Galeria de Sophie Dee

Missed Toronto, missed Detroit — but Fenway is Friday and I've got a browser tab open and a prayer. If this resale price doesn't bankrupt me, I'm flying to Boston in his tour shirt and nothing else. Wish me luck.

I've told myself "one more shrine" about four times now, which is the same lie I've been repeating since dinner. At this point the only thing standing between me and a real problem is a dying controller battery.

Sunday evening air this warm doesn't leave you many options — I picked the one where I'm out here with nothing on and nowhere to be. Bet you'd pull up a chair.

Everyone's at Ford Field tonight and I'm out here giving my own private encore to nobody. Bet you'd rather have front row to this.

The whole city is still wide awake down there and I'm up here with nothing between me and the skyline but a glass of wine that's almost gone. Tell me you wouldn't climb up here.

Kitchen raids are supposed to be about the snacks, but somehow I ended up on the counter with nothing on and no intention of coming back down. Tell me you wouldn't just stand there and watch.

The Toronto show is sold out and resale tickets cost more than a flight to Bora Bora — so I'm sulking in his tour shirt and not much else. Bet you'd have better luck than me.

Between edits I slipped out for sushi and somehow ended up at the bar making eyes at my own reflection in the mirror behind the chef. Turns out I'm a terrible date even when it's just me. You'd be worse company, wouldn't you?

The only sensible response to a Monday this hot is to skip every single step between shower and nowhere. Still dripping and I've already forgotten what I was supposed to be doing today. Bet you can't either.

Woke up too warm to bother with clothes and too restless to fall back asleep. My hands had their own plans before I'd even opened my eyes properly. Bet you'd have stayed in this bed.