I’m not sure why Selena Gomez was heading out of L.A. toward Jolly Old England, maybe just to get away from all the scrutiny here in the land of the tabloids, though head’s up, Britain is far worse. Nevertheless, my belusted little Latina diva looked all kinds of smoky brooding sultry ingenue striding through the airport with her jacket off her bare shoulders, her torn up jeans, her oversized sunglasses, completely the picture of a Greta Garbo type sextastic heroine.
I don’t know exactly why, but her departure thusly got me all kinds of hot and bothered, like a real grown up woman with real problems that I want to assuage with a combination shiatsu massage and kinky lingerie modeling session. I know it sound unorthodox, but I think it would do wonders for Selena at this time in her life. I know it would make me feel better. Selena, call me from the plane, reverse the charges, I’ll accept. I’ll get you in my appointment book. Let’s turn that frown upside down. Enjoy.