Some call him a gentleman. Some call
him a Khal Drogo. Within the embers of sensual woods, lives a man who chases
boundaries and spits fire. His rugged scent transforms ashen winters into
tempting summers. As the air slowly makes everyone green with envy, he awakens
his inner Mandarin moves only to re-ignite those virile senses. His velvety
skin makes even that long-lost cousin with a visible thigh gap rise and gulp
the surrounding air like Hemingway's whiskey.
Warm, smooth and bulimic.
As the hormones settle like the
gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke at the legendary library of Biblioteca
Ambrosiana, there is a penetration of English-style Sempione Park's lavender
and violet blooms complimenting the waterfront winds of Mediterranean Sea. A
man among men, he captures the intense stare by the lady wearing a rose print
crepe de chine Miu Miu dress and even her secretary's side-eyed glances hidden
by those Aviator Ray-Bans.
Simply classic.
As much as their Libeskind
Toweresque curves are impressive, he plays Vivaldi's Four Seasons on his iPod
and progresses to get abused by the Anchovies Fillet from Cantabrico and
Buffalo Mozzarella at L'Antico Ristorante Boeucc.
Leather, vetiver and Tonka Bean style.
Indulge in this exquisite depository
of pret-a-porter lifestyle with a My Land.
Truly Milanese. Truly Trussardi.
