It's confession time. Knowing some of you as I do, I'm a little embarrassed to admit this, but (deep breath), here goes...
I LOVE LOOKING AT MEN.
I don't care if they're tall or short, muscular or skinny, black or white. They can be handsome or plain, tan or pale, smooth or hairy. They can be rolly or polly, scraggy or scrawny, manly or muliebrous. They can be standing or sitting or walking or running (I especially like to watch men run). They can be climbing up or climbing down, jumping up or falling down. They can be swimming or diving, yawning or yodeling, or simply breathing. It doesn't matter.
Bottom line—looking at men makes me happy
And, I must add, they don't even need to be naked. (In all honesty, I'd just as soon see the pretty face, broad shoulders and tight ass draped with a little CK or Zegna.)
But I’m always left with a question. If I love gazing at men so much and get so much pleasure from simple observation, why do I feel “slight pangs of guilt” when I engage in this seemingly innocuous pastime? After all, I'm just looking--sort of like window shopping at Fernwoods or Sweets or Sees.
Hmmm…that’s a question I’ll worry about tomorrow. Today, I’m just going to ignore the guilt and keep on staring.
After all, looking at men makes me feel so happy…