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Michael Phelps was slutting it up this weekend, that's for sure. First in Vegas with those bunnies and other Sin-City crusties, and then, again, in Hell-Ay, mainly after the VMAs for assorted reportedly debauched goings-down. Don't get us wrong, the fast boy def deserves the chance to sweat salaciously. Sort of like we’ve been secretly sweating over him for weeks. You know what we’re talking about, stuff like supposedly cheering the rosy boy on, all patriotic-like, while hiding our luscious little swim-fan thoughts. Don’t deny it.
By no means are we hating on his game...just dishin' about it.
See, we had a little chat with a former between-the-sheets flame who was lucky enough to be lit by Phelps's butane stuff. Only prob being, his lighter never really got pulled out.
But let's back up: Much like we exclusively told you Monday, our loose-lipped looker said she, too, could not stop raving about how hot-bodied and genuinely nice the cuddly lad was. But we all know the trait of nice guys, don't we? Not exactly night-to-remember stuff going on here.
Like, if this most recent hookup (of which we were very solidly second-handedly assured, no, we did not sleep with M.P. ourselves) got shown on the Internet, no one would make it through it. Our sexy siren barely did. She revealed to us kissing the six-foot-four-inch boy was a little "weird...but it grows on you." Like no duh, it must have if you continued to shack with the dude.
But that was it. No orgasmic gold medals. No fireworks in nether parts of the body normally hidden by bathing suits with tight drawstrings. She was into it, he, apparently, was not. Just lots and lots of drinks and very odd, slightly misfired kissies. So why get her hot and not follow through?
And where's Colin Farrell's bad, hairy ass when you need it? Better yet, answer us this: