No, no. I mean hot like melted butter on top of a fresh, just-out-of-the-oven biscuit. I mean hot like a bubble bath that makes your skin flush red to the point of throbbing, while, you know, a snowstorm rages outside the rustic log cabin you’re trapped in with, um, William Levy, who is naked on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace, holding two flutes of champagne. (I did not just reveal my sordid Harlequin-inspired fantasy, did I? Oops. My bad.) I mean hot as in it’s ‘getting hot in here, so take off all yo’ clothes’, just like rapper Nelly used to advise, before he started, like, performing in Branson. (Don’t ask. No, really. Don’t.)
