick."
"I wish I was the one getting filled up"
"I wish it was my hole getting banged"

"Is there an operation where my hymen can be repaired?"

Vaginal wash anyone?

Bryanboy Loves…and Random Cheesemax

Big kisses from me to you, especially to people from Sydney, Australia, people from Las Vegas, people from San Francisco, people from Dortmund, Germany and finally, people from Lund, Sweden.

My old Yves Saint Laurent aviators with the white edge is officially lost (and this applies to all of my other lost sunglasses and phones). May the new owner(s) enjoy its royal fabulousity. I also broke my Valentino flower resin cuff bracelet. One of its petals got chipped off. May you rest in peace in the deepest, darkest corners of my accessory archives.

I have a question for someone who knows who he is: Are you still alive? Where are you when I need you?

Send me your love, as always, bryanboy@gmail.com.

P.S. What’s the D-word? D is for Dior. D is for Donatella post-rehab. D is for Dr. Phil.

P.P.S.S. Stop searching google for bryanboy dammit. www.bryanboy.com is the place to see me.

Baboosh.

For Now.

7:04AM and I just got back home from a new friend’s "dinner party" for one of my friends..

Yes, without our driver. Yes, without my sister. And yes, I had to take public transportation in the form of a taxi cab without my hardcore sunglasses to protect me from the perils and the devastating rays of morning sunlight.

It was a long journey home, I’d say 45 minutes to an hour, on my own, trying to keep my eyes open inside of the cab while drinking orange juice, staring at the window all the time.

It’s almost always like this.

Well, not the cab scenario — I couldn’t remember the last time I took a cab, but still.

"Always like this" in the sense where I have to go home all lonely and just.. let’s just say the meds my shrink that prescribed me doesn’t work. Seroxat my fucking asshole.

Don’t even mention the D-word.

I am NOT D____________ and I refuse to acknowledge that I am D______.

Well, not that I know of.

Maybe I am, in a way, but to be honest, my problems are NOTHING and PETTY compared to, say, people with cancer, or whatever.

C’est la vie eh?

I had 2 outfits for the night – I showed up overdressed in gucci + rabbit fur + faux pearls cause it’s raining but I had to change, after a couple of hours, to an old Dior t-shirt cause it was hot… and I wouldn’t want to take a cab in full-blown "there you have it" outfit.

The dinner was fun. At first it was so-so because there was a lot of people there.

Then it became more intimate. Close friends and all, which was fun.

Saw quite a few of my friends – big shout out to everyone and say hi ;)

I told myself, no more alcohol and stuff. But I just have to give in.

Gawd, I just couldn’t give up, considering it was only saturday that I got drunked to the bone.

And it was a Monday night for god’s sake!

It’s a MIRACLE for me to go out on a weekday. Seriously. I’m usually confined to my mother’s birdcage but she had to make an exception cause it was one of my friend’s birthday. Oh well.

But after this… ugh. God knows what happens next.

I guess I have to deal with it.

I’m supposed to be young, carefree, irresponsible and stuff.

But as each day comes, I’m dealing with restrictions. limitations. etc. I feel there’s a nagging voice inside my head that says I’m doing too much.

Bah.

I need to sleep. I’ll sleep for a few hours and I’ll wake up impossibly fresh-looking and, erm, whatever.

Good night my readers and I’ll talk to you soon.

Baboosh.

P.S. Big shout out to people from the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Philippine Star (Newspaper), Summit Media, Preview Magazine, people from Miami, FL and people from Miscrosoft. I love you all!

Identify yourselves bitches and send me an email. bryanboy@gmail.com.

Ugh. I got home at like 7:30 AM. I just got up and it’s like 3PM.

I haven’t slept that much to be honest. I’ve slept for like an hour or two, got up, eat/drink, sleep again, wake up again, drink water, sleep again, etc. I need to go to my shrink and ask to get new prescriptions. I’m running out of supplies.

Going back to things…

Fortune Teller Fish Fiesta

You know, I think there’s something fishy going on as of late.

Yesterday was a very good example of it.

I simply didn’t have an outfit to wear and everything was just done in the last minute.

So off I went to Vuitton right at closing time (8PM) to get one of my Alzer trunks cleaned up (and get a crate replaced). Imagine going to the Vuitton store with half of the lights closed out.

And super shopper me had to buy something there. No self-control whatsoever.

I was having a bad hair day and it was fucking raining so I bought their new bandana/head silk scarf — in the denim pattern. Loves it!

Then I went to my friend Tina’s house to pick up her little present for me. I asked her to get me a very long strand of very small plastic pearls but being Tina as in Tina, which I love about her, she went over the top and gave me all these:

I literally had nothing to wear yesterday. I went out with a plain black tank top, some fitted jeans, an old Chanel denim bag (my first… and it’s not vintage yet cause I think it’s about 7 or 8 years old) and a Gucci shrug.

Armed with the new bandana and the plastic pearls, I transformed myself into a Fortune Teller.

All I needed was a crystal ball to complete my look.

After Tina’s place, I went to a bar to meet Gian and I got introduced to some of his acquaintances and friends in London who are here in town. Then we went to good ol’ Embassy and this is where my nightmare began.

I created a monster. That’s all I can say.

For the next few weeks I’m gonna stay off the booze, off the prohibited substances, off the whatever. Things are just going out of control whenever alcohol is involved. Once I take booze, I cannot get myself to stop.

I probably had more than 10 vodka red bulls ast night, consumed about 3 bottles of champagne, endless gin tonics.

God knows how I managed to walk when I got out of the club at sunrise.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not an alcoholic. In fact, for the past few months or so, I only drink booze once a week — on Saturdays when I go out. I don’t even drink booze at home!

The next time I go out, I’ll just have either orange juice, evian or coke.

I literally lose track of everything that comes out of my mouth when I’m ABSOLUTELY drunk. It’s not even funny.

I don’t even know how or what to feel right now – shame, embarassment, humiliation, anger, etc. I’m still numb with it all. Ugh!

To those of you (you know who you are) who I got in contact with, at the club, on the streets, on the phone/cell/net a few hours ago during my little drunk spectacle, can I have a request?

Can we pretend nothing happened?

Can we pretend we didn’t talk?

Can we pretend you didn’t hear from me?

You know, erase, erase, erase. Purge, purge, purge. Wave the magic wand and off you go to Neverland Ranch.

We never talked. I didn’t say anything. You haven’t heard from me, I didn’t hear anything from you.

Chances are, I don’t even know what I was talking about or who I’ve spoken to.

(Actually, I do…. but UGH. I don’t want to think about it.)

Purge, purge, purge.

(yes, that’s an old Chanel denim bag right there)

Anyway. I have diarrhea from all that booze I had yesterday and all that food I had today from lunch.

Diarrhea = Dehydration; Dehydration = Weight Loss.

Weight Loss = Fabulous.

I think I’m gonna go to the cinema later tonight. Watch some film. I don’t know.

My head is still spinning from yesterday’s drink drank drunk drunkard drama.

Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax

People from Oslo, Norway, people from Frankfurt, Germany, people from Glebe in New South Wales, Australia, people from Vancouver, BC, Canada.

Big shout out, lip-glossed airkisses galore to Tammi, Tina and Jasmyne. Bryanboy loves you, you and you.

As I’ve said before, Bryanboy really loves American Express. You should have one of their cards in your wallet. Like I do.

Enough Tara Reid talk. That bimbo probably has stretch marks on THAT inflatable flotation device on her chest I refuse to acknowledge her existence.

I need to take a poo now. As I’ve said, diarrhea galore.

You know how to contact me. bryanboy@gmail.com.

Baboosh!

3:07PM.

It’s raining.

I’m going out of my mom’s birdcage tonight and I’m going clubbing.

I still don’t have an outfit.

I predict muti-strand pearl necklace. feather headpiece. vintage cashmere chanel cardigan in flamingo peach with navy blue trim paired with a tank top and jeans. 80′s excess….

But it’s too feminine.

And then I can do all black – vintage Ghost tank top, tight back pants.

I don’t know.

Oh I just don’t know.

If you’re going to the Big Fish event at La Embajada,

you might see me around the pink walls of VIP area

away from the crowd.

If you do, say hi.

I have short attention span and I tend to look around all the time so if you call out my name I might ignore you.

If that happens, just approach me, grab my arm and say hi.

And if you’re a fucking cute guy and if you fucking FANCY ME, just grab me, look into my eyes and kiss me on the lips.

I don’t care who you are as long as you don’t have a vagina (for now at least).

I’ll update either tomorrow, Sunday, or Monday, when I get back.

Pictionary galore.

Baboosh.

Ra Ra Rasputin Lover of Bryan da Kween

Moscow, Russia, here we go!

I’ve booked my plane tickets from Hong Kong to Moscow, roundtrip, business class (they don’t have first class on the plane). Apparently it’s only US$1,849 return with American Express. It’s soo cheap and it’s about the same price as the Dior boots I’ve been salivating on.

I figured this time I’ll stop at Hong Kong again to do some last minute major winter wonderland wardrobe shopping: – must visit Cavalli. Must visit the soon-to-open Harvey Nichols Hong Kong. Must visit Etro. Must visit Dior. Must visit Valentino. Must visit Fendi. Must visit I-T. Must visit IFC mall. Must visit Landmark. Ugh. Names, names, names, labels, labels, labels. My head is spinning thinking about the opportunities. I’m a fashion victim, label junkie and a lunatic.

Someone please hand me my xanax before I burst into flames.

Speaking of Russia, gone are the days where my tight Asian hoover vaccuum hole gets filled with Aryan sperm cells enough to lift off a thousand mixed raced cosmonauts into outer space, no matter how good, warm, moist, wet, mushy it feels inside.

After my HIV scare (click here to read more about it) and surviving it STD-free and HIV-negative, I promise this time I won’t have unsafe sex with the Russians. The 3-4 month waiting period was the worst mind fuck I ever had.

But then again, to think about it, I ended up being negative.

I should’ve enjoyed the moment and get fucked by as much as I can.

*kidding* Hahahahahaha!

Why I’m a Fantastic Travel Buddy

So what are you waiting for? I can be a good travel buddy. Here are the reasons why I’m the best travel buddy. Expect fun, expect the unexpected. Just don’t expect Claire Daines being arrested for drug possession in Bangkok like in the movies. I’m not one of those Euro Trash Bohemian Junkies who will tell you to carry their bag for them when in reality it’s filled with kilos of heroin.

* I won’t be selfish when it comes to bathroom sink space
* I won’t bring excessive amounts of luggage
* I promise to keep my luggage under the 150 kilo mark, which is roughly about 230 pounds
* I never take any illegal substances with me
* I won’t argue with you when it comes to the remote control
* I won’t induce pillow fights
* I won’t let you stay awake when I couldn’t sleep
* I won’t wake you up when I get up earlier than you
* I won’t invite boys back to our room without your permission.
* I won’t come home 5AM drunk, drugged, fucked or drugfucked
* I promise to only limit myself to 2 hours in "getting ready" to go out (which usually takes me 3-4 hours minimum)
* I’ll let you shower first I won’t sing in the shower
* I won’t touch any of your toiletries or your makeup
* I usually treat people with alcohol at bars/clubs when I’m drunk
* I’m not a thieving bitch. That’s because I probably have more spending power than you.
* I’m nice and sweet. I’m not an asshole, no matter whatever you heard/read from the rumor mill

That’s a lot of effort on my part already. Oi!

Safe Sex Only Kids…

Seriously kids, stick with the condoms, the dental dams, the vagina condoms, the spermicide and everything. Just play it safe kiddies so you won’t catch anything. What would everyone think if you die from an STD? That you were a careless slut? Just imagine the backtalk going on while your coffin is being buried 6 feet under the ground.

"Oh I can’t believe he was such a dirty sex slut."

Which I’m not.

I haven’t had sex in like 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 months?

Heck, the next time I have sex, I’l even bring a magnifying glass and a flashlight with me and hell, I’ll do a CSI-type search on someone’s crotch to see if there are any infestations of crabs, syphillis and herpes before I even do the bad deed.

I don’t want to be like Katie Holmes.

Not even the thickest concealer, Dermablend, can hide facial volcanoes eruptus such as THAT.

And then there’s UNWANTED pregnancy. Screw having a sexually-transmitted disease. Let’s say you’re both clean. But, but, but, but, what if you ended up having an unwanted spawn? Think of the stretch marks you’ll get! A couple of stretch marks are already bad enough (trust me, I know), but an entire tummy full of it — there goes the slinky Eres bathing suits you’ve been lusting for….

Bryanboy Loves…

Loves make the world go round. And there’s no other way to spread the love by sending it to my email account, bryanboy@gmail.com or making comments on my blog.

The London Pop Trash Kid sent me a really fantastic photoshop gift via MSN Messenger. Enjoy!

A reader from one of the world’s best cities sent me a nice little online Hallmark card. How sweet of you, thank you, thank you, thank you very much from the narcotics-filled upper arteries of my heart.

Now that I know where you work for, do you have gorgeous, hot, fit, tall-ish but not that tall, investment bankers or analyst officemates, in nice black suits, earning $250,000 or more per year? Let me know and I’ll give them a good pipe cleaning for free.

Bryanboy loves TR3NT of PinkistheNewBlog. Yes, yes, he ran out of TR3NT stickers but to hail his highness, I had to copy/paste a trent thingie majigie on my graphics program.

Bryanboy also loves people from Anchorage, Alaska (I don’t know the state abbreviation), people from Osaka, Japan, people from Finland, people from McKinney-Silver and people who use Sympatico as their ISP in Canada.

Identify yourselves you cockroaches by posting a comment or emailing me.

As always minions, you know where to contact me. bryanboy@gmail.com.

I’m gonna take my poop now. Call of nature babes.

It’s this 1 thing that’s got me trippin
It’s this 1 thing that’s got me trippin

Baboosh!

Don’t bother emailing that dirty old man with the big forehead from CNN. I bet he’s chav scum when he’s off-air. Even if he already said hi live on TV, I’ll haven’t seen it.

I didn’t watch CNN today. So even if he *does* say hi on air, I’m here sitting on my bed, having some obesity-inducing vanilla ice cream and watching a film on HBO with Mandy Moore in it.

I kinda feel bad because you guys prolly bombarded him with emails. I take that back. They prolly don’t even read it in the first place. Well, screw it. I’ll just find another guy to prey on. Hah Bloody Hah.

And this time it won’t be an old fart like Max.

NOW IF ANY of his staff emails me with a date and time, GMT of course, as to when Max will say hi to me on air, then I’ll have a change of heart and watch CNN Today again.

But for now, lick my lipstick, Max Factor. I’m back to Dior Lip Gloss.

I’ll update with a longer post – chicken feed, lucifer and others.

Baboosh.

STOP THE PRESS: ONE MORE BLOODY

HOUR OF CNN TODAY. I’ve been watching

CNN Today for the past 2 hours now it’s

not EVEN funny.

UGH. Well, they just said the CORRECT email address!

Email cnntodaylondon@cnn.com and tell Max Factor Foster to say hi to BryanBoy from the Philippines.

They’re live NOW as in LIVE folks!

Max, you hot big-foreheaded-cutie, is this you? I know you’re in London…

Tell me you love me Max. Hah!!!

Baboosh!

Yes, Bryanboy was watching CNN just now… and waves *hello* to Max Foster.

Bah. While waiting for John & Jessica’s trash book recommendation from Amazon.com, I popped by my local bookstore yesterday night after consuming a 12 ounce steak at my mom’s birthday dinner party.

Yep folks, that’s right. 12 ounces of whatever steak. I had so much calories yesterday from the soup, from the salad, from the vegies, from the meat, from the skewered thingies I shared with my dad, the prawn thing I nibbled on etc.

All that calorification is enough to put

the entire population of Ethiopia to obesity.

As soon as I got home, I downed my benzos to knock me off. I don’t even want to think how I’m gonna digest the damn thing considering I was almost PUKING when I got out of the Steak House.

Anyway, there wasn’t anything to buy in the bookstore so I decided to stock up on a couple of trash mags. They’ve ran out of V. They’ve ran out of W. They’ve ran out of Wallpaper*. They’ve ran out of British Vogue, which is the only Vogue I like. The August Philippine Tatler ain’t out yet.

So I settled for Hello, In Touch, Star, American Vogue, American Elle and 2 books: The Hookup Handbook (A Single Girl’s Guide to Living It Up) and My Friend Leonard.

Don’t you just love it when Bryanboy is IN TOUCH with his lower middle class roots?

Calling Dr. Love

I love fan mail. I really do. I read and reply to them as many as possible when I have the time. That’s because I love each and everyone of you. Heck, if only I could give you sexual favours, I would. But you know I live in the third world and it pretty much involves a plane ride on seat 2A to meet up with y’all.

Yes, I’ve only had 4 long-term relationships/ex-boyfriends. Yes, I’ve slept with around 390 males from Reykjavik to Bangkok and Moscow to Bali, most of them recorded on my Smythson of Bond Street litte black book. And yes, I’ve been with 7 females.

However, may I request that you avoid asking me questions about love and relationships? Well, I don’t mind them. Seriously. But when I get advice ala Teen/YM Magazine, my head goes into a rush and it pretty much drives my mere 2 brain cells crazy.

On that note, meet Julia. She sent me the following email. Actually, that’s just one of it. The rest of it were pretty much "forwarded" emails between her and the guy. Take a peek at what she sent me. Julia, I hope you don’t mind. Why settle for one opinion (mine) when you can possibly have many?

So my dear blog readers, help this young ‘un out. You know you want to.

Julia my dear, here’s my advice: DITCH HIM. Stop talking to him. Get him out of your system. Have you not heard of the saying "purge, purge, purge"? You shouldn’t be the one quasi-begging guys to get serious with you, it should be the other way around. IMO, I think he’s just a mind fuck. Stop dealing with people who clearly don’t know what they want.

You know what I do with mind fucks? I flush them out of my system like I flush evian (I only use evian) when I douche.

Sorry if I come across as harsh but I think that’s the best advice I can give my dear.

Fluxe it! Whatever

Thursday nights at the Manila DJ Club at Fort Bonifacio, Global City. It’s right across shell and 7-11. Music by Spoonmao, Adrian Cuenca and guest DJs.

If you’re in the cesspit of the Third World, Manila, Philippines, please pop by tomorrow for some electro/pop/punk/rock/80s/kitsch fun. I’m going there tomorrow and I still don’t have an outfit!

Tatsuro Ito

When I went to Hong Kong, I discovered (and bought) a couple of pieces from a Japanese Young Designer called "Tatsuro Ito". He got this thing about customizing bags with patches from Charlie Brown/Snoopy Etc, add crystals and faux gems, etc. I bought his take on the good ol Birkin but sadly, I’ve used it once. I found no use for it because the straps are kind shoulder-lengthy and you know how I only like HAND bags. Shoulder bags are just too… erm… feminine.

This bag has 6 patches on it, crystals, a sequined applique. It’s made of gray, distressed, curduroy-like denim with houndstooth-like prints. The photos doesn’t do it justice, however it’s gorgeous. If I ever ue it again, I’ll have my paparazzi take pics of it in broad sunlight. It’s a bag that I promise only YOU will have. Ok, perhaps if you’re not in Asia. However, I’ve only seen one gal with a similar bag where I live. But nevertheless, there’s only one of this piece since each is customized. If you’re interested in buying it, I’ll sell it for US$750. Price is negotiable. Email bryanboy@gmail.com if you have questions. That’s just one item off my soon-to-open mini emporium of my old wares. ;)

Now you know why I could never get guys for myself. I’m soooo camp and gay! But seriously, I’m bisexual. Hah Bloody Hah.

Baboosh!

P.S. Bryanboy loves people from Australia, Neiman Marcus, CloseLandArch and Louisville, KY!