As a sexually neurotic sort, I’m usually deeply conflicted about my attraction to other men.
I think I’ll feel something, but then a man will say “You know, I think Donald Trump’s on to something,” or “I work in real estate,” and I immediately chill as I think “Get away!”
I develop crushes on TV actors more so than I do movie stars — I think it must be the regularity and intimacy of the medium — and lately I’ve been smitten with comedian Rob Huebel. Still, he drives me mad because I suspect he’s one of those guys who either doesn’t know how to maximize his sex appeal or is intentionally fighting the hot because handsome comedians don’t get as much work.
Rob is super-tall (I rarely get the chance to look up into a man’s eyes) and doesn’t tan, both pluses. The trouble is that when I see him dressed like a stoner or wearing a baseball cap, it just kills it for me. I also can’t get into him when he sports a too-dark Just For Men shade of brunet. I feel nothing.
This photo at right? Perfect. He looks like a gay ’50s movie star, at his apex with very coiffed blond or gray hair, and in more subdued colors. In my head, we both headline The Swinger, he in the Anthony Franciosa part and me in the Ann-Margret one. He doesn’t think I’m oversexed enough to work for his high-gloss smut rag, and baits me like the virgin/whore I secretly am. Then, to prove him wrong, I stage a decadent orgy in which I’m body-painted by men in Fellini Satyricon garb, and he’s positively appalled by what a depraved hoyden I am. Soon, he’s ensconced me in his Malibu bachelor pad to get me off the booze and sluttony, all of which culminates with me crooning a sultry ditty before a wind machine.
I like a man who inspires manic extremes in me.
© 2011, Shawn Baker. All rights reserved. Nightcharm.com