A friend of mine wrote to angrily demand why I and a mutual friend had both become a “fan” of Carrie Prejean on Facebook. I responded that one must be a fan in order to post comments. Our mutual friend, who prefers to remain anonymous, had a much, much better response.
I guess it was the first time I ever saw nude photos of her, standing on that balcony in Hawaii in a pair of pink thong bikini bottoms. One hand was resting on the rail and the other was teasing a strawberry-red nipple to erection. There was something about her mouth, the way her lips were half-open and something about her eyes.
As I browsed through photo after photo of that particular session, I felt like I made some sort of connection with her. I saw her eyes dilate and become dark wells of need. There was one photo where she sat, her breasts straining against her folded arms, on a stool in a room that looked like a hotel bathroom.
There was something going on in her mind during that photo. It looked like a dam was about to break. A huge, undulating inland sea of pure, animal lust was building up behind the Puritanical wall that we knew as Miss California USA. I felt like it was going to burst at any moment and I wanted to be there.
That is why I became a Facebook friend of Carrie Prejean.