By Col. Tobias McGleaner, ret.
[Editor's Note:Colonel Tobias McGleaner has served in all four branches of the United States armed services and is a veteran of no fewer than six overseas conflicts-at least that's how many he has been cleared to discuss with the media. The infinitely decorated soldier is a lover and a fighter, sometimes in that order, who has scorched the globe in the name of liberating the oppressed, which occasionally includes his own Not-So-Little Colonel. McGleaner has been a contributor to MrSkin.com for the past five glorious years.]
There are no atheists in the foxhole, I'm told, and I've been in enough foxholes to start a religion or two dozen.
But, hell, I've broken more than the Ten Commandments. In fact, I've broken several of them at once, but that's another story. So, needless to add, I'm a bit loose with my spiritual observance, swallowing my dogma with a grain of salt and a full metal jacket.
For instance, the Sermon on the Mount. What was going on there? I mean-turn the other cheek? Sure, turn the other cheek so I can blast a cartridge through that one too!
Then there's this cornerstone conundrum: "Love your enemies." I've had a hard time with that one, what with my years of service and training in the military. I was taught to love killing my enemy, which has suited me and the U.S. of A. pretty damn well up to now.
You may not be able to teach an old-dog soldier new tricks, but I'm in semi-retirement now and have had time to ponder scripture and, well, hell if that Jesus fellow ain't got something there. What's the best way to humiliate the enemy than by loving their women? Once they get a taste of the McGleaner meat their will pussies drool red, white, and blue for the rest of their livelong days.
And just because we have to blast our enemy to hell doesn't mean we can't take their women to heaven. Just look back at that Great War, the Big One, World War II. The world was at war. American soldiers, such as yours truly, got some well-needed RR behind our lines thanks to some pretty arousing Axis ass. But what about behind enemy lines, that's where I spent most of my enlisted time.
I recently went on a tour of Europe and Asia, following in the footsteps of my many campaigns during WWII. I didn't fly back to those blood-drenched lands. Why leave the United States unless Uncle Sam's footing the bill? No, I took a virtual trip thanks to my old buddy Mr. Skin, revisiting the best of the Axis beauties so explicitly documented on this wonderful site.
My first stop was the War in the Pacific for a look at why the sun wasn't the only thing rising in Japan. Hot naked sexports such as Reiko Ike made my government-issued pants fit quite snuggly. She opens up Female Yakuza Tale: Inquisition and Torture (1973) with a naked sword fight that makes me want to play with my naked sword. I've always been a sucker for a woman who can hold her own . . . and mine.
She's come a long way from her nude debut in Girl Boss Guerilla (1972) (Picture: 1), where some scumbag roughs up the surprisingly timid sex bomb. That bomb blew my top (and bottom) in Sex Fury (1973) (Picture: 1), where Reiko landed a role she could really sink her teeth (and tits) into. She plays a lady yakuza, with tattooed tits that bounce to the beat of a different drum in yet another naked sword fight at the beginning of the movie. The only thing this badass bitch should wear is blood. I like it that way.
My visit with Reiko ended with Criminal Woman: Killing Melody (1973) (Picture: 1), which opens with a catfight. I'd make a comment, but after we dropped the bomb on Japan what else would you expect but serious mental problems from its native sons and daughters?
The kamikaze pilot in my pants had some life left in him after that torrid tour of duty in the Pacific, so I cleaned him up and reassigned the one-eyed soldier to the European front. First stop, Italy, that boot-shaped country with women who kick ass. There are so many pizza asses from Italy who have shared their toppings that the mouth waters. But if I had to put my hungry hands on one pie it'd be Monica Bellucci's.
She was born long after I killed my way through her country. So don't look at me for any paternity suit. I'm happy that she's not one of mine. That means I don't have to censor my immoral thoughts. It's hard to have any other kinds of thoughts when gazing on this dark-haired busty beauty.
I began my Italian campaign where it all started, with the made-for-TV Vita coi figli (1990) (Picture: 1). In that comedy, a twenty-six-year-old Monica displays her gravity-defying boobs in bed. Mussolini would have been proud, if he wasn't strung naked by his feet and killed by his own people. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
The trouble with Monica is that her movies usually have subtitles, which distracts from my appreciation of her exposed titties. That problem was rectified by Italian-American Francis Ford Coppola, who directed her in his adaptation of Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992) (Picture: 1). Monica plays one of Dracula's brides and tries to seduce Keanu Reeves with one of her bared breasts. I think that may be impossible, considering Reeves's orientation. But don't ask; don't tell.
L'Ultimo capodanno (1998) (Picture: 1 - 2 - 3) is a whole other ball of wax. Hell, it's just a ball. Even Jesus wouldn't turn the other cheek when Monica opens the movie bottomless. She, however, does turn the other cheek to expose her dark bush. Why she puts a bra on to holster her big guns is lost in translation to me, but seeing Monica's bottom half lets loose my bazooka.
The blitzkrieg of babes continues as I focus my troops on Germany. The Fatherland was where Hitler gave up the ghost before I could shove his German P08 Luger pistol down his fascist throat. But I won't condemn an entire people for the sins of one. That's for God to sort out. I just kill them all, all the men that is. I'll leave sex kittens like Nastassja Kinski for when I need a little tail.
In fact, this Berlin-born kinkster has a big tail, but that's not all the junk she has in her trunk. Her father is madman Klaus Kinski, who allegedly slept with his daughter. Not that I can blame him, but at least there's no McGleaner in Nastassja so I can pull down my fatigues without worrying about any incestuous taboos. Yeah, I'll follow Jesus' Golden Rule and piss all over Nastassja to extinguish the flames of arousal a night with a GI ignites.
Not that Nastassja would mind. She began her carnal career with a drama helmed by director Wim Wenders, Falsche Bewegung (1975), when only in her teens. But those little buds were already in full bloom. Stay as You Are (1978) (Picture: 1 - 2) came only a couple of years afterward, but I came immediately after watching Nastassja flash her dark patch of paradise.
By the time she went away to Boarding School (1978) (Picture: 1), I was prouder than her papa and twice as large. No German weirdo has more firepower in his pants than me! When Nastassja appeared in the shower scene I let go a gusher that would have made Old Faithful blush. Speaking of nut-jobs, pederast Roman Polanski got his depraved paws on my Nastassja for the Thomas Hardy adaptation Tess (1979) (Picture: 1).
Those were dark times for Nastassja, but thankfully she landed safe and sound in the United States, where she could get naked for decent American folk in Maria's Lovers (1982) (Picture: 1), Cat People (1982) (Picture: 1), Exposed (1983) (Picture: 1), Unfaithfully Yours (1984) (Picture: 1), Maria's Lovers (1984) (Picture: 1), and The Hotel New Hampshire (1984) (Picture: 1).
She's still at it, flashing that heart-shaped rump in L'Ultimo capodanno (2001) (Picture: 1), though she uses a body double in her most recent reveals in Say Nothing (2001) and Cold Heart (2001). Cold, indeed-what did we fight for in WWII?
So my journey has come full circle. I'm back in the land of the home, heart-on for the free. There's one thing I learned in boot camp: keep your equipment clean. You never know when you may need to use it.
