The road to fully appreciating a prime piece of eye candy is fraught with danger and excitement.
It was fairly late one hot August evening and I had run to Walmart to replenish my supply of Lee Press-on Nails that had been seriously depleted while I had gathered firewood for the weekly Weenie World Cookout up Logan Canyon in the Fruit Loop. They don’t teach you in Princess Finishing School that a manicure is the first thing a queen sacrifices when roughing it in the wild.
I was drawn like a moth to flame, to the men’s sportswear section, where I could surreptitiously fondle the spandex compression shorts. Few activities give me such a rush as to feel that silky smooth “Fabric Of The Gods” slipping between my fingers as my eyes clandestinely stare at the photo of the strapping, glistening, shirtless stud with an oiled-up six-pack and exceptional bulges and ripples in all the right places, wearing the skintight shorts made of the “Patron Fabric of Gay Men.”
To my shock and immense gratitude, while I was wistfully worshiping the spandex model, around the corner strode a real life specimen of male perfection. It was all I could do not to execute an audible gasp. My eyes locked on this newcomer like Starship Enterprise phasers lock on a Klingon Bird of Prey. Not wanting to be caught staring, I carefully hid behind a rack of shirts while I closely scanned his desirable attributes. I started feeling “hot and bothered.”
He was wearing mid-thigh length shorts and a body-hugging tank top. His legs were nicely tanned and had just the right amount of hair prickling forth, so as to cause a tickle when stroked. His thigh muscles rippled with provocative movement, reaching upward into his buns with every step he took. And those buns, oh my god, those buns of steel: perfectly rounded, rippling mounds of tightly toned muscles you could bounce a dime off of.
His shorts were rather tight fitting, (thank the gods) and revealed that he was equipped with more than just a “dangling participle,” instead a full-fledged ”master of ceremonies” straining against the tight fabric, ready to “rise to the occasion,” paired dreamily with a set of “bauble bangers,” in picture-perfect proportion and position. I felt I was to be “constitutionally inclined to gallantry” and thus needed to remain hidden behind the clothing racks, lest my own “Captain Standish” become detectable. (Oh, we could make beautiful babies together.) The temptation to throw myself at his feet and yell “Take me, I’m yours” was almost unbearable.
After quite some time, I teared my straining eyeballs from his “prostate poker” and continued scanning upward. His abdominal muscles formed a perfect six-pack, clearly defined through the tight-fitting fabric. Any half-assed cook could easily grate cheese on that stomach. My visual scans continued ascending the perfectly V-shaped torso to a set of broad and tanned shoulders that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. And the biceps. Oh those tawny, brawny biceps could crack walnuts. I surely had a case of the vapors. I was ready to “look at the ceiling over the man’s shoulder” and “think of England.” That’s how they taught us to act in Princess Finishing School, so as to retain some decorum during the throws of passion.
He had my favorite style of haircut — “Freshly Returned Missionary.” I slowly moved out from behind the rack of shirts to gain a bird’s eye view of his handsomely rugged face. He had gloriously high cheekbones, with a firm square jaw, and the cutest dimple in his cheeks when he noticed me and smiled. And his eyes were dark brown, to match his hair. I was ready to “have a blanket drill” on the spot.
In a sudden sense of panic, I realized that this vision of absolute beauty looked somewhat familiar to me. However, I didn’t think that he was a former sexual partner, but one can never be too sure, what with all the shadowy lighting usually involved in “getting your chimney swept.” Nonetheless, the natural instincts of the North American Homosexual Male to enter into “automatic cruising mode” was too great to resist. I began to follow his movements. As he proceeded to the next clothing rack, I followed him and caressed the very items he had been handling. My heart skipped another beat when his eyes caught mine again and he grinned. Let the games begin!
After about ten minutes of seriously cruising him, I was about to instigate a session of “Pokey Man” when around the corner swirled my best friend’s sister, Stephanie. She caught me staring at, who I just now suddenly recognized, her husband of five years. Flustered and horrified by her unexpected ambush, and with the hasty realization that I was barking up the wrong tree, I quickly mumbled “Hi Steph, gotta run,” and hurriedly got the hell out of there.
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions.
- Do most other healthy North American Homosexual Males in their natural habitat, enjoy visions of eye candy when the opportunity presents itself?
- Am I alone in my fetish for fondling spandex?
- When you get caught staring will “I was wondering where you bought your shirt” suffice as an excuse?
- Should I have confessed to Stephanie that I was gawking at her hubby?
- Is that called coveting thy neighbor’s husband?
- Am I going to Hell?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.