Token Smokin' Hottie: Sam Worthington

I’m really not into muscles. They don’t do it for me on any level. Give me a boy who disappears when he turns sideways and I’ll go a bit weak at the knees. Show me a hip bone protruding above a pair of too-big pants and I’ll begin to pant. This is pretty sick stuff, obviously, and it will come as no surprise to me regular readers (Mum, Dad) but I have always have had a thing for skinny boys.

By contrast, show me a body builder and I throw up a little bit in my mouth. Deliver unto me a finely chiselled specimen with C-cup pecs and I’ll assume he beats his wife and fucks yours.

And yet every so often someone slips past my guard who defies everything I like in a boy. Most of the time I don’t even realise that it’s happening until it’s too late. An idly fancy turns to fancying and before you know it I’m googling someone who looks like he could throw me around like a rag doll, daydreaming about bunched thigh muscles and abs you could cut your fingers on. There’s no rational explanation for this: I call it The Sam Worthington Effect.

NOTE: Yes I did just see finally see Terminator 4 and yes I do find the entire ridiculous plot more believable than *SPOILER* the fact we are being asked to believe that, apparently in 2018, a LONE DOCTOR is capable of doing a motherfucking HEART TRANSPLANT on her husband in the middle of a FUCKING DESERT under a bit of shadecloth. Fuck you, writers, and your figurative dump on our collective chests.