“Get your hands off my woman Mother F*ucker!”Justin’s trill falsetto voice filled the Brixton Academy as embroidered flames licked up his sinewy rock star frame and exploded in the crotch of his white jumpsuit. A really expensive lighting rig haloed his hair, long and limp with sweat. It was the stuff 1970’s album covers were made of, only it was real. There standing before me was my dream man. A man,...








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