His shifty-pinkeye usually betrays the ultimate sexuality inherently lurking beneath the pale blue iris in his one lazy eye. He is Sexual Rob and his mysterious demeanor and facial twitches bolster the scarily erotic feeling growing in your belly. The tension. The longing. The smell. He is a cassanova slinking along the dark underbelly of Paris, right near the lint inside the belly button. He is the football coach wooing the sixteen year old head of the cheer-leading squad, right near the lint inside the belly button. He once said "I love you" for a complimentary Grande Caramel Frappaccino. Or so he would like you to think. You will question his assertions as his clammy hand plants itself upon your thigh. Are those eyes, caked with a willfully thick baking soda residue, home to all that you desire? Have you been longing for some sort of obscure love predicated upon a blurring of the vision and a recipe for creamy alfredo disaster? These wants may be present but consent is not a tenet of Sexual Rob's belief structure. He is the king of sensuous subversion and he will make you feel how he wants: STRANGELY SEXY. Whether you be frightened or cringing with titilation, you will be confronted with sweaty crimson passion. Yes, his eyes are dead. Yes, he is holding a stack of porno mags. Yes, he hasn't done anything but stare at you for the past ten minutes. Nonetheless, Sexual Rob brings passion to life like a wild eyed necromancer clutching Pure Ruby Red Crystalz and waving a finger puppet through the air as though it were a magic wand in control of all the you yearn for. The sexual revolution is nigh, and it's sticky like spilt milk.
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